

### The Baba Yaga,

### A Dr. Adam Karl Mystery

by

Leon Shure

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Leon Shure on Smashwords

The Baba Yaga,

A Dr. Adam Karl Mystery

Copyright © 2011, 2018 by Leon Shure

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to this ebook store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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This book is dedicated to my wife, Marianne.

There are a few people I'd like to thank: Michael Berger for correcting my grammar and Corrine Levine for reading my first draft. Thanks also to readers Rachel Heuman, Marion Mito, Wendy Frankel, and Sherri Weingart. Cover art was by Gabi Ladowski at www.GabiLadowski.com.

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The baba yaga,

A Dr. Adam Karl Mystery

### CHAPTER ONE

I could not see the malevolence in his face.

My "seeing eye woman" flung her body against my side, knocking both of us to the cold airport terminal floor. I instinctively struggled to rise. Kayko recovered faster, fell off me, sat up and, straight armed, used all the weight she could leverage to push me back down. "Just stay there!" she whispered.

An explosive discharge echoed off the sides of the airport walls. I heard robotic outbursts I could not interpret.

The gunman turned and ran, pushed hard against a non-automatic door, exited into daylight and kept running. Men in blue shirts, running just as hard, banged the door against its casings as they rushed to follow.

I looked behind me to see if anyone was hurt. I saw only blank faces, but no one was on the ground. Security guards from the nearby gates surrounded us, lifted us to our feet, held us by our elbows and pulled us towards an office about 50 feet away. "Stay here until you are debriefed," one guard said and closed the door.

I looked at Kayko's blank face. All faces are blank to me. I have a form of autism that prevents me from seeing human expression. My disability extends to voices. I cannot hear the emotion in voices either.

"Explain." My own voice sounds robotic to me as well. Kayko drew a breath. I did not sense if she was upset but assumed intellectually she was.

My uncle, the closest person to me in the world besides my mother, of course, hired Kayko a month before to help me as I completed my residency as a neurologist and started my private practice.

I did not know if Kayko liked me or hated me. She was my employee and I assumed she was acting in my best interests when she knocked me off my feet.

I knew little about her. She never offered to fill me in on her background. Ethnic facial characteristics are lost on me. From her name, Kayko Brasen, I guessed her parents were Asian and something else. She spoke with no accent I could detect so I assumed she was American born. Accents are even harder for me to interpret.

I only knew what was relevant about her ability to fulfill her job. She was an aspiring actress, between parts.

My uncle hired her on a short term basis to read expressions for me until I felt more confident in dealing with patients. I could "see" neurological impairments—the tongue that fell to the side, the pupils that reacted strangely to light. The mood of the patient was beyond my investigative ability, using my sight and hearing. My uncle worried about my bedside manner, that my peculiarities would upset patients. We hoped Kayko could teach me to be less robotic.

I was not optimistic. So far, her most successful innovation was that she would unobtrusively grab my arm when she wanted me to smile. My control over my own expression was less than complete, and I sometimes had to touch my face to see whether I was smiling or frowning. I also tended to stare too long, beyond the socially acceptable, Kayko said. Also, when I spoke, I might get too close, violating personal space. She advised me to take a step back when not actually touching a patient to elicit symptoms.

"Our plane landed and we were just passing out of the secured area," Kayko said. "Others were waiting with signs in their hands to greet passengers who were being picked up. A man stood among them and seemed upset. His face was contorted."

Of this, I intellectually understood the word "contorted" as having a dictionary meaning of being twisted out of shape. Since I didn't know what normal expression looked like, I, of course, didn't understand the nature of a twisted expression. I did recognize that such an expression would tell others that something was wrong.

"He drew a gun from his coat. Perhaps he was avoiding examination at a security gate by sneaking into the exit from the secured area."

I understood and was becoming impatient. "A sneak doesn't announce himself by firing a gun. Did he appear to be focused on me?"

"I thought so at the time. I thought his eyes were focused on you. But there were others not far from us. I could have been wrong."

Her initial perceptions, first impressions, were usually correct and I didn't doubt what she said, but I had no idea why the unknown man would want to harm me in particular. I doubted I'd been the target.

The incident at the gate was only the latest of the problems during our trip to Chicago. Our limo to the airport was rear-ended when another limo couldn't stop fast enough on the ice. The plane ride to Chicago was bumpy and the airplane shook from frequent turbulence. I could tell the stewardess misunderstood me when she reached for a soft drink instead of the coffee I'd requested I did not try to stop her from pouring the drink because I feared she'd interpret my facial expression and robotic tone as being hostile. That she'd call for help and I'd get arrested. Typical of a life of uncertainty and odd surprises.

I endeavor to present a cheerful, cooperative attitude to the world. I hoped I smiled at the stewardess.

A man came through the door without introducing himself. He sat down on an unpadded plastic chair with no arms. The chair had little hooks on both sides so it could be anchored to other chairs to form a row. The man was opposite us on the user's side of a totally utilitarian and impersonal grey metal desk.

He did not speak for three slaps. One of my therapists provided the helpful suggestion that I count slaps after a stranger stopped talking. A slap was the time I would take to bring my flattened hand down on a table. After we practiced the technique for a while, I could mentally duplicate the time of one slap to a table. One slap meant it was my turn to speak. Two slaps meant the speaker had turned his attention to someone else in the room or to something in front of him. Three or more slaps meant I was being observed.

I was being observed. Apparently satisfied that I presented no immediate threat, the man spoke. "My name is Michael Dunne. I am a Chicago police detective. I can show you my badge."

I did not respond, hoping my lack of insistence on verification would be a positive beginning to our conversation. I try not to speak before spoken to. I am not shy. I just don't want to disturb the illusion of normality until I must.

"What is your name and destination?" A man used to asking questions, I thought, cutting through the crap.

"My name is Dr. Adam Karl." According to Kayko I talk slowly but very succinctly. In about two words, a listener knows I speak in an abnormally flat tone, emphasis on abnormal. I imagined a look of surprise on the faces of those who spoke to me for the first time but could not see the surprise.

Kayko leaned over and whispered in my ear. She knew, even on the first day with me, that describing the way someone else reacted was like feeding a starving man, like vibrating a tuning fork to get a sympathetic vibration. "He is surprised and confused. He thinks you are retarded, but can't understand how you can be a doctor."

My assumption of surprise was correct. I turned to the detective and began my memorized litany of explanation. "I am not retarded. I have autism. My brain is just wired differently. I understand what you say but I can't hear how you say it. If you describe in words how you feel I can understand you better. I am confused by sarcasm." Sarcasm, saying one thing but signaling that the opposite is meant, is a problem for me because I take what is said to me very literally.

Three slaps passed. "OK. I don't mind if you confer with your friend here, but I need to get some basic facts."

"Thank you. My associate's name is Kayko Brasen."

I leaned towards her and she immediately whispered into my ear, cupping her hand over her lips. In this instance, she was acting the way my thoughts would act if I didn't have a problem, my thoughts whispering inside my head.

"Tall, must be nearing retirement age, slightly bent, a thin man finally putting on some weight. Moustache. Whitening hair. Tough. Smart. A no nonsense guy."

"Was your destination Chicago?" Detective Dunne asked, after concluding that Kayko was done.

"Yes. I'm from Chicago. North Shore."

Detective Dunne and I both knew what the location of my birth meant: money.

"Coming from where?"

"A suburb of Minneapolis. I finished my residency at a hospital for the blind."

His attention turned to Kayko. "And you?"

"I'm assisting Dr. Karl while he begins his practice."

"Are you a therapist?"

"I'm a thespian, a wandering player."

Detective Dunne did not speak for quite a while. Observing us. Was he satisfied with our answers, or annoyed, bored, impatient? All possibilities at once?

Dunne began his own memorized litany. "Doctor, have you any enemies, does anyone have a grudge against you, have you been threatened? Do you have any reason to think someone wishes to do you harm? Have you done anything to give someone a motive to harm you?"

Had they already ruled out that the gunman was a terrorist? If I alone was the target, why would the gunman want to shoot me in a public place? Why not wait for me in a place where he could hide from detection and capture?

"Motive, a reason to want to shoot me?" My voice doesn't rise at the end of a question. Some people become annoyed, as if I'm making fun of them, trying to confuse them. I asked few questions except in the course of my work as a physician.

"Detective Dunne is nodding yes." Kayko whispered.

"I agree that a motive was present. I don't believe that people act without reason. Even madness has a reason."

"Nodding," Kayko whispered.

Going on, I said, "Envy, greed, revenge." I thought about someone being envious or jealous or me and realized the absurdity. But I don't do self-pity. Takes too much energy, and people stop listening. As for revenge, I could not imagine what I'd done to anyone to cause them to retaliate with a bullet. "As a general rule, I do not make my murder the best solution to someone's problem."

"Thinks you're very strange but is amused," Kayko whispered. I gave Kayko's report a re-translation in my mind, removing the kindness: "He thinks you're nuts but harmless and will try to humor you."

"Have you," Dunne asked, continuing the questions he had for any victim, "been involved in any crime or criminal prosecution or have you been a party to any lawsuit, either as the one complaining or as the subject of a complaint?"

I didn't want to answer and he must have noticed my hesitation. I'm a junior, Adam Karl, Jr. My father attained some fame and some notoriety. Useless to lie to Detective Dunne. He'd remember soon where he'd heard my name. "My father was murdered."

"You've caught his interest," Kayko whispered.

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### CHAPTER TWO

A bloody story, my father's death.

I had no intention of dredging up 18-year old memories about my late father.

I needed to gain the advantage to end the interview. "I won't talk about my father's death without a lawyer present."

Dunne was silent for a long time. The Detective was an intelligent man and a cautious civil servant. He knew the interview was over and he'd learn nothing more from me. Whatever suspicions or theories Dunne had about my late father's death based upon his memory of the case, he couldn't risk the accusation that he browbeat a cripple.

I was angry with myself. Hiding behind my disability made me feel I cheated. We sat in silence. Dunne tested me. A nervous or guilty suspect will speak just to avoid the silence. He was correct that the silence and lack of resolution upset me. But I said nothing.

