A Case Of Need Part 8

I am sorry to hear of your misfortune. I know this must be a trying time for all of you. I only wanted to say that I am very grateful for what you did for me l.u.s.t year, and that I believe in you and what you are doing. You are the most wonderful doctor I have ever known, and the most honest. You have made my life much better than it would be otherwise, and my husband and I are eternally grateful. I shall pray for you every night. am sorry to hear of your misfortune. I know this must be a trying time for all of you. I only wanted to say that I am very grateful for what you did for me l.u.s.t year, and that I believe in you and what you are doing. You are the most wonderful doctor I have ever known, and the most honest. You have made my life much better than it would be otherwise, and my husband and I are eternally grateful. I shall pray for you every night.

Mrs. Allison Banks I slipped it into my pocket. It wouldn't do to have that one lying around.

I heard voices behind me."Well, well, well. Fancy that."I turned. It was Peterson."My wife called me."

"Fancy that." He looked around the room. With all the broken windows, it was getting chilly as night fell. "Quite a mess, isn't it?"

"You might say so."

"Yes, indeed." He walked around the room. "Quite a mess."

Watching him, I had a sudden horrifying vision of a uniformed man in heavy boots struggling among ruins. It was a generalized vision, nonspecific, attached to no particular time or place or era.Another man pushed into the room. He wore a raincoat and had a pad in his hand."Who're you?" Peterson said."Curtis. From the Globe, Globe, sir." sir.""Now who called you, fella?"Peterson looked around the room. His eyes rested on me."Not nice," Peterson said. "Not nice at all.""It's a reputable newspaper. This boy will report the facts accurately. You surely can't object to that.""Listen," Peterson said. "This is a city of two and a half million and the police department is understaffed. We can't investigate every crackpot complaint and lunatic threat that comes along. We can't do that if we want to do the regular things, like direct traffic.""Family of an accused," I said. I was aware thatthe reporter was watching me closely. "Family of an accused receives threats by telephone and letter. Wife and young family. She's afraid. You ignore her.""That's not fair and you know it.""Then something big happens. They start to burn a cross and tear the place apart. The wife calls for help. It takes your boys fifteen minutes to get here. How far away is the nearest station?""That's not the point."The reporter was writing."You'll look bad," I said. "Lots of citizens in this town are opposed to abortion, but still more are against the wanton, lawless destruction of private property by a band of young hoodlums-""They weren't hoodlums."I turned to the reporter. "Captain Peterson expresses the opinion that the kids who burned the cross and broke every window in the house were not young hoodlums.""That's not what I meant," Peterson said quickly."It's what he said," I told the reporter. "Furthermore, you may be interested to know that two children were seriously lacerated by flying gla.s.s. Children ages three and five, seriously lacerated.""That's not what I was told," Peterson said. "The cuts were only-"

"I believe," I said, "that I am the only doctor present at this time. Or did the police bring a doctor when they finally answered the call for help?"

He was silent.

"Did the police bring a doctor?" the reporter asked. "No." "Did they summon a doctor?"

"No."The reporter wrote swiftly."I'll get you, Berry," Peterson said. "I'll get you for this.""Careful. You're in front of a reporter."His eyes shot daggers. He turned on his heel."By the way," I said, "what steps will the police now take to prevent a recurrence?"He stopped. "That hasn't been decided yet.""Be sure," I said, "to explain to this reporter how unfortunate it all is and how you'll post a twenty-four-hour guard. Be sure to make that clear."He curled his lips, but I knew he would do it. That's all I wanted-protection for Betty, and a little pressure on the police.EIGHTJUDITH TOOK THE KIDS HOME; I stayed with Betty and helped her board up the windows. It took nearly an hour, and with each one I did, I got angrier.Betty's kids were subdued, but would not go tosleep. They kept coming downstairs to complain that their cuts hurt or that they wanted a gla.s.s of water. Young Henry in particular complained about his foot, so I removed the bandage to be certain I had not missed any gla.s.s. I found a small sliver still lodged in the wound.Sitting there, with his small foot in my hand, and Betty telling him not to cry as I cleaned the wound again, I suddenly felt tired. The house smelled of burning wood, from the cross. It was chilly and drafty from the broken windows. Everything was a shambles; it would take days to clean it up.All so unnecessary.When I finished with Henry's foot, I went back to the letters Betty had received. Reading them made me feel more tired. I kept wondering how people could do it, what they must have been thinking. The obvious answer was that they were thinking nothing. They were simply reacting, as I had been reacting, as everyone had been reacting.

I suddenly wanted it finished. I wanted the letters to stop, the windows to be fixed, the wounds to heal, and life to return to normal. I wanted it very badly.