I could imagine no link between my father's death and the attack today. But I did not wish to imagine a link.

I could only imagine what emotion showed on Kayko's face. She leaned over, cupped her hands over my ear. "I'm stunned about your father, but as your non-attorney, I think you should just remain silent until the Detective gives up." Good advice from Kayko.

Dunne gave up when he realized I could object to even his silence.

"You may go," he said.

I knew I'd see Detective Dunne again.

We found our luggage placed to the side of a revolving baggage cart. Kayko called for a limo on her cell. We dragged our luggage on wheels over to the middle section of the arrival pick-up zones and shivered in the December Chicago cold.

Kayko didn't try to find out more about my father's death. Probably felt that as an employee she had no business asking. She was correct.

"I'm so excited to be in Chicago!" she said. I visualize sentences. From the context of her statement, I knew her sentence ended in an exclamation mark. "I have lots of friends in Chicago."

Kayko planned to initially stay at an old grand hotel in downtown Brunswik, near the university until she decided whether she should get an apartment or accept my invitation to live on the estate. I didn't know Kayko's age but based upon her past statements I assumed she was the same age as a graduate student. Her desire to be near the university further confirmed my guess.

I wondered about her friends.

I had friends, but only old friends. Years needed to pass before someone grew accustomed to my peculiarities. I trained roommates and others who needed to be around me how to talk to me so I'd understand. I comprehended best when the friend described how he or she felt. I told them they should talk to me like a nineteenth century novel that describes everything. The English majors especially enjoyed talking to me, I thought.

As part of my autism, I recognized faces only on the basis of long experience. In the beginning of a friendship, the person had to identify himself. Later I gained some ability to remember a friend as a more distinct individual. The example I gave to set people at ease was that I was familiar with Washington's face on the $1 bill and Lincoln's on the $5 bill, but I did not recognize who was on the $100 bill.

Kayko's plan was to take a taxi to her hotel. "If you need me, you know where I am. You have my cell number," she said as she closed the door of the limo that would take me home. The episode at the airport must have made Kayko solicitous, overly concerned. Did she feel she needed to protect me? I didn't like the implication that someone had to help me.

I enjoyed the drive. Each little town along the lakefront had its own personality. I noted which stores had new names, which storefronts were empty in the commercial sections near each train station.

The limo driver pulled into the driveway and sped up the incline towards the front door. I saw no other cars so assumed my Uncle was not home. Late afternoon, he'd still be at work. So far as I knew, my mother and stepfather were in Europe. Baba, my grandmother, could be anywhere on earth.

The estate is never empty, but I saw no one working around the main building. No snow on the driveway or on any paved paths. Keith, our chauffer, was in charge of our snow plow. He was about my age and my friend. I didn't see him around the garage either.

No welcoming committee, I thought. I fished in my pocket for my key, found it, and turned the tumblers. A push and the door swung open. No sound from within. I hung up my coat in the expansive closet as I had so many times before. Good to be home. Comforting, something solid after a long journey.

I saw one of the maids. "Oh, my goodness, Adam! We gave up on waiting for you." Grace was our maid for as long as I could remember. Keith's mother. She came and gave me a huge hug. "Welcome home, sweet boy!"

I basked in the warmth of her embrace. "How have you been?" I asked. I knew the usual next line should have been "You look great," but I didn't know how she looked.

Grace guessed what I was thinking. "I haven't aged a day and neither have you. You're still my little boy." I'd always be her little boy. Another hug, then she pushed me away so she could take a good look at me.

"Anyone else around? Lewis or Marsha?" In another era, Lewis' title would've been Butler, and his wife's title, Head Housekeeper. They referred to themselves as Estate Supervisors. They proudly showed me articles listing the colleges now offering degrees in their profession.

"Both very busy, I'm sure. They loaned Keith and his snow plow to a trapped neighbor, then I lost track of them. Always some problem to attend to!"

"Do you know if Uncle Wallace will be here for dinner? He told me he'd been very busy but would do all he could to get home."

"Not sure, sweetie. He's been keeping unhealthy hours. Some crisis of two at the Corporation." We all called our family business, the one founded by Baba, "the Corporation."

"How's things here at home?"

"Fine, just fine." She paused. "Some things have gone missing. That's all. Nothing to worry about. A piece of jewelry here, a statuette there. Lewis is very disturbed about the thefts. Marsha believes someone on the staff is pilfering."

Disturbing to think that someone we all trusted, someone within the family, so to speak, had betrayed our trust. I'd look into this situation as soon as possible and see what I could find.

I went to my room, sat at my old desk with the new computer, and read medical reports from the website of my new senior partner, Dr. Anton Bradley. I had the passwords to get into the site. Dr. Bradley wanted me to take over some cases immediately: the ones he admitted were better handled with newer techniques.

Uncle didn't call and I assumed he was too busy to have dinner with me. The Corporation that fed us all came first, Baba, my grandmother, always said.

I asked Marsha, the proudly titled Estate Supervisor, to have dinner with me. She said she'd be delighted.

Grace served dinner gracefully. We sat at the round dinette table, surrounded on three sides by windows. Only a few lights were visible outside. In the morning, the dinette had a view of the entire Estate, especially the stables and the corral.

Marsha waited until we were alone, then took my hands in hers. "I'm _so_ glad you're finally home. I'm _so_ proud of you, my doctor boy."

I felt a gust of warmth from her as her words crossed the screen in my mind. There is an extra pause before an emphasized word. The "so"es she used to emphasize her words lit up like Christmas trees. I felt finally at home and finally welcomed.

Dinner was delicious, a favorite of mine we called Mystery Stew, since I never could figure out what kind of meat it contained. An old joke from my childhood.

I told her I was starting my practice tomorrow. She said she was "so thrilled" for me and felt she was beginning with me. She knew Dr. Bradley well. He was the family neurologist, the one who made my initial diagnosis. He followed my progress from therapist to therapist. He called us when he found a helpful new medication. "He treated Lewis' wrist problem last fall. He's getting a little old, Adam. Just as smart as ever, but getting a little impatient." The word "impatient" crossed my mind, and I had a mind's eye image of a patient waiting patiently to be a patient.

I asked Marsha about the pilfering problem. She probably made a face. "Someone should keep her gossip to herself." I knew she'd have a few choice words for Grace. "I didn't want to bother you with this right as you walked through the door."

I asked if anyone was new on the staff. No one since I was last home, about a year ago. I guessed right that each new item stolen was more expensive than the one before. That indicated the thief was suffering increasing financial stress. Or possibly, we had a serial kleptomaniac who needed a bigger thrill each time he or she pilfered.

I promised to look into the problem, and Marsha changed the subject to something more cheerful.

Ever efficient, she told me Baba ordered her to throw me a birthday/welcome home/congratulations party before Christmas. Marsha stressed the word "ordered." Not a suggestion but a directive. Baba specified that invitations be sent to my childhood friends, any college friends in the area, and anyone around my age in our social set.

Marsha ordered me, under the authority vested in her by Baba, to provide a list of any qualifying friends. The completed list was to be delivered to her by a date certain. My stepfather Paul and my mother would attend the party. According to their itinerary, scrupulously updated by the efficient Marsha, they'd arrive home from Belgium on December 8th. The party would be the first Saturday after they returned.

"Good news!" Marsha said. "The best of news! Jessie will be home too and able to attend your party!" Jessica was Marsha's only child. A much fussed over child, golden curled until her hair darkened. Still fussed over. So far as Marsha knew, I hadn't seen Jessica since she left for Paris to study dress design. However, I had in fact flown to Paris two months before to provide her with support when she presented her first fashion show.

I also knew some other secrets about Jessica that a mother would like to know. I hoped the expression on my face, which had a life of its own, did not show how I felt about Jessica.

Dinner completed, we went our separate ways. Marsha's work was never done, as she frequently pointed out.

I went back to reading medical records. I sat at my old roll top desk. The huge sliding top opened to reveal a space large enough to easily accommodate my computer. During my high school years, I drilled holes in the back of the desk in a fit of barbaric desecration, to allow access for computer cables and wires,

My mind shifting back and forth, I thought about Jessica and the phantom pilferer. My personal papers were in a locked drawer of the desk. I found the key to the drawer on my key ring.

I noticed immediately that some things were out of place. Letters from Jessica had been put back in a different order.

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### CHAPTER THREE

"Couldn't get home for dinner. Big breakthrough coming. Want to discuss this with you. Welcome home." Instant messaging, a wonderful innovation for those, like me, who prefer to read what's communicated to them.

Something big coming. Uncle usually kept me informed, but I'd heard nothing about a breakthrough.

Someday all this will be yours, the magnate said to his infant son. Uncle Wallace was my father's only brother, and the two of them were Baba's only children. Uncle never married. I'm my father's only child. The Corporation had no stockholders but was fully owned by the family. Someday, I'd inherit the Corporation, whether I wanted it or not.

I read the instant message while waiting for Kayko at the coffee shop. The unimposing medical office of Dr. Bradley, my mentor, was across the street. I needed to (1) bestir myself, (2) finish my incredibly strong and bitter coffee, and (3) walk to my new office. I visualized a headline, "Corporate Heir Run Over Crossing Street to Future". Remember, I told myself, always look both ways when crossing a street.

Kayko arrived with a flourish of coat and rapid breathing, as if she'd rushed. She plopped herself heavily down on the chair opposite mine. "Overslept, didn't want to be late for your first day, cab driver got lost." She looked at me, and gently squeezed my arm, our signal I should smile. I smiled. "Are you nervous? I'm nervous," she said.

"Why?"

"I want us both to succeed on this job." Characteristic enthusiasm or just having opening night jitters? Not confident that her performance would bowl over the locals?

Starting my practice was a big deal. I felt I was coming full circle. From the time Dr. Bradley told my parents of my autism and the possible therapies to today. Many years later, Dr. Bradley told me about that meeting in his office. "Count your blessings," he told my parents. "There's nothing wrong with his intelligence. We can't measure it now, but my sense is that he's pretty damn smart!"

I hoped that my emotional state wasn't playing an embarrassing picture on my face. "Do I seem composed?"

"You look every inch the physician."

I changed the subject. "How was your evening? Did you meet up with friends?"

"Yes, I had dinner with a dear friend." I noted the use of the word "dear," and wondered if she said this in a satisfied or a wistful way. As in, I'm so happy we've reunited and I can't believe I am now separated from this wonderful person even for a few hours. Or, I realize this relationship is hopeless, yet my heart called strongly to this object of my hopeless love. I'd obviously read too many 19th century books.

I knew nothing about Kayko except what she chose to tell me. I thought others reacted to her as if her countenance was pleasurable. I remember reading that actors are either beautiful or handsome, or have distinctive features which make them perfect for character roles. Was she beautiful and compelling of attention, or just interesting looking? I could ask someone, but was embarrassed. Didn't want to show my weakness and afraid she'd overhear.

I was intensely curious about her friend, dear friend. Guy or gal, gay or straight, handsome or beautiful.

I advised Kayko to look both ways as we crossed the street. She said nothing in reply so I imagined she looked both ways. I held the office doors open for her. She did not say she was nervous about meeting Dr. Bradley, but I just assumed.

We had a welcoming committee, Dr. Bradley and his long-time nurse, April. Dr. Bradley and I shook hands, both of us knowing that words were inadequate. "I'm so glad you're here. I'm very proud of you."

Kayko leaned into me and whispered into my ear. Dr. Bradley thankfully ignored Kayko's ministrations, knowing her job.

She gave me a full description of Dr. Bradley. The first time I got a mental picture of how Dr. Bradley looked even though I'd known him since I was 3 years old. "Medium sized, overweight, jowly, in his seventies, large circles around his eyes, must have been a handsome man once, now, at best, distinguished, but above all, tired. Something bothering him, great sadness in his eyes. But smiling broadly at you."

I embraced him. My life would be so different if we two never met. When I stepped back, Kayko whispered, "Tears in his eyes." She hesitated. "I've more to tell you, but later."

"You're to call me Andy now when no patients are around." I'd had his permission before but I'd been too shy or respectful. Now, I too, was a doctor and so a certified adult. Dr. Bradley was my colleague, even if I felt I'd never be his equal.

I introduced Kayko formally. "A pleasure to finally meet you. I hope you're finding your job a pleasant one."

"Oh, yes. But challenging." This was the first time Kayko indicated any difficulty in helping me. I didn't know if this comment meant, yes, but helping Adam is interesting and fulfilling, or yes, but helping Adam is a pain in the ass.

Dr. Bradley introduced Kayko to April. His nurse, she was the woman on the other end of the phone during at least a hundred conversations with me. I realized I knew almost nothing about her. In asking about appointments or reporting the side-effects of whatever medication we tried, I never thought about April as a person with feelings. She'd be my nurse too in my new job, and I didn't know anything about her.

Kayko whispered. "Tall, slim, in her fifties, must have been a beauty once, takes care of her appearance, is neat and I'm sure efficient. Something more, but I'll have to tell you later. She is very pleased with you."

I did my smile and shook April's hand. I must find out her last name, I thought.

At last in the examining room, I sat behind my new desk and Kayko sat on the raised chair. "The practice will give you a supply of lab coats. Like at the hospital for the blind, I'll introduce you as my assistant but I won't explain about you unless someone asks. I think the patients figure out pretty quickly that you're present to help me because of my autism. I'll continue to send you out when a patient has to disrobe, of course." In that case, I'd ask Nurse April to be present if the patient was a woman or for anyone who appeared at all nervous.

Kayko probably nodded, then remembered she needed to speak. "OK, I understand."

"What was it you wanted to tell me about Dr. Bradley? Does he look sick?" One of my fears was that Dr. Bradley would retire too quickly, before I felt comfortable in the practice. I also dreaded the thought that Dr. Bradley was getting old and would one day pass away. He was a large part of my world.

"Dr. Bradley is having some kind of problem. He looks at April with a mixture of love, longing, and worry. April looks at Dr. Bradley with intense love."

Surprised, I didn't know what to say. Dr. Bradley had a wife and two children. I had only the vaguest of impressions of Mrs. Bradley, but she seemed like a nice enough person. She'd come to several of our parties marking my rites of passage and sat with Dr. Bradley at my local graduations.

The thought that Dr. Bradley could be unfaithful was a little like hearing that Santa Claus was a child molester. "You mean the father-daughter kind of love or the sexual love between partners?"

Was Kayko amused? I'd never used the word "sex" before when we talked, except in a clinical sense. Was I a very innocent person in her eyes?

"I mean the passionate, pulse pounding, must have, ripping off the cloths kind of love, now tempered with age. He's at least 20 years her senior, but they must have formed their liaison when he was in his prime in his early 50's and she was in her early 30's."

Was Kayko telling me more about herself than the reality of the situation? Was she revealing something about her own romantic nature? I was almost as surprised to hear her speak of physical love as I was to hear that Dr. Bradley could stray from his marital vows.

The thought struck me that even if I were normal, I wouldn't have the sensitive relationship radar women possess. According to the books I've read.

Nurse April tapped on the door. "Are you ready for your first patient?"

I hoped she hadn't been listening to our conversation. I didn't know the thickness of the walls in this particular office, constructed several years ago when Dr. Bradley's practice expanded into the adjoining suite. If she'd heard Kayko, April would certainly show a reaction.

I looked to Kayko, but she made no attempt to warn me. I felt reassured and turned my attention to the patient's file. Carpal tunnel. "Give me about five minutes, and send him in," I told April.

While I prepared, Kayko scurried down the hall to a closet filled with non-prescription medical supplies and extra lab coats. Re-entering, she said "This one is kind of big, but I guess it'll do." She dragged in another chair from an adjoining examination room and sat behind and to the side of the table used for examinations. Beyond where a patient's peripheral vision could stretch, unless he turned to look at her.

A busy morning. Three carpal tunnel cases in a row, giving testimony to the effects of keyboarding in the digital age, followed by a carpenter with Dupuytren's contracture. A torn meniscus, a painful shoulder with probable rotator cuff tear. Time went quickly.

My last patient, Mr. James Rossi, presented baffling symptoms. A middle class, white collar supervisor, he suffered from what one of my instructors at school would call "total body burn-out."

The example given in medical school was the "gandy dancer," an unskilled laborer on the railroad maintenance of way, laying track, swinging a sledge hammer. Swing until there was nothing left of him. Joints worn out, arthritic, bones fractured. Also a kind of mental malaise, mentation slowed. Disabled at whatever age his body collapsed. A rare condition in a mechanized America. Even the slow-to-modernize railroad industry turned to mechanized tampers, the railroad equivalent of the wide street-laying machines of highway reconstruction.

Why would a non-laborer have this syndrome? "Just fell apart one day," the man said. He'd been a normal man, then he'd been a wreck.

I looked to Kayko to see if the man was showing signs of lying. She guessed my intention and whispered that the man appeared to be telling me the truth. One day a whole man living a normal life in a business office setting, the next, unable to perform even the 10 pound lifting capacity needed for sedentary work.

Rechecking his reflexes, I speculated on a diagnosis of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Plenty of speculation about Epstein-Barr virus being the trigger. I wasn't convinced that this virus was the culprit, considering that 95 per cent of the population was infected with Epstein-Barr. I prescribed the usual medications, but was not satisfied. I promised myself I'd examine the more recent articles in the medical journals.

If he had chronic fatigue, he had an extreme form, more extreme than anything I'd ever read about or seen.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FOUR

Two articles caught my eye, as Kayko and I ate lunch at the coffee shop. A report of the shot fired at the airport, and the murder of the mother of an autistic child.

Police continue to search for a lone gunman who fired a shot Sunday, wounding no one, at the security exit for Frisbee Airline at O'Hare airport.

No claim of responsibility from any foreign or domestic terrorist group has been received, and a police spokesman indicated the possibility of a random shot by a disgruntled or mentally disturbed individual.

The gunman, who had passed through no security gates, drew his gun and fired once from a crowd of people awaiting passengers from either Minneapolis or Memphis. Both planes arrived almost simultaneously at the gates. Passenger lists are being examined to determine any connection to what is being treated by police as an attempted attack.

Guards pursued the gunman across the outside pick-up lanes and into the enclosed airport parking multi-story, where he either was able to escape before cars could be roadblocked or was able to blend into the crowd and take public transportation. The possibility remained that the gunman hid in a car and waited until the search was halted late Sunday afternoon.

The second article reported that:

A West Side mother was found dead from gunshot wounds late Sunday night after neighbors alerted police, and the only witness to the murder is the seven-year old autistic child of the victim.

The woman, Esmeralda Hutchings, was shot three times, to the head, abdomen and right leg, according to police spokesmen. Her autopsy report is expected to be released today.

The autistic boy was unable to describe who was in the bedroom with Mrs. Hutchings and himself when the shooting occurred.

Terra Badeley, a sister of Mrs. Hutchings, described her as a hard-working woman and sole support of her family, who performed maintenance services at a downtown office building. Personnel spokesman for the company that employed Mrs. Hutchings said she was participating in a skills development program and hoped to be promoted to a clerical position.

Police have released no statement speculating on a motive for the murder. No suspect is in custody and no arrest is currently anticipated. No person of interest has been interrogated.

The father of the autistic child is deceased, according to Ms. Badeley. The Illinois Children and Family Service assumed custody until the boy can be placed either with relatives or with foster families. Details about funeral arrangements, after the body is released by the coroner, have not been announced by the family.

We sat at a small table, eating huge pastries and savoring the strong coffee. I passed the newspaper to Kayko and pointed to the article about the airport attack we'd witnessed.

"Fairly accurate," she said when she finished reading, "but makes the airport sound as secure as Swiss cheese. This guy was able to do whatever he wanted without being searched and escaped through one of the holes in security. What if he'd had a bomb, or had found a way to hide a bazooka up his pants?"

I laughed. Kayko's straight-forward, tell-it-like-it-is manner, was a welcome change. She didn't treat me as if I were dumb or odd because of my autism. She also didn't treat me with the awe some people show doctors, as if doctors were any less human and flawed than the rest of humanity.