So I called George Wilson."1 thought you might call," Wilson said."How'd you like to take a trip?""Where?""J. D. Randall's.""Why?""To call off the dogs," I said."Meet me in twenty minutes," he said and hung up. up.As WE DROVE TOWARD THE SOUTH Sh.o.r.e and the Randall house, Wilson said, "What made you change your mind?""A lot of things.""The kids?""A lot of things," I repeated.We drove for a while in silence, then he said, "You know what this means, don't you? It means we put the squeeze on Mrs. Randall and on Peter.""That's all right," I said."I thought he was your buddy.""I'm tired.""I thought doctors never got tired.""Lay off, will you?"It was late, approaching nine. The sky was black."When we get to the house," Wilson said, "I'll do the talking, right?""O.K.," I said."It's no good if we both talk. It has to be just one.""You can have your moment," I said.He smiled. "You don't like me much, do you?""No. Not much.""But you need me.""That's right," I said."Just so we understand each other," he said."Just so you do the job," I said.I did not remember exactly where the house was,so I slowed the car as I approached. Finally I found it and was about to turn into the drive when I stopped. Up ahead, in the gravel turnabout in front of the house, were two cars. One was J. D. Randall's silver Porsche. The other was a gray Mercedes sedan."What's the matter?"I doused my lights and backed away."What's going on?" Wilson said."I'm not sure," I said."Well are we going in, or not?"

"No," I said. I backed across the road and parked on the opposite side, near the shrubs. I had a good view up the drive to the house and could see both cars clearly.

"Why not?""Because," I said, "there's a Mercedes parked there.""So?""Peter Randall owns a Mercedes.""All the better," Wilson said. "We can confront them together."

"No," I said. "Because Peter Randall told me his car was stolen."

"Oh?""That's what he said.""When?""Yesterday."

I thought back. Something was beginning to bother me, to pick at my mind. Then I remem- bered: the car I had seen in the Randall garage when I had visited Mrs. Randall.

I opened my door. "Come on.""Where are we going?""I want to see that car," I said.We stepped out into the night, which was damp and unpleasant. Walking up the drive, I reached into my pocket and felt my little penlight. I always carried it; a throwback to my days as an intern. 1 was glad to have it now."You realize," Wilson whispered, "that we're trespa.s.sing on private property.""I realize."We moved from the crunching gravel to the soft gra.s.s and climbed the hill toward the house. There were lights burning on the ground floor, but the shades were drawn, and we could not see inside.We came to the cars and stepped onto the gravel again. The sounds of our footsteps seemed loud. I reached the Mercedes and flicked on my penlight. The car was empty; there was nothing in the back seat.I stopped.The driver's seat was soaked in blood."Well, well," Wilson said.I was about to speak when we heard voices and a door opening. We hurried back to the gra.s.s and slipped behind a bush near the drive.J. D, Randall came out of the house. Peter was with him. They were arguing about something in low voices; I heard Peter say, "All ridiculous," andJ. D. said, "Too careful"; but otherwise their voices were inaudible. They came down the steps to the cars. Peter got into the Mercedes and started the engine. J. D. said, "Follow me," and Peter nodded. Then J. D. got into the silver Porsche and started down the drive.At the road, they turned right, heading south."Come on," I said.We sprinted down the drive to my car, parked on the opposite side of the road. The other two cars were already far away; we could barely hear their engines, but we could see their lights moving down the coast.I started the car and followed them.Wilson had reached into his pocket and was fiddling with something.''What have you got there?"He held it over so I could see. A small, silver tube."Minox.""You always carry a camera?""Always," he said.1 stayed back a good distance, so the other cars would not suspect. Peter was following J. D. closely.After a five-minute drive, the two cars entered the ramp for the southeast expressway. I came on a moment later.

"1 don't get it," Wilson said. "One minute you're defending the guy, and the next minute you're tracking him like a bloodhound."

"I want to know," I said. "That's all. I just want to know."