Back at the office, the receptionist/biller handed me a message she'd written in a tight, precise hand. Detective Dunne was about to pay us an office visit.

Cat and mouse. Somehow, and for some reason Detective Dunne was on my scent. I didn't know what he thought he knew about me, but for some reason, he wanted to keep his eye firmly upon me.

I did not want to look surprised. I touched my face as unobtrusively as possible, taking in a fast breath and placing my hand around my nose, the way I'd read that people suppress a sneeze. Pretty clumsy and probably an odd looking gesture, but I needed to feel my features.

I thought my facial expression was one of indifference. I hoped so. More confident that my composure wouldn't give Dunne the satisfaction of catching me off guard, I waited silently.

Kayko ushered in the detective and took his coat. "Hello," I said, "here to tell us you caught the bad guy?"

Kayko whispered, "Amused by you." I'd hoped for "startled by your calm and masterful demeanor."

"Hello, doctor and Ms. Brasen." He paused to observe me before answering my question. "I'm not sure you want to hear the details of police work, but I thought you deserved an update." I remained silent and he continued. "We have the security tapes but the assailant had a good idea where the cameras were and stood behind others. He also wore a baseball cap."

"Which team?" I couldn't resist asking, my curiosity overcoming my reluctance to participate.

"Sox."

"Probably a South Sider. Go on, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"We still got a fairly good partial picture of his face. We've found nothing in the database for faces yet, but the perpetrator could simply be someone who's never been arrested or who never worked where he needed a security pass."

I looked to Kayko. Had she guessed my thought that I'd like to have a database of faces that worked, for instance, inside a pair of my eyeglasses?

"Were you able to find the bullet?" I asked.

"Yes. We're working on that angle. Not that hard, though, to get an untraceable gun in Chicago. Could have been an old gun before we paid such attention to gun sales."

All very interesting, I thought, but why exactly was he here, except to intimidate me. "Ms. Brasen and I appreciate your effort to reassure us of our safety, and, if you don't mind, I have an office full of people with sore limbs and nervous nerves."

"Has no intention of leaving," Kayko whispered.

"I need a favor," the detective said. I hoped my unconcerned look was staying in place. "I appreciate that you are a neurologist and you obviously have some expertise . . ." I didn't know why he was hesitating, unless he was in the middle of an insult. " . . . that would come in very handy in another of my investigations."

Where was this conversation/interrogation going, besides out of control? Veering into unexpected and suspicious directions. I didn't say anything, compelling Dunne to continue. "I'd like you to interview a very young autistic child, a boy, who was the only witness to his mother's murder."

My choices were two. I could (1) appear, at best, to be a bad citizen, unwilling to help the commonweal, or, at worst, a coward, or (2) agree to help.

No real choice here. "I'll be happy to provide some expertise but I'll need full access to the records of the crime, the crime scene, the victim's relatives, friends, and business associates."

I imagined Detective Dunne was surprised. "Not surprised," Kayko whispered.

"I'll give you full access, but you'll have to come to the precinct to see the evidence. As for visiting the scene, be my guest. The yellow tapes are still up. But why do you think you need to know all that, just to get some information from the boy?"

"Because, I need to know the context. The boy is undoubtedly upset and will react adversely to someone who doesn't understand the whole situation." I thought for a moment. "I'll also need access to his medical records."

"Detective nodding, reluctantly." Kayko said. Score one for my side.

"All at the state's attorney's, subpoena from the County Hospital. You'll have to get their permission to go through the boy's medical records. I'll talk to a friend down there and get back to you with the go-ahead."

I was silent, out of demands. Kayko asked the boy's name.

"Elyet. Either a made up name or a corruption of the name Elliott." I wondered if his parents thought of the newborn as some kind of corruption, but knew that, typically, his autism become manifest during his later development.

"And where is he?" Kayko asked.

"He's in a group home, more of a hospital, for really disturbed children."

I decided to feel sympathy at a later time, when Detective Dunne wasn't invading the sanctity of my examination room.

"And as long as I'm here. Do you or Ms. Brasen . . ."

"Call me Kayko."

"You or Kayko have anymore thoughts about why you were attacked at the airport?"

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FIVE

Kayko called from her hotel room at midnight. "Adam, someone's gone through my things." When I didn't react quickly, Kayko realized I couldn't hear the urgency in her voice, especially over the phone. "I'm very upset. I'm in a panic."

Warned, I could assume her voice was higher and showed extreme emotion. "I'm sorry. Is anything missing?"

"Not sure, but nothing of value. Not my grandmother's earrings, the ones I got as presents, the gold or silver ones." She struggled to calm herself, to be rational and helpful. "Adam, whoever broke in switched on my laptop. The contacts program was running and the screen showed the names and addresses of my friends and family."

"Maybe some kind of practical joke by a friend?" I suggested.

"Friends don't use hotel pass cards to come in and go through my lingerie."

Even worse, I thought. This wasn't a robbery or a prank.

The break-in was clearly an act of intimidation, but who was being intimidated? I was just ego-centric enough to think the intimidation was aimed at me. Unless Kayko had her own set of enemies, which I doubted, the intruder was sending me a message. What was I doing that someone wanted to discourage?

Another question in my mind. The clear violation of her privacy was a threat of personal harm to Kayko. Running her contacts program and going through her clothes violated her privacy and emphasized her vulnerability. Was someone also trying to stop Kayko from helping me?

"Did you call the front desk?" I wasn't sure that a full investigation by the hotel staff, followed by a visit from the Brunswik police, was the best way to proceed.

"Not yet. No, I called you first." Kayko must have concluded all on her own that the break-in was somehow related to me.

"We'll call the authorities from the limo after I pick you up. I'll be right over. In about 15 minutes. In the meantime, use all the locks on the door. Push something in front of the door if you can. Call me if you hear any noises."

"I'll be waiting." I did not know whether her voice still indicated strong emotion or whether she'd regained her composure.

I could drive to Kayko, was able to. I could judge distances sufficiently well. My reflexes were fast enough. I had a driver's license.

But I didn't drive if I could avoid it. My fear of finding myself in situations beyond my control. After an accident, alone in a ditch, depending on strangers who would find me very strange. I would never call the emergency number, 9-1-1. Based on the odd sound of my voice any dispatcher would think my call was a sick joke. I knew about auto emergency systems designed to automatically call for help after an accident, but doubted their reliability after an impact.

Lucky I was filthy rich and could get someone to drive me around.

Keith, our chauffer, was still awake and didn't seem bothered to drive at midnight. But that was his job. To be available.

I sat next to Keith on the passenger side of the front seat. No reason to hide behind the glass. Keith and I grew up together. Keith's mother, Grace, still lived in a cottage on the Estate. Keith's bachelor pad was above the garage. We were the same age, 25 years old.

Our lives were different, but I considered him my closest friend. We grew up together. Keith could do anything with anything mechanical. He could build an automobile out of toothpicks and glue and drive it on the highway. Keith was on the ten year plan to get an engineering degree, taking a single course each semester at a local college or on the internet.

When we were off the driveway and on the street, I filled him in about Kayko. He made no comment about her helping me in my practice, the strange event at the airport, or the threat indicated by the break-in, but got right to the point, as he saw it.

"Are you banging her?"

"Banging," a word he considered classy.

I wasn't a virgin but I had two major problems with the social aspects of sex: (1) To induce some woman to spontaneously make-out, I needed to overwhelm her with my charm at a party in a darkened room with the music so loud she wouldn't notice how I talk. Dark and both of us yelling. Not the kind of situation usually conducive to intimacy, but sometimes I did get lucky. Helped if she was drunk or high. (2) Eventually every woman in the class or within a two mile radius would find out about my family wealth. Some women would ignore my disability and sleep with me even if I were from a species other than human. Gross indifference to me as a person, complete interest in me as source of income. I usually could resist such advances, but, sometimes I got really, really lonely, and my judgment became impaired.

"I don't know how Kayko feels about me, if she feels anything at all. Most likely she doesn't even see me as a man, just an employer. I'm just guessing here, but I doubt if she thinks of me as a romantic figure."

Here was where a sympathetic friend would tell me I'm selling myself short, and that I was a very attractive and romantic human being. However, Keith just nodded.

"Just grab her ass, man, and see what happens!"

A fine example of the well-reasoned advice I'd always get from Keith. He obviously didn't understand the subtleties of laws against sexual harassment of an employee, or any other subtlety for that matter.

Keith never had any problem with women. He was a love-them-and-leave them kind of guy. I couldn't remember any time after Keith was sixteen when he wasn't dating some woman he'd describe as gorgeous. Of course, I had to take his word for their attractiveness.

The hotel was built before underground parking was required. We parked off-street in the business district near the hotel. Walking, we saw no one was on the street and the only noise was the sound of our feet on the cement.

"So this Kayko girl is frightened because someone went through her silky stuff? Some kind of kinky guy, you think?" Keith asked.

"He went through her computer too."

"Looking for pictures of her in her underwear or wearing high heels. That's what I'd do. I mean if I were a kinky, creepy guy."

Insight from Keith into the mind of a pervert.

Inside the hotel, we felt a gust of warmth. We crossed the elaborate, thick carpeted lobby, avoided the eyes of the night clerk, and found the elevators. I remembered her room number.

The elevator looked refitted. I could see where a seat had been attached to the side wall in the hotel's heyday. So an actual human could sit while he opened and closed the doors. That would have given him carpal tunnel in a big way.

On her floor, the carpets, repeating the same pattern over and over, some kind of arabesque, led us to her door. I knocked. No answer.

I knocked again and heard her voice. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Adam."

"And Keith," he added.

"And my driver, Keith." I didn't want to go through a formal introduction or explain Keith's status while standing in front of a closed door.

I heard her moving furniture away from the door. She'd followed my instructions about blocking the door. I heard her undo the chain on the door and disarm the security lock.

I suppose she looked upset, disheveled. We walked in. I had the brief impression that Kayko was going to hug me in relief, but the feeling passed.

"This is Keith. He's our chauffer and my friend."

"Pleased to meetcha!" Keith said, not extending his hand. Must have figured she'd had enough of males and their curiosity for the evening. Or possibly, that he really wasn't meeting Kayko in a social setting, that he was on the job.