I followed them for half an hour. The road narrowed at Marshfield, becoming two lanes instead of three. Traffic was light; I dropped even farther back."This could be completely innocent," Wilson said. "The whole thing could be a-""No," I said. I had been putting things together in my own mind. "Peter loaned this car to Karen for the weekend. The son, William, told me that. Karen used that car. There was blood on it. Then the car was garaged in the Randall house, and Peter reported it as stolen. Now . . .""Now they're getting rid of it," Wilson said."Apparently.""Hot d.a.m.n," he said. "This one's in the bag."The cars continue south, past Plymouth, down toward the Cape. The air here was chilly and tangy with salt. There was almost no traffic."Doing fine," Wilson said, looking at the taillights ahead. "Give them plenty of room.""As the road became more deserted, the two cars gained speed. They were going very fast now, near eighty. We pa.s.sed Plymouth, then Hyannis, and out toward Provincetown. Suddenly, I saw their brake lights go on, and they turned off the road to the right, toward the coast.We followed, on a dirt road. Around us were scrubby pine trees. 1 doused my lights. The wind was gusty and cold off the ocean."Deserted around here," Wilson said.I nodded.Soon I could hear the roar of the breakers. I pulled off the road and parked. We walked on foot toward the ocean and saw the two cars parked, side by side.I recognized the place. It was the east side of the Cape, where there was a long, one-hundred-foot sandy drop to the sea. The two cars were at the ledge, overlooking the water. Randall had gotten out of his Porsche and was talking with Peter. They argued for a moment, and then Peter got back in the car and drove it until the front wheels were inches from the edge. Then he got out and walked back.J. D. had meanwhile opened the trunk to the Porsche and taken out a portable can of gasoline. Together the two men emptied the can of gasoline inside Peter's car.I heard a click near me. Wilson, with the little camera pressed to his eye, was taking pictures."You don't have enough light.""Tri-X," he said, still taking pictures. "You can force it to 2400, if you have the right lab. And I have the right lab."

I looked back at the cars. J. D. was returning the tank to his trunk. Then he started the Porsche engine and backed the car around, so it was facing the road, away from the ocean.

"Ready for the getaway," Wilson said. "Beautiful."

J. D. called to Peter and got out of the car. He stood by Peter, then I saw the brief flare of a match. Suddenly the interior of the Mercedes burst into flames.

The two men immediately ran to the rear of the car and leaned their weight against the car. It moved slowly, then faster, and finally began the slide down the sandy slope. They stepped back and watched its descent. At the bottom, it apparently exploded, because there was a loud sound and a bright red flash of light.They sprinted for the car, got in, and drove pastus."Come on," Wilson said. He ran forward to the edge with his camera. Down below, at the edge of the water, was the burning, smashed hulk of the Mercedes.Wilson took several pictures, then put his camera away and looked at me.He was grinning broadly. "Baby," he said, "have we got a case."NINEON THE WAY BACK, I turned off the expressway at the Coha.s.set exit."Hey," Wilson said, "what're you doing?""Going to see Randall.""Now?""Yes.""Are you crazy? After what we saw?"I said, "I came out tonight to get Art Lee off the hook. I still intend to do it.""Uh-uh," Wilson said. "Not now. Not after what we saw." He patted the little camera in his hand. "Now we can go to court.""But there's no need. We have an iron case. Unbeatable. Unshakable."I shook my head.

"Listen," Wilson said, "you can rattle a witness. You can discredit him, making him look like a fool. But you can't discredit a picture. You can't beat a photograph. We have them by the b.a.l.l.s."

"No," I said.

He sighed. "Before, it was going to be a bluff. I was going to walk in there and bulls.h.i.t my way through it. I was going to scare them, to frighten them, to make them think we had evidence when we didn't. But now, it's all different. We have the evidence. We have everything we need."

"If you don't want to talk to them, I will.""Berry," Wilson said, "if you talk to them, you'll blow our whole case.""I'll make them quit."

"Berry, you'll blow it. Because they've just done something very incriminating. They'll know it. They'll be taking a hard line."

'"Then we'll tell them what we know.""And if it comes to trial? What then? We'll have blown our cool.""I'm not worried about that. It won't come to trial."

Wilson scratched his scar again, running his finger down his neck. "Listen," he said, "don't you want to win?"

"Yes," I said, "but without a fight.""There's going to be a fight. Any way you cut it, there'll be a fight. I'm telling you."I pulled up in front of the Randall house and drove up the drive. "Don't tell me," I said- "Tell them.""You're making a mistake," he said."Maybe," I said, "but I doubt it."We climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.RELUCTANTLY, the butler led us into the living room. It was no larger than the average-size basketball court, an immense room with a huge fireplace. Seated around the roaring fire were Mrs. Randall, in lounging pajamas, and Peter and J. D., both with large snifters of brandy in their hands.The butler stood erectly by the door and said, "Dr. Berry and Mr. Wilson, sir. They said they were expected."J. D. frowned when he saw us. Peter sat back and allowed a small smile to cross his face. Mrs. Randall seemed genuinely amused.J. D. said, "What do you want?"I let Wilson do the talking. He gave a slight bow and said, "I believe you know Dr. Berry, Dr. Randall. I am George Wilson. I am Dr. Lee's defense attorney.""That's lovely," J. D. said. He glanced at his watch. "But it's nearly midnight, and I am relaxing with my family. I have nothing to say to either of you until we meet in court. So if you will-""If you will pardon me, sir," Wilson said, "we have come a long way to see you. All the way from the Cape, in fact."J. D. blinked once and set his face rigidly. Peter coughed back a laugh. Mrs. Randall said, "What were you doing on the Cape?""Watching a bonfire," Wilson said."A bonfire?""Yes," Wilson said. He turned to J. D. "We'd like some brandies, please, and then a little chat."Peter could not suppress a laugh this time. J. D. looked at him sternly, then rang for the butler. He ordered two more brandies, and as the butler was leaving, he said, "Small ones, Herbert. They won't be staying long."

Then he turned to his wife. "If you will, my dear."

She nodded and left the room."Sit down, gentlemen."

"We prefer to stand," Wilson said. The butler brought two small crystal snifters. Wilson raised his gla.s.s. "Your health, gentlemen."

"Thank you," J. D. said. His voice was cold. "Now what's on your minds?"

"A small legal matter," Wilson said. "We believe that you may wish to reconsider charges against Dr. Lee."

"Reconsider?""Yes. That was the word I used.""There is nothing to reconsider," J. D. said.Wilson sipped the brandy. "Oh?""That's right," J. D. said.

"We believe," Wilson said, "that your wife may have been mistaken in hearing that Dr. Lee aborted Karen Randall. Just as we believe that Peter Randall was mistaken when he reported his automobile stolen to the police. Or hasn't he reported it yet?"

"Neither my wife, nor my brother, were mistaken," J. D. said.Peter coughed again and lit a cigar."Something wrong, Peter?" J.D. asked."No, nothing."He puffed the cigar and sipped his brandy."Gentlemen," J. D. said, turning to us. "You are wasting your time. There has been no mistake, and there is nothing to reconsider."Wilson said softly, "In that case, it must go to court.""Indeed it must," Randall said, nodding."And you will be called to account for your actions tonight," Wilson said."Indeed we may. But we will have Mrs. Randall's firm testimony that we spent the evening playing chess." He pointed to a chessboard in the corner."Who won?" Wilson asked, with a faint smile."I did, by G.o.d," Peter said, speaking for the first time. And he chuckled."How did you do it?" Wilson said."Bishop to knight's twelve," Peter said and chuckled again. "He is a terrible chess player. If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times.""Peter, this is no laughing matter.""You're a sore loser," Peter said."Shut up, Peter."Quite abruptly, Peter stopped laughing. He folded his arms across his ma.s.sive belly and said nothing more.J. D. Randall savored a moment of silence, then said, "Was there anything else, gentlemen?""YOU SON OF A b.i.t.c.h," I said to Wilson. "You blew it.""I did my best.""You got him angry. You were forcing him into court.""I did my best.""That was the lousiest, rottenest-""Easy," Wilson said, rubbing his scar.'You could have scared him. You could have told them how it would go-the way you explained it to me in the bar. You could have told them about the pictures. . . .""It wouldn't have done any good," Wilson said."It might."

"No. They are determined to take the case to court. They-"

"Yes," I said, "thanks to you. Strutting around like a self-satisfied b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Making cheap threats like a penny tough. Demanding a brandy-that was beautiful, that was."

"I attempted to persuade them," Wilson said."c.r.a.p."He shrugged."I'll tell you what you did, Wilson. You pushed them into a trial, because you want one. You want an arena, a chance to show your stuff, a chance to make a name for yourself, to prove that you're a ruthless hotshot. You know, and I know, that if the case ever comes to trial, Art Lee-no matter what the outcome-will lose. He'll lose his prestige, his patients, maybe even his license. And if it comes to trial, the Randalls will also lose. They'll be smeared, shot through with half-truths and implications, destroyed. Only one person will come out on top.""Yes?""You, Wilson. Only you can win in a trial.""That's your opinion," he said. He was getting angry. I was getting him."That's a fact.""You heard J. D. You heard how unreasonable he was.""You could have made him listen.""No," Wilson said. "But he'll listen in court." He sat back in the car and stared forward for a moment, thinking over the evening. "You know, I'm surprised at you, Berry. You're supposed to be a scientist. You're supposed to be objective about evidence. You've had a bellyful of evidence tonight that Peter Randall is guilty, and you're still unhappy.""Did he strike you," I said, "as a guilty man?" He can act."Answer the question.""I did," Wilson said."So you believe he's guilty?"

"That's right," Wilson said. "And I can make a jury believe it, too."