Keith leaned towards me, cupped his hand over my ear, and said "She's hot."

Interesting, but inappropriate for the situation. "Look, nothing's gained by staying here," I said to Kayko. "We'll look around to see if we can figure out who did this. Then we'll pack you up and you can stay at the Estate until you feel better."

"OK, a good plan. I just feel like my privacy has been permanently trampled. It's been a long day and I need to go somewhere safe."

"I'll look through her clothes." A generous offer from Keith.

"We're not going to find anything in her . . . underwear." I didn't want to hear any more joking about Kayko's underthings, especially with her listening. "Take a look at her laptop."

Keith was a wizard with computers. He ran over to the laptop with too much enthusiasm. I remembered his interest in finding compromising pictures of Kayko.

"I better check to see if the intruder put in any viruses first. That way, he could continue to monitor your computer from wherever he was." Keith found the anti-virus program and firewall, and started a scan. "I'm doing a full scan so this will probably take a pretty long time. We can just keep the laptop on until the scan is done. The battery is full, so that shouldn't be a problem."

"Can you tell what programs the . . . intruder used?" I'd thought of using the words "asshole" or "bastard" to describe the intruder. But I didn't recall Kayko calling anyone those names, so I assumed she'd be offended. Actually, some words aren't used in speaking to a boss, so I really didn't know how she spoke informally.

"On it," Keith said. His fingers pecked at the keyboard. He wasn't a touch typist. "The bastard used the contacts program, but I don't see that he used the word processor." Obviously Keith had no qualms about calling someone a bastard in front of Kayko's delicate ears.

"Do you think he downloaded a copy of my contacts?" she asked.

"Possible. You've got a USB port here. If he had a flash drive and knew where to look, he could get all your contacts in a few seconds."

"Oh great!" Kayko said.

"Did he upload anything?" I asked.

"I should be able to find out by checking for new files." More key pecking. A picture came up on the screen. I was too far away to get a good look. Another picture, then another.

"Who is it?"

Keith was slow to answer.

"Pictures of your father. But altered by a program to make him look older, I think. As if he was having a tough-time in ghost-land."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER SIX

"So much blood," Kayko said. "I'm sorry, I'm getting a little sick. I guess you're used to the gore."

"Nights as an intern in an emergency ward will do that to you."

We stood in the tiny bedroom where Esmeralda Hutchings, mother of four, was murdered. "This room is more like a closet," I said.

"I'm rolling my eyes. The guest room at your house . . ."

"We call it the Estate."

"The Estate. The guest room you put me in could contain a football field, with room left for a parking lot."

Her exaggerations made me laugh. Relieving some of the tension. When she first began to help me with facial expressions, I thought of her as a very specialized human hearing aid. Now I enjoyed her company.

The room had a single bed, with a child's cot at a right angle to the bottom of the bed. The autistic boy, Elyet, slept in his mother's room, according to the accounts of her murder. A one-bedroom apartment but kept immaculately clean. Except for all the blood.

The police report contained a stick drawing of a standing figure to the right side of the bed. The left side of the bed was against the wall. A circle placed the assailant at the foot of the bed, next to Elyet's small cot. The blood trails were shown as jagged patterns in semi-circles at three levels. Mrs. Hutchings' head, stomach, and right thigh.

"Are you two ready to leave?" the landlord asked. A short, grey-haired man, he stood just outside the bedroom and talked through the open door, because another person could not fit inside. "I want the police to give me permission to clean up. Each day this apartment is vacant is a day without rent."

"Just a little longer, Mr. Root," I said.

"Red in the face," Kayko whispered. Root probably comes from a word for "red." I thought. His family probably had a hereditary rosacea or hypertension.

The scene confirmed that an assailant shot Mrs. Hutchings at close range, fully in view of the autistic boy. A stick-figure of the boy on the police report showed him in his cot. I didn't know the extent of Elyet's autism, but complete separation from the environment is rare. "I don't think Elyet would have stayed in bed unless he was asleep when the assailant entered," I said.

"Or he was very comfortable with the visitor." Kayko was correct. Everything pointed to both Mrs. Hutchings and Elyet being familiar with the assailant. Nothing showed a forced entry.

"A bedroom doesn't seem like an appropriate place to have company," I said.

"Not if she needed to keep an eye on Elyet." What Kayko said, made sense.

"So someone came to the door, late at night. Someone who was known to Mrs. Hutchings. She invited him in. They went to the bedroom."

"Do we know if they were in bed together?" Kayko asked.

"The reports show no semen in the bed." I could talk about semen with Kayko without embarrassment only because of the clinical nature of our discussion. "He could have been in bed with her, although I don't see how they'd have room in the single, unless the man was on his side. In any case, the police aren't conjecturing that the assailant removed his clothes. Apparently, removed clothing always leave something, either a thread or some dirt from outside and nothing of the sort was found."

"Was she undressed?"

"She wore some nightclothes, according to the reports."

"That doesn't tell us much. Nightclothes could mean anything from a thick housedress with a belt, equivalent to medieval armor, to a negligee." Why did underwear play so important a role in any discussion about or with Kayko? "You didn't let me study the pictures from the scene." A bit of criticism from my employee or just a statement of fact?

"The pictures focused on the wounds, which I wanted to see as a physician. But I think she wore a robe. What do you think about answering a knock on the door while wearing a robe?"

"I think this lady had more problems than decorum."

I formed a visualization of the crime, where the central figures in the drama stood and where they moved. I played a movie in my mind of the raised gun, the shock of impact from the bullets, bursting flesh and bloody splatters still showing on the walls and bed.

Finished with our examination of the scene, we made our exit with as little ceremony as possible. I thought we'd made a good start.

Mr. Root was glad to be rid of us. "Please tell Detective Dunne that I was helpful and cooperative. I don't want to get on his bad side."

His bad side, I'd have bet, was a densely populated megalopolis and his good side was an endless, uninhabited desert.

We walked quickly together to the car. I was eager to escape from the memory of the apartment.

I rarely went into the city, except to the Loop on business. Mrs. Hutchings' former apartment building was a classic Chicago three-story. The neighborhood was poor but seemed ripe for renewal. A few scattered new buildings and a few signs announced new businesses. Another few years, this neighborhood could become gentrified.

Maybe I wouldn't live my entire life at the Estate. I thought about getting a small condo somewhere.

Kayko drove one of the Estate's cars. Keith was too busy to drive into the city. Needed to service the limo. I navigated while Kayko drove. The closest entrance to the Kennedy Expressway was about a quarter-mile from the apartment.

"I know it's none of my business, but what's this all about? The stuff about your father? First, you nearly get shot and Dunne gives you the third degree about your father's death, then some asshole gets into my computer and leaves phonied-up pictures of your father looking old and sad."

So she does use the word "asshole" in front of her employer, I thought.

"I wish I knew what's going on. I've had a sense of being haunted by my father since we got into town. He was a very rich, very prominent man. Anyone with a grudge against my family could be attempting some kind of extortion. That's my latest theory. Someone will contact me with some made up story about my father, and ask me to pay him to keep quiet."

Kayko was silent as she merged into expressway traffic. "That doesn't explain Detective Dunne's interest in you."

"I'm still working towards an all-inclusive theory. Like Einstein's unified field theory of the universe."

She strained to look at me without losing control of the car. "I'm starting to get your sense of humor."

"I'm glad."

She changed the subject. "Would it be alright if I borrowed this car on Saturday night? A few of my friends are performing in a theater-in-the-round, a step above a community theater. Something old, Cole Porter."

"Sure, that's fine." Was she asking if I wanted to go with? I couldn't tell so remained silent. Musicals can be fun if the lyrics are clever. Otherwise, the words just sound elongated and sometimes I can't make the words out at all.

I wondered for the "x" number of times how much I missed of life because of my limitations.

One of my therapists insisted I never call my limitations "disabilities." What I had she said, was "impairments." I just needed to overcome my impairments. In other words, once I overcame my impairments, I'd be unimpaired.

So, if I could pile one euphemism on top of another, I would feel better about myself. But that was upside down thinking. If I felt good about myself, what I had was tolerable by any name.

I changed the subject to something I could express and understand. "My grandmother decreed that I have a party before Christmas in honor of my homecoming and new job. I hope you'll be able to attend. You can bring a friend if you like."

Her mental datebook flew open. "What day would that be exactly?"

"Let's see, my parents are arriving home on the 8th, a Saturday, and the party would be the following Saturday, the 15th."

"I'll have to check for sure, but unless I'm flying to Zanzibar for the coronation, I believe I'll be able to attend."

She didn't say anything about inviting a guest. I was still in the dark about whether she had a friend, in a romantic way.

"What should I wear?"

"I have no idea. You'll have to ask Marsha, our housekeeper, excuse me, Associate Estate Manager. She's planning the party. You met her?"

"Yes, she was the one who led me to the stadium you call a guestroom. She seemed very nice. Has she been with the Estate for a long-time?"

"Since I can remember. Her husband is Lewis our butler, excuse me, Estate Manager."

"She seemed like a nice person. Tell me more about her."

"She and her husband live in one of the out-buildings of the compound. They have one daughter, Jessica. She'll be at the party. She's flying in from Paris."

I must have accidently hit an interesting topic. "Did you grow up with Jessica?"

"We didn't go to school together. She mostly went to boarding schools, and Keith and I would see her on school holidays and for a week or two each summer. She'd usually spend her summers further South with relatives."

I sensed Kayko straining again to see my face without taking her eyes off the highway.

What was she thinking?

My cell phone rang. Keith. "Where are you exactly?"

"On the Kennedy, before the junction."

"So you'll be home in about 45 minutes."

"Sounds right. What's up?"

"Someone tampered with the limo's brakes. I hit a tree." If Keith said someone tampered with his precious brakes, that's what happened, no doubt about it. "What's going on?" Keith asked.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER SEVEN

"Take it easy. You're ripping my head off!"

The tell-tale spasm of Keith's neck muscles meant whiplash, mild. "You'll survive. I'll give you some hydrocodone, and you'll need to wear a collar outside of the house for at least a week. Reduce your activities."