"What if you're wrong?""Then it's too bad. Just the way it's too bad that Mrs. Randall was wrong about Art Lee.""You're making excuses.""Am I?" He shook his head. "No, man. You are. You're playing the loyal doctor, right down the line. You're sucking up to the tradition, to the conspiracy of silence. You'd like to see it handled nice and quietly, very diplomatic, with no hard feelings at the end.""Isn't that the best way? The business of a lawyer," I said, "is to do whatever is best for his client.""The business of a lawyer is to win his cases.""Art Lee is a man. He has a family, he has goals, he has personal desires and wishes. Your job is to implement them. Not to stage a big trial for your own glory.""The trouble with you, Berry, is that you're like all doctors. You can't believe that one of your own is rotten. What you'd really like to see is an ex-army medical orderly or a nurse on trial. Or a nice littleold midwife. That's who you'd like to stick with this rap. Not a doctor.""I'd like to stick the guilty person," I said, "n.o.body else.""You know who's guilty," Wilson said. "You know d.a.m.ned well."

I DROPPED WILSON OFF, then drove home and poured myself a very stiff vodka. The house was silent; it was after midnight.

I drank the vodka and thought about what I had seen. As Wilson had said, everything pointed to Peter Randall. There had been blood on his car, and he had destroyed the car. I had no doubt that a gallon of gasoline on the front seat would eliminate all evidence. He was clean, now-or would be, if we hadn't seen him burning the car.

Then, too, as Wilson had said, everything made sense. Angela and Bubbles were right in claiming that they hadn't seen Karen; she had gone to Peter that Sunday night. And Peter had made a mistake; Karen had gone home and begun to bleed. She had told Mrs. Randall, who had taken her to the hospital in her own car. At the hospital, she hadn't known that the EW diagnosis would not call in the police; to avert a family scandal she had blamed the abortion on the only other abortionist she knew: Art Lee. She had jumped the gun, and all h.e.l.l had broken loose.Everything made sense.Except, I thought, for the original premise. Peter Randall had been Karen's physician for years. He knew she was a hysterical girl. Therefore he would have been certain to perform a rabbit test on her. Also, he knew that she had had a prior complaint of vision trouble, which suggested a pituitary tumor which could mimic pregnancy. So he would certainly have tested.

Then again, he had apparently sent her to Art Lee. Why? If he had been willing to see her aborted, he would have done it himself.And still again, he had aborted her twice without complications. Why should he make a mistake-a major and serious mistake-the third time?No, I thought, it didn't make sense.And then I remembered something Peterson had said: "You doctors certainly stick together." I realized he, and Wilson, were right. I wanted to believe that Peter was innocent. Partly because he was a doctor, partly because I liked him. Even in the face of serious evidence, I wanted to believe he was innocent.I sighed and sipped my drink. The fact was I had seen something very serious that night, something clandestine and incriminating. I could not overlook it. I could not pa.s.s it off as accident or coincidence. I had to explain it.And the most logical explanation was that Peter Randall was the abortionist.THURSDAYOCTOBER 13ONE I AWOKE FEELING MEAN. Like a caged animal, trapped, enclosed. I didn't like what was happening and didn't see any way to stop it. Worst of all, I didn't see any way to beat Wilson. It was hard enough to prove Art Lee was innocent; to prove Peter Randall was innocent as well was impossible.

Judith took one look at me and said, "Grumpy."I snorted and showered.She said, "Find out anything?""Yeah. Wilson wants to pin it on Peter Randall."She laughed. "Jolly old Peter?""Jolly old Peter," I said."Has he got a case?" Yes."That's good," she said."No," I said, "it's not."I turned off the shower and stepped out, reaching for a towel. "I can't believe Peter would do it," I said.312"Charitable of you."I shook my head. "No," I said, "it's just that getting another innocent man for it solves nothing.""It serves them right," Judith said."Who?""The Randalls.""It isn't just," I said."That's fine for you to say. You can immerse yourself in the technicalities. I've been with Betty Lee for three days.""I know it's been hard-"

"I'm not talking about me," she said. "I'm talking about her. Or have you forgotten last night?"

"No," I said, thinking to myself that last night had started it all, the whole mess. My decision to call in Wilson.

"Betty has been through h.e.l.l," Judith said. "There's no excuse for it, and the Randalls are to blame. So let them boil in their own oil for a while. Let them see how it feels."

"But Judith, if Peter is innocent-""Peter is very amusing," she said. "That doesn't make him innocent.""It doesn't make him guilty.""I don't care who's guilty anymore. I just want it finished and Art set free.""Yes," I said. "I know how you feel."While I shaved, I stared at my face. A rather ordinary face, too heavy in the jowls, eyes too small, hair thinning. But all in all, nothing unusual about me. It gave me a strange feeling to know that I had been at the center of things, at the center of a crisis affecting a half-dozen people, for three days. I wasn't the sort of person for that.

As I dressed and wondered what I would do that morning, I also wondered if I had ever been at the center of things. It was an odd thought. Suppose I had been circling at the periphery, digging up unimportant facts? Suppose the real heart of the matter was still unexplored?

Trying to save Peter again.Well, why not? He was as much worth saving as anyone else.

It occurred to me then that Peter Randall was as much worth saving as Art. They were both men, both doctors, both established, both interesting, both a little noncomformist. When you came down to it, there was nothing really to choose between them. Peter was humorous, Art was sarcastic. Peter was fat and Art was thin.

But essentially the same.I pulled on my jacket and tried to forget the whole thing. I wasn't the judge; thank G.o.d for that. It wouldn't be my job to unsnarl things at the trial.The telephone rang. I didn't answer it. A moment later, Judith called, "It's for you."I picked up the receiver."h.e.l.lo?"A familiar, booming voice said, "John, this is Peter. I'd like you to come by for lunch.""Why?" I said."I want you to meet the alibi I haven't got,' he said."What does that mean?" "Twelve-thirty?" he asked. "See you then," I said.TWOPETER RANDALL LIVED WEST OF NEWTON, in a modem house. It was small but beautifully furnished: Breuer chairs, a Jacobsen couch, a Rachmann coffee table. The style was sleekly modern. He met me at the door with a drink in his hand."John. Come in." He led the way into the living room. "What will you drink?""Nothing, thanks.""I think you'd better," he said. "Scotch?""On the rocks.""Have a seat," he said. He went into the kitchen; I heard ice cubes in a gla.s.s. "What did you do this morning?""Nothing," I said. "I sat around and thought.""About what?""Everything."

"You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," he said, coming back with a gla.s.s of Scotch.

"Did you know Wilson took pictures?""I had a suspicion. That boy is ambitious.""Yes," I said."And I'm in hot water?""It looks that way," I said.

He stared at me for a moment, then said, "What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think anymore.""Do you know, for example, that I do abortions?""Yes," I said."And Karen?""Twice," I said.

He sat back in a Breuer chair, his rounded bulk contrasting with the sharp, linear angles of the chair. 'Three times," he said, "to be precise."

"Then you-""No, no," he said. "The last was in June.""And the first?""When she was fifteen." He sighed. "You see, I've made some mistakes. One of them was trying to look after Karen. Her father was ignoring her, and I was . . . fond of her. She was a sweet girl. Lost and confused, but sweet. So I did her first abortion, as I have done abortions for other patients from time to time. Does that shock you?""No."

"Good. But the trouble was that Karen kept getting pregnant. Three times in three years; for a girl of that age, it wasn't wise. It was pathological. So I finally decided that she ought to bear the fourth child."

"Why?""Because she obviously wanted to be pregnant. She kept doing it. She obviously needed the shame and trouble of an illegitimate child. So I refused the fourth time.""Are you sure she was pregnant?""No," he said. "And you know why I had my doubts. That vision business. One wonders about primary pituitary dysfunction. I wanted to do tests, but Karen refused. She was only interested in an abortion, and when I wouldn't give it to her, she became angry.""So you sent her to Dr. Lee.""Yes," he said."And he did it?"Peter shook his head. "Art is far too clever for that. He would have insisted on tests. Besides, she was four months' pregnant, or so she claimed. So he wouldn't have done it.""And you didn't, either," I said."No. Do you believe that?""I'd like to.""But you aren't fully convinced?"I shrugged. "You burned your car. It had blood in it.""Yes," he said. "Karen's blood.""How did it happen?""I lent Karen my car for the weekend. I did not know at the time that she planned an abortion."

"You mean she drove your car to the abortion, had it, and drove it back to her home, bleeding? Then she switched to the yellow Porsche?"

"Not exactly," Peter said. "But you can get a better explanation from someone else." He called, "Darling. Come on out."

He smiled at me. "Meet my alibi."Mrs. Randall came into the room, looking taut and hard and s.e.xy. She sat in a chair next to Peter."You see," Peter said, "what a bind I am in."I said, "Sunday night?""I am afraid so."

"That's embarra.s.sing," I said, "but also convenient."

"In a sense," Randall said. He patted her hand and lifted himself heavily out of the chair. "I don't call it either embarra.s.sing or convenient."