"No sex?"

"Conduct yourself with some restraint." Keith was a poor patient. Both of us knew he'd be back to full activity as soon as the worst of the symptoms resolved. "Tell me again what happened."

"The limo was due for servicing. Its brakes were fine yesterday. I took her out for a test drive on the grounds and found myself testing the stability of a tree. When I felt my vision go back to normal, I immediately checked the insides of the limo and found tampering with the automatic steering. The tires were loosened so much, they almost fell off. Someone monkeyed with the brake pads."

"How far would you have driven outside the Estate before you would have had trouble?" I asked.

"If I hadn't been driving around the periphery of the Estate, I'd probably have gone the equivalent of about four blocks. If I'd had passengers, I would have been too distracted to immediately lower speed. Limos are pretty safe for the passengers, but you usually ride up in front with me. You'd probably have been safe enough in the back, Ms. Kayko."

"Which is what Princess Diane thought," Kayko said.

"Keith, don't take this personally, but I've got to ask you a few questions," I said.

"I will take it personally, but what do you want to know?"

"Who currently hates you, Keith? I mean former lovers, boyfriends of current lovers, parents of current loves."

"And give us details. Lots of details," Kayko said.

"I'm not seriously dating anyone. A few women may have the impression I'm interested in them. I resent the implication that anyone would be upset I'm dating their daughter. Any parent would be proud I was interested in their child. I've received no specific threats, if that's what you're getting at."

"Any non-specific threats?" I asked.

"I can't think of any. I'm the world's nicest guy."

"I can believe that," Kayko said. "Adam, I'm rolling my eyes."

"Let's examine your moral menu. Any threats from people you owe money? Anybody repossessing your property." I paused. "Any drug dealers chasing you. Anyone accusing you of destruction of property? Have you offended any state or federal agency? Have you been paying your income tax?"

"I've been very good lately."

"Then I have to conclude that whoever monkeyed with your car was monkeying with me. Just like I think that whoever bothered Kayko's laptop was trying to intimidate me."

"Yes," Keith said, "the world revolves around you. How do we know Kayko isn't some kind of criminal or secret agent? For that matter, maybe a former boyfriend is stalking you?"

"I'm laughing, Adam. I'm definitely a secret agent. I definitely have a secret agenda. My ex-lovers are busy watching football."

That seemed to close off an area of investigation.

"Are you ready to face the boss?" I asked Keith.

He stood up a little shakily. "Let's get this over with.

We navigated down the corridors of the Mansion. Kayko asked if she could get a map of the main house.

We arrived at the spacious office of Lewis, our Estate Manager, who we found sitting behind his oak desk. We quickly filled him in about the accident.

"I don't know what's going on, Adam," Lewis said. "Keith could have been killed, except for his quick thinking."

"Upset, very upset, aggravated, angry, disappointed, personally affronted, insulted." Kayko whispered.

What bothered him the most, I realized, was the obvious violation of his high standards of calm efficiency, the threatened loss of his cherished principle of order and tranquility.

"For the first time ever, I can't trust my own employees. They've all been here for years. Some are like family. The thievery and now the tampering with the limo are obviously being done by someone on staff. No stranger is wandering onto our property at midnight to do dirty deeds. The security cameras around the perimeter would show that."

We had no security cameras near and within the Mansion itself, at my order. I didn't care that technology could monitor every inch. Privacy was important too. Besides, I was a little jealous of the cameras and irritated by them. Cameras captured everything, and I captured only a bit.

Lewis was right about the inside nature of the mischief. But I still couldn't imagine anyone of the staff stealing or wanting to cause harm. "We do get visitors occasionally," I suggested.

"I've considered that, of course. Mr. Karl brings home an occasional associate, a vice-president or CEO of one of the sub-corporations, and they may spend the night if the discussion goes on too long. But I can hardly imagine them rummaging for knick-knacks in the early morning hours like a burglar. I feel just terrible, as if our sanctity has been violated."

I considered the possibility that Uncle had larcenous business associates, but had to agree with Lewis. What would be their motive? To upset the boss's household? For financial gain? Neither made any sense. If they wanted to cause trouble, they could just sabotage one of the plants they managed. And these executives were already fabulously rich and could buy their own antiques. They didn't need ours. Besides, an occasional guest couldn't perform what seemed to be a pattern of thefts and mischief.

Kayko cupped her hand over my ear. "He talks about the Estate as if it were a woman and his honor has been compromised," she whispered.

I might as well give him all the bad news, I thought. "I should tell you. Someone's been in the locked drawer of my desk."

He reacted as if being struck, unable to speak.

Grace entered through the open door and silently put her hand on her son's shoulder. "How are you, sonny boy?" she whispered.

"Fine, Ma, fine." Embarrassed by parental concern when he was in an adult situation.

I interrupted the family tableau. "I hate to do it Lewis, but we'll have to put up some more cameras. Let's say, one at the garage, one at the stable, and several around the outside of the Mansion." The "Mansion" was, by common usage of the word, the main building, the multi-story, huge, many-bedroomed domain of the Karls.

"He's sad," Kayko whispered.

Lewis didn't want to acknowledge a world filled with dangers. A world where common decency, respect for property, and everything else he held dear, faded into nothingness.

Resigned to the inevitable, Lewis asked "What about the inside of the house?"

"Let's just do the main entryway inside. Then if anything goes missing in the house, we'll know for sure that someone is somehow finding a way into the house."

Feeling that all could be done presently, I asked about another matter of interest. "When is Jessica coming home?"

"Smiling and relived you've changed the subject," Kayko whispered.

"My daughter will be home on the seventh, Saturday. You're parents are due the next day, so that will give us a little time to get her settled before the onslaught." Lewis was only speaking the truth. My mother tended to require all attention.

"How is Jessica?"

The proud father spoke. "From the tone of her letters, she's conquered Paris and the entire rest of the continent. Chicago and New York should be easy."

"Jessica is a dress designer," I explained to Kayko.

"I taught her everything I know about dress design," Keith said. None of us doubted this, since he knew nothing about dress design.

"She'll be here for the party," Lewis said. "Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Karl requested that we invite one of his junior executives to the party. He's about the same age as your set."

Lewis seemed very pleased with this addition.

A possible suitor for Jessica's affections?

* * * * *

### CHAPTER EIGHT

The hands of a physician, my hands, slid over the features of the deceased mother and widow, Esmeralda Hutchings. And human being, as in "so God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him, male and female created he them."

An image hidden from me. These features once were the living expression of life. This mouth smiled, but one such as I would never know that smile or any. For reasons known only to God, to negatively paraphrase Numbers 6:24-26, He did not let His face shine upon me and be gracious to me.

Enough self-analysis, I thought, get back to business.

The lifeless body of Mrs. Hutchings, pulled from a refrigerated pod and cold to the touch even through my plastic gloves, revealed the three wounds that drew life out of her body. The head wound reported in the newspaper was incorrect. Since the bullet was through her neck. Another in the stomach and another in the left leg.

The police reports contained a crime scene computer reconstruction based on the blood splatter patterns, giving an approximate height of the murderer based on his probable position.

I thought "he" and "him" when I referred in my mind to the murderer, but remembered God created male and female. A very fierce woman could have done this. The fiercest woman I knew was my grandmother, Baba Yaga. Everyone, including myself, trembled in her presence, and I'd never known why.

I decided I knew Mrs. Hutchings well enough to call her by her first name. From what I could gather of Esmeralda's features, the mechanics of her joints, the x-rays made available to me by the assistant coroner, I judged Esmeralda's age at 50 years old.

However, the label notation, wired onto the big toe of her right foot, stated that Esmeralda was 34.

"There's been some mistake," I said, calling over the deputy coroner. His name was Dr. Ezra Haney. Before I sent her away so she wouldn't need to withstand the morgue's smell, Kayko described him as "benign, interested, 50ish, very married."

I felt an odd kinship with Dr. Haney. We both had to do our best with what was available to us. He derived his information from the dead, who could no longer communicate their emotions. I derived my information from the living whose emotions were dead to me.

We both had to rely on external clues. Our conclusions probably had the same degree of accuracy: Only slightly better than the results of pure guesswork.

"This woman must be older than the stated age."

"No, her chronological age is as posted," Dr. Haney said. "That's information directly from her birth certificate. She was born in Cook County and in Cook County she died."

"Are you quoting from something?" I asked.

"A collection of high school yearbook greetings. 'She lived by the sewers, by the sewers she died. They said it was murder, but I call it sewerside.'"

"Awful."

"Yes."

"What do you know about her death?"

"She died from blood loss after being shot three times, obviously. The thigh and stomach injuries separately or together wouldn't have killed her, but she bled out from the neck." He pointed to her thigh injury which missed the bone, then to her stomach injury which was off-center, and to her neck injury, again off center. "The assailant probably swept up her body shooting, not aiming or unable to be accurate in his aim, or realizing he was not a good shot. The last bullet clipped the carotid artery. That was the cause of death. She probably lost consciousness pretty fast as blood stopped reaching the brain."

"Doesn't sound like a professional job?"

"I don't know. We don't know the circumstance. Professional enough to leave her dead." He thought awhile. "Professional enough to take the shell casings with him."

"Do we know what kind of gun was used?"

"From the bullet, a .22 semi-auto pistol. "

"The kind that would get handed into the police, for cash?" I asked. The Chicago police periodically offered to give cash for old handguns to get them off the street.

"Yeah, since the city seems to have at least two guns for every resident."

"So, an old gun. Untraceable?"

"A lot of them were sold before regulation tightened. Now you can trace any legitimate gun like car ownership. We'd need the gun to be able to trace it, and the assailant forgot to leave the gun behind."

"I really appreciate your help." I shook rubber-gloved hands with Dr. Haney.

"Any time. Are you thinking of getting out of neurology and into pathology?"

"No, just doing some consulting for Detective Dunne."

"A friend of the family?"

"Not exactly."

Glad to get out of the stench of the morgue, I took deep breathes in the waiting room. Kayko sat reading a magazine from the pile on the end table near a wall. She looked up as I entered the room and dropped the magazine on her lap. "Well?"