"You were with her all night Sunday?"He poured himself another Scotch. "Yes.""Doing what?""Doing," Peter said, "what I would rather not explain under oath.""With your brother's wife?" I said.He winked at Mrs. Randall. "Are you my brother's wife?""I've heard a rumor," she said, "but I don't believe it.""You see, I'm letting you into some quite private family affairs," Peter said."They are family affairs, if nothing else.""You're indignant?""No," I said. "Fascinated.""Joshua," Peter said, "is a fool. You know that, of course. So does Wilson. That is why he could be soconfident. But unfortunately, Joshua married Evelyn.""Unfortunately," Evelyn said."Now we are in a bind," Peter said. "She cannot divorce my brother to marry me. That would be impossible. So we are resigned to our life as it is.""Difficult, I imagine.""Not really," Peter said, sitting down again with a fresh drink. "Joshua is very dedicated. He often works long into the night. And Evelyn has many clubs and civic functions to attend.""He'll find out sooner or later.""He already knows," Peter said.

I must have reacted, because he said quickly, "Not consciously, of course. J. D. knows nothing consciously. But in the back of his mind, he realizes that he has a young wife whom he neglects and who is finding . . . satisfaction elsewhere."

I turned to Mrs. Randall, "Would you swear Peter was with you Sunday night?""If I had to," she said."Wilson will make you. He wants a trial.""I know," she said."Why did you accuse Art Lee?"She turned away from me and glanced at Peter.Peter said, "She was trying to protect me.""Art was the only other abortionist she knew?""Yes," Evelyn said."He aborted you?""Yes. Last December.""Was it a good abortion?"She shifted in the chair. "It worked, if that's what you mean.""That's what I mean," I said. "Do you know Art wouldn't implicate you?"She hesitated, then said, "I was confused. I was frightened. I didn't know what I was doing.""You were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Art.""Yes," she said, "that was how' it turned out.""Well," I said, "you can clear him now.""How?""Drop the charges."Peter said, "It's not that easy.""Why not?""You saw for yourself last night, J. D. is fixed on the battle, once the lines are drawn. He has a surgeon's view of right and wrong. He sees only black and white, day and night. No gray. No twilight.'"No cuckolds."Peter laughed. "He may be a lot like you."Evelyn got up and said, "Lunch will be ready in five minutes. Will you have another drink?""Yes," I said, looking at Peter, "I'd better."

When Evelyn had gone, Peter said, "You see me as a cruel and heartless beast. Actually I'm not. There has been a long chain of errors here, a long list of mistakes. I would like to see it cleaned up-"

"With no harm done."

"More or less. Unfortunately my brother is no help. Once his wife accused Dr. Lee, he took it as gospel truth. He pounced upon it as truth the way a man grasps a life preserver. He will never relent."

"Go on," I said."But the central fact remains. I insist-and you can believe it or not-that I did not do the abortion. You are equally certain that Dr. Lee did not do it. Who is left?""I don't know," I said."Can you find out?""You're asking me to help you?""Yes," he said.OVER LUNCH, I said to Evelyn, "What did Karen really say to you in the car?""She said, 'That b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' Over and over again. Nothing else.""She never explained?""No.""Did you have any idea who she meant?"

"No," Evelyn said, "I didn't.""Did she say anything else?'

"Yes," she said. "She talked about the needle. Something about how she didn't want the needle, didn't want it in her, didn't want it around her. The needle."

"Was it a drug?""I couldn't tell," Evelyn said."What did you think at the time?"

"I didn't think anything," Evelyn said. "I was driving her to the hospital and she was dying right before my eyes. I was worried that Peter might have done it, even though I didn't think he had. I was worried that Joshua would find out. I was worried about a lot of things.""But not her?""Yes," she said, "her, too."THREETHE MEAL WAS GOOD. Toward the end, staring at the two of them, I found myself wishing I had not come and did not know about them. I didn't want to know, didn't want to think about it.Afterward, I had coffee with Peter. From the kitchen I heard the sounds of Evelyn washing dishes. It was hard to imagine her washing dishes, but she acted differently around Peter; it was almost possible to like her."I suppose," Peter said, "that it was unfair to ask you here today.""It was," I said.He sighed and straightened his tie down his ma.s.sive belly. "I've never been in this kind of situation before.""How's that?""Caught," he said.I thought to myself that he had done it to himself, going in with both eyes wide open. I tried to resent him for that but could not quite manage it."The terrible thing," he said, "is to think back and wonder what you'd do differently. I keep doing that. And I never find the point I'm looking for, that one crucial point in time where I made the wrong turn in the maze. Getting involved with Ev, I suppose. But I'd do that again. Getting involved with Karen. But I'd do that again, too. Each individual thing was all right. It was the combination. . . ."I said, "Get J. D. to drop the charges."

He shook his head. "My brother and I," he said, "have never gotten along. For as long as I can remember. We are different in every way, even physically. We think differently, we act differently. When I was young I used to resent the fact that he was my brother, and I secretly suspected that he was not, that he had been adopted or something. I suppose he thought the same thing."