"Still dead, I'm afraid."

"An unoptimistic diagnosis."

Kayko stood and joined me. Together we slowly wended our way through the governmental complex, on the way to the parking lot.

"She was shot three times, like the report said, but the last was not to her head, as the newspaper article said, unless you count the neck as part of the head."

"A man's head includes his face down to his chin, but a woman's face includes her whole upper torso down to her breasts."

"I think you're saying something wise, but you'll have to explain a little more."

"OK, a woman sees a man's face, but a man sees a woman's whole upper torso with the first glance."

Interesting, but probably only to me.

She went on. "I'm a little confused about why someone would start low in shooting someone and then aim higher. I guess the first bullet to the thigh wouldn't have toppled her immediately."

"Maybe," I said, "he realized the first shot wasn't sufficient to kill her, so kept shooting until he was sure he hit something vital."

"All in all, doesn't sound very professional."

"I said the same thing. But the deputy coroner thought that anything that leaves the victim dead is damn professional enough. This shooting was done in pretty close quarters. We aren't talking about a marksman shooting off a roof."

We sat in the car talking.

"Did you notice anything interesting in looking at the body?"

"She seemed older than her age. More worn out, arthritic."

"A hard life? She was a maintenance worker."

"Maybe that's it." Not convinced.

I wondered again about Kayko. When we talked with Keith, she said she was a secret agent with a secret agenda, and mentioned ex-lovers. She was being sarcastic, of course, said she was laughing.

I didn't really know Kayko, although I ruled out the secret agent business. Keith had suggested she was being stalked by former boyfriends, but she'd said something about ex-lovers being too preoccupied to stalk her. What did that mean? That she did have ex-lovers, but they were now indifferent to her?

I liked Kayko, liked hearing her interpretations of those around me. I liked her companionship. Her comments made me think. But I still knew almost nothing about her. She hadn't told me the personal details of her life, and, as he employer, I couldn't ask all the questions a potential friend would ask.

I wanted to trust her. Trust only developed for me after long periods of association. Kayko and I had been acquainted for only a few months. I still had no idea whether she liked me or not. Was Kayko becoming my friend?

"Are you still going to that musical Saturday night?"

"That's my plan. Would you like to come? I'd love to introduce you to my friends."

Her openness about her friends was reassuring. But my shyness, I like to think of it as my natural reserve, reasserted itself. Why did she say she'd love to introduce me to her friends? Had she explained my oddness to her friends, as in, you won't believe what my employer is like? Like I was an animal in a zoo. A strange, exotic, one of a kind species.

Avoiding introductions was an old story for me. I told myself I shouldn't assume the worst. Optimistically speaking, she might think her friends would enjoy meeting me.

My internal debate was cut short. I remembered that I'd be busy Saturday night. When we talked to him, Lewis said his daughter was coming home Saturday. "I'd like to go, but Jessica is coming home that day. I'd be happy to join you and your friends some other time."

"Right. I'd forgotten. Really, there will be other nights at the theater. You can come with me anytime." Was she being friendly, or just being nice to me? Or was just being solicitous to a handicapped person? I didn't know. No wonder a social life was so difficult and rare in my life.

But Jessica was coming home. Next to Keith, my oldest friend. A dear person to me.

My cell phone burbled. Uncle.

"Adam, I've been bad about not welcoming you home, but I want to make it up to you."

"I'm fine. Kayko has been keeping me good company." I knew she was listening. I didn't want to embarrass her when speaking to the man who hired her.

"Plan on a nice dinner at home tonight. I'm finally past the latest crisis at work, and would love to talk to you. Bring Kayko too.

I held the cell to the side and asked Kayko if she was available for dinner.

"Delighted."

I told Uncle she accepted the invitation.

"One of my young associates will be coming to dinner. Did Lewis mention that I'd like you to include this young man at your party? I'd like you both to meet him."

Not exactly asking for my permission in either case, to invite the associate to dinner or to include him at the party.

"That's fine," I said. Really no reason to object.

Was Uncle doing some matchmaking for Kayko? I didn't know how I felt about that. Or was he just trying to make a dinner with an older person more pleasant for the young people?

I hung up.

"He's bringing that business associate to dinner, the one he wants invited to the party." I paused to see if she would respond to that news, but she said nothing. I wondered if she really wanted to come to the dinner or felt she was required to attend as a good employee. "You shouldn't feel obligated if you have other plans. This isn't a 24 hour-a-day job."

"No, I'd like to come along. I'd like to meet your Uncle face to face. I only talked him over the phone when I was hired."

I was curious. "What was your impression of him?"

"I don't want to say."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER NINE

I saw a female standing next to Keith. Run away, girl, before Keith's blather charms you.

Keith introduced me to Rebecca Frangelmore. "She's covering your party for the local social website." We stood just outside the garage where I'd gone to reexamine Keith's whiplash.

What I wanted to reply was "What a bad idea and why are you hanging out with Keith? I thought of Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf. Keith probably had his mouth open, showing his canines, salivating at the poor girl's innocence.

What I actually said was "Glad to meet you. Do you really think the entire world would be interested in my little party?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Karl. Your party is the social event of the Christmas season. Everyone on the North Shore who is anyone is coming!"

Really! How many people had Marsha invited? And why would the public, or, in this case, the internet reading public, be interested in a party for me? Was I suddenly a member in the famous-for-being-famous club? I trembled internally. The last thing I wanted was a lot of public attention. I'd thought of the party as being an intimate get-together with my friends since kindergarten.

"I was just telling Rebecca about the plans for the party." Keith said. "You know, the imported goodies, the elaborate preparations, the catering, the decorations. Marsha is going all out, at Baba's insistence of course."

"Who's Baba," Rebecca asked. I imagined her writing down details about my grandmother and all the red flags went up. I just ignored her question. Baba liked to remain a secret.

"Keith's making a little joke," I said. Turning my wrath on Keith. "How did this become a circus?"

Keith drew me aside. "Don't get excited. You're not going to be the center of attention at the party. This is all about Jessica. I hadn't realized she'd become such an international sensation."

A surprise to me as well. I knew her latest fashion show was successful, but the world of fashion is a mystery to me. I couldn't decide if I was pleased about losing the guest of honor status, or feeling left out. "Let's talk about this later. I'm having dinner with Uncle. Let me look at your damn neck."

I thought about strangling him as I manipulated his neck back and forth. No spasm. As I suspected, his neck had made a remarkable recovery. "And before you ask," I said, "I will not be prescribing more Hydrocodone." At that comment, he probably drew himself up and acted as if, once again, he'd been the victim of a false accusation.

I said a quick goodbye to Rebecca, not finding it necessary to show the same courtesy to Keith. With only a few minutes before the appointed time, I ran to my room, washed up, and dressed for a formal Karl dinner. My clothes were laid out with care on the bed. No need to worry, Lewis always provided the appropriate attire.

I heard a knock on the door. "It's me, Kayko."

"Give me 26 seconds, and I'll be out the door." A pleasing thought that Kayko wanted to be with me as we entered the dining room. Did she like my company? Or was she just shy? Or did she think she was on duty and was required to accompany me?

When I opened the door, Kayko said, "You look very nice."

Her compliment made me feel shy and awkward. A woman is appreciative when she gets compliments. I needed to respond in kind to complete the ritual, but I couldn't evaluate how she looked. "I'm sure you look beautiful."

"Thank you. I'm smiling."

We entered the formal dining room. The dinette usually served for daily use, but the dining room meant an occasion. Uncle and his guest were already seated, but both rose when Kayko entered.

"You look lovely, Kayko," Uncle said. "Kayko and Adam, this is my associate, Matthew Leininger."

I paused to let Kayko extend her hand.

"Nice to meet you," Matthew said.

I extended my hand and received a hearty handshake in return. "Uncle has only told us good things about you."

"Mr. Karl is very kind. He's been kind enough to take an interest in my career and I'm very appreciative."

The obligatory welcomes and obeisance from Matthew concluded, we all sat. Uncle was at the head of the long, nearly empty table, befitting his status as host. Matthew sat to his right, Kayko to his left. I sat next to her. Kayko faced Matthew, which made me somehow uncomfortable.

Kayko leaned towards me and cupped her hand over my ear. "Tall, dark, and handsome."

Was I short, anemic, and ugly compared to Matthew? I made a mental note to ask someone who would be honest whether or not I was handsome. I couldn't offhand think of anyone who'd be honest. I certainly couldn't ask Keith. Perhaps Dr. Bradley.

"Adam has just completed his residency and has begun his practice as a neurologist," Uncle explained to Matthew.

"That's very impressive," Matthew said. I felt very starkly the difference between a businessman and someone in the tradition professions of law and medicine. A physician is honored for his service, but a successful businessman is the equivalent of royalty. I wondered why.

Uncle enjoyed playing the host. "Kayko is the daughter of one of my oldest and dearest associates."

News to me. She never hinted at any such connection.

I felt Kayko stirring. Was she uncomfortable because of the sudden jump in her status from employee to the status of an honored guest? She was now Matthew's equal. I was sure Matthew now looked at Kayko with new interest.

Uncle went on. "Kayko is helping Adam during the start of his career. She is an actress by profession, with a minor in . . . what was it?"

"Acting therapy. I teach children to role-play away some of their fears. For instance, a child who stutters may gain greater control over his speech if he pretends to be someone else he knows to be calm. Several prominent actors were stutterers as children."

"That's very interesting," Matthew said.

I found this more than just interesting. The Kayko I thought I knew began to disappear. I should have grilled her about her credentials when we first met. I knew she was an actress, which meant she was proficient in gesture and speech, and that information was sufficient for me. I'd avoided the thought she was just another type of therapist. The most recent in the long line of therapists hired to help me. Did she think of me only as another child with a problem?

Kayko unobtrusively squeezed my arm under the table. I attempted to rearrange my features into a smile.

Grace served the soup course, giving me salad instead. She knew I preferred salad. She probably gave me an encouraging smile.

I asked Uncle about the breakthrough he'd mentioned.

"Time enough to tell you about that thoroughly. I will hint that it's an innovation in our computer component business. Why don't you come down to the office this week? I'll give you a demonstration." Was he being evasive because of Kayko's presence, not wanting to tell Corporate secrets to an outsider, or did he simply want to keep the evening social and avoid business?

"What do you do for the Corporation, Mr. Leininger?" Kayko asked.

"Matthew, please. I'm a vice-president in the computer component division. I was executive assistant to Mr. Karl before that. He's been kind enough to mentor me." He went on to explain how many he supervised. Responding with more questions, Kayko encouraged him to continue talking about his job. I guessed that Matthew talked in a confident and charming manner. He certainly was the golden boy of the Corporation.

I felt left out of the conversation, but that was my fault. My interests never focused on the Corporation, even though I would someday inherit all of it. I thought of myself as a scientist, not a businessman. If Baba was satisfied with Uncle's management of the Corporation, I was too.

I wondered what Keith was saying to Ms. Frangelmore, back at the garage. He was probably at the "let's go get a drink," stage by now.

"Do you play golf?" Matthew asked.

Daydreaming, I didn't respond to his question. Kayko elbowed me in the ribs to get my attention. Because of my limitations, I had no interest in golf or any other sport. I could golf, but like driving, I didn't enjoy the extra effort needed to judge space and distance. But I didn't want to sound unmanly, so I lied. "I've play very seldom, but I should, now that my job is mostly sedentary."

"Perhaps you'll join your Uncle and me on the links some time." Uncle should have changed the subject. He knew playing golf would be difficult for me.

"Sure thing," I said.

"And how about you, Kayko? Would you like to golf with us."

"I'd love to."

Again, she used the word love in a conversation. I wondered what love really meant to her.

Grace entered the room, carrying the main course dishes. Each dish had a circular metal cover to keep the food warm. She placed each dish before each diner and lifted the top. Mumbled compliments and expressions of pleasure.

Lewis entered and handed me a note, which I unfolded. He even had a special way of folding notes, in neat quarters.

"Patient," I said. "A child crushed." I rose from the table and began to run out of the room.

"I'll come with," Kayko said, running after me. "I'll drive," she called out.

Keith and Ms. Frangelmore must have gone for coffee, as I'd imagined, because they were no longer near the garage. Kayko and I climbed into our respective positions in the car.

Out of driveway, onto the street, I gave Kayko the details. "The child, 3 years old, was climbing up a bookshelf, when the bookshelf fell. I don't know how much weight was on him, but Dr. Bradley thought his pelvis was crushed."

I imagined Kayko scowling in horror.

"He's being transferred from his closest hospital to Brunswik, which is best equipped for this kind of injury and the necessary surgery. We should reach there about the same time he does."

She asked the child's name. "Hanson."

Moving rapidly through the darkness of the short winter days, I reviewed the kind of surgery I'd seen in cases of pelvic fracture.

But my thoughts came back to the abruptly ended dinner with Uncle. I asked Kayko what she thought of Matthew.

"Hmmm!" she said.

I needed to get someone to interpret Kayko for me.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TEN

I took off the surgical mask and removed the paper cap over my hair. Three hours of assisting the orthopedist with the surgery left me tired but exhilarated.

The child's mother ran to me in the waiting room. "My husband is in the cafeteria getting us more coffee," she explained, fearful that I'd think he was a negligent father. She must have been frantic. She grabbed my hands. "Is he going to be alright?" The eternal question of the guilt-filled parent. "We took our eyes off of him for a fraction of a second. He's hyperactive, as you know."

"He's stabilized now. The orthopedic surgeon constructed a temporary external fixation. That's, an external frame to hold the bones in proper alignment using steel pins inserted into the bone and joined together by clamps and rods. Not to minimize the extent of his injuries, since he also suffered a hip dislocation, but I found no significant nerve damage or injury to his internal organs, which can accompany pelvic fracture. His hip is now back in place."

"Will he be okay?"

"He's young, and his bones will heal, given time. You're biggest problem will be containing his energy. I want you to call our office nurse on Monday and ask for information on this subject. Also, keep in touch. I'll need to check him in two weeks for nerve damage, then every few weeks as he recovers. The orthopedist will need to follow up for quite a while, and there will be rehab. Oh, and call me if the hospital wants to discharge him too quickly."

The mother grabbed me, hugged me hard, placed her head on my chest and wept.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." She breathed in gasps.

As soon as she caught her breath, she pulled away and ran for intensive care to see Hanson.

Kayko was asleep, sitting upright on the plushest of the waiting room chairs and using another chair for her feet. I could hear her breathing rhythmically and evenly.

"Kayko?" No response, just more rhythmic breathing. "We're done here. It's time to go home." Nothing. No response.

She was deeply asleep. I spoke her name several times, each time a little louder. I didn't want to wake the entire hospital. I would need to shake her awake.

I didn't recall ever intentionally touching Kayko. Walking with her, my hand would touch hers, our shoulders and even our hips would collide. Being so close while she whispered, I'd sometimes brush unintentionally against the softness of her breasts. I'd be embarrassed and say "Sorry," but she didn't even respond with "That's alright." It was nothing. A casual contact, a social touching, that only the abnormally sensitive would even notice.

Anyway, she touched me more than I touched her. She curled her fingers when she whispered in my ear, making no effort to avoid touching my face.

My hand still hesitated as I reached for her shoulder. I was being ridiculous.

When I shook her shoulder, I got a sense of how small she was, how delicately made. A little doll, a child asleep having pleasant dreams.

No response from Kayko.

I could leave her there and come back in the morning. But I felt like I was the negligent father, leaving my child with strangers because I wanted to go home.

She seemed so small, I wondered if I could lift her and carry her to the car. A plan, at least.

I leaned her forward in the chair, gently put one arm around her and that hand under her armpit, and raised her knees with my other hand. Surprisingly light. She automatically put her arm around my neck, cradled her head into my chest, snuggled, and slept on. My right upper thorax was getting a lot of action.

I carried her out of the waiting room and towards the elevators. I couldn't see my watch, which was under her arm, lifting her chest. No one was stirring, not even a mouse. It probably was about 3 a.m.

I had visitation rights at this hospital, arranged by Dr. Bradley in my absence, and I knew some of the doctors, either as high school classmates or from med school. If I recognized one of them, I'd say, "Oh, her? You've got to get a good grip on them or they run away." Or, "she tripped and fell into my arms one day and now I can't get rid of her."

No one was in the parking lot except a guard who looked half asleep. He probably thought he was dreaming our presence.

I stood her against the car, with one hand on the middle of her chest to prop her up from falling forward. I opened the passenger car door with my other hand. We were between cars and the door could not open to its full extent. I again lifted her and placed her, awkwardly but careful not to bump her head, onto the passenger side seat. I buckled her up with the minimum contact possible. She slept on.

I don't like to drive, but at least I knew that if I ended in a ditch, I wouldn't be alone. I slid behind the wheel, found myself cramped because Kayko had moved up the seat to accommodate her much shorter legs. I struggled with the undercarriage of the driver's seat until I found the bar that released the seat, brought the bar forward and pushed with my feet until the seat slid backward to the full extent.

I circled the parking lot until we reached the exit, drove through the raised gate, and swung out onto the street. Brunswik street lights, quaint, one step up from gaslights. The streets were empty. Quiet on the face of the deep.

I almost couldn't believe how much occurred in one day. Had I seen patients in the morning, examined Esmeralda in the afternoon, had dinner with Uncle, and treated a little boy with a crushed pelvis? Kayko's unconscious, exhausted state confirmed we had done all these things.

I didn't feel tired. My mind began to race. Jessica coming home, my mother and step-father to follow, this party shaping up into a horror story. I thought about Esmeralda's autistic son, encased in himself in some state facility.

Who was this Matthew? He'd certainly caught the attention of Uncle. I felt a pang of jealousy. I could never be the athletic, confident, smooth talking young businessman Uncle obviously preferred. Was Uncle proud of me? Should this matter to a grown man, or would the approval of a parent-like figure always be important?

I drove onto the driveway. Keith could put the car in the garage when he awoke. I wouldn't need the car until Monday. The day was dawning when Jessica would arrive home. I maneuvered open the passenger side door, ducked my head in to unhook Kayko from the seat belt harness, then lifted her out. Again, her arm came up automatically around my head, and her head snuggled. My chest, the most popular resting place in the far North suburbs.

I let Kayko's feet dip to the ground as I took the house keys out of my pocket with, my free hand, unlocked the door. I pushed the door open and dipped down to regain Kayko's knees. Her bedroom was on the second floor and I wondered if I could get her up the stairs without us both falling backwards. How to explain that to Lewis and Marsha?

An irritating smell hit me. Natural gas, not leaving much air to breath. That horrible, suffocating stuff the gas company puts into the naturally odorless gas.

I put down Kayko on the closest couch. She turned on her side and continued her dream. She didn't react to the gas smell. I probably should have gone back out and deposited her in the garden where the air was breathable but I couldn't imagine leaving her in the snow. Or I could take her back to the car, but the urge to stop the awful smell came first.

The gas would either be from the furnace or the kitchen. I guessed kitchen and received almost overwhelming confirmation as I got closer. I swung open the kitchen door. I tried to remember at the same time whether mere movement could set off an explosion if enough gas were present. I thought about the articles I'd read about gas leaks that blew up whole neighborhoods.

Cook insisted on both a gas and an electric stove, claiming she could tell the difference in the taste of the food, and preferring one for breads and one for meats. Mother was indulgent, agreeing to anything so she wouldn't have to do the cooking herself. The two large silver stoves necessitated the movement of a wall and the expansion of the kitchen, wiping out a storage area.

I doubted the gas was from the oven, thinking the house would already have exploded. I checked all the knobs on the gas stove. They were all set at the off position. Yet I was sure, from the amount of gas, that the source must be the stovetop. I put a dishtowel to my mouth and got closer.

I thought the air shimmered over one of the burners. This was the source of the leak, but how, if all the knobs were at the off position?

I jiggled all the knobs. Five of the six offered resistance. The sixth turned easily and came off in my hand. Someone with a knowledge of how the burners worked purposely stripped the inside of the knob. This wasn