He finished his coffee and rested his chin on his chest. "Ev has tried to convince J. D. to drop charges," he said. "But he's firm, and she can't really-""Think of an excuse?""Yes.""It's too bad she ever named Lee in the first place."'Yes," he said. "But what's done is done."He walked with me to the door. I stepped outside into a gray, pale sunlight. As I went down to my car, he said, "If you don't want to get involved, I'll understand."I looked back at him. "You knew d.a.m.ned well I'd have no choice.""I didn't," he said. "But I was hoping."

WHEN IGOT INTO MY CAR, I wondered what I would do next. I had no idea, no leads, nothing. Perhaps I could call Zenner again and see if he could remember more of his conversation. Perhaps I could visit Ginnie at Smith, or Angela and Bubbles, and see if they remembered more. But I doubted they would.

I reached into my pocket for the keys and felt something. I brought it out: a picture of a Negro in a shiny suit. Roman Jones.

I had forgotten all about Roman. Somewhere along the line he had disappeared in the rush, the stream of faces. I stared at the picture for a long time, trying to read the features, to measure the man. It was impossible; the pose was standard, the c.o.c.ky look of a silver-suited stud, swaggering, half grinning, half leering. It was a pose for the crowds, and it told me nothing at all.

I am not good with words, and it has always been surprising to me that my son, Johnny, is. When he is alone, he plays with his toys and makes up word games; he rhymes or tells himself stories. He has very sharp ears and always comes to me for explanations. Once he asked me what an ecdysiast was, p.r.o.nouncing the word perfectly but carefully, as if it were fragile.So I was not really surprised when, as I was minding my own business, he came up and said, "Daddy, what's an abortionist mean?""Why?""One of the policemen said Uncle Art was an abortionist. Is that bad?""Sometimes," I said.He leaned against my knee, propping his chin on it. He has large brown eyes; Judith's eyes."But what's it mean, Daddy?""It's complicated," I said, stalling for time."Does it mean a kind of doctor? Like neurologist?""Yes," I said. "But an abortionist does other things." I hoisted him up on my knee, feeling the weight of his body. He was getting heavy, growing up. Judith was saying it was time for another."It has to do with babies," I said."Like obsetrician?""Obstetrician," I said. "Yes.""He takes the baby out of the mommy?""Yes," I said, "but it is different. Sometimes the baby isn't normal. Sometimes it is born so it can't talk-""Babies can't talk," he said, "until later."

"Yes," I said. "But sometimes it is born without arms or legs. Sometimes it is deformed. So a doctor stops the baby and takes it away early."

"Before it's grown up?""Yes, before it's grown up.""Was I taken away early?""No," I said and hugged him."Why do some babies have no arms or legs?""It's an accident," I said. "A mistake."

He stretched out his hand and looked at it, flexing the fingers.

"Arms are nice," he said."Yes.""But everybody has arms.""Not everybody.""Everybody I know.""Yes," I said, "but sometimes people are born without them.""How do they play catch without arms?""They can't.""I don't like that," he said. He looked at his hand again, closing his fingers, watching them."Why do you have arms?" he asked."Because." It was too big a question for me."Because what?""Because inside your body there is a code.""What's a code?""It's instructions. It tells the body how it is going to grow.""A code?""It's like a set of instructions. A plan.""Oh."He thought about this."It's like your erector set. You look at the pictures and you make what you see. That's a plan.""Oh."I couldn't tell if he understood or not. He consid-ered what I had said, then looked at me. "If you take the baby out of the mommy, what happens to it?""It goes away.""Where?""Away," I said, not wanting to explain further."Oh," he said. He climbed down off my knee. "Is Uncle Art really an abortionist?""No," I said. I knew I had to tell him that, otherwise I would get a call from his kindergarten teacher about his uncle the abortionist. But I felt badly, all the same."Good," he said, "I'm glad."And he walked off.

JUDITH SAID, "YOU'RE NOT EATING.".

I pushed my food away. "I'm not very hungry."Judith turned to Johnny and said, "Clean your plate, Johnny."He held the fork in a small, tight fist. "I'm not hungry," he said and glanced at me."Sure you are," I said."No," he said, "I'm not."Debby, who was barely big enough to see over the table, threw her knife and fork down. "I'm not hungry either," she said. "The food tastes icky."

"I think it tastes very good," I said and dutifully ate a mouthful. The kids looked at me suspiciously. Especially Debby: at three, she was a very levelheaded little girl.

"You just want us to eat, Daddy.""I like it," I said, eating more."You're pretending.""No, I'm not.""Then why aren't you smiling?" Debby said.

Fortunately, Johnny decided at that moment to eat more. He rubbed his stomach. "It's good," he said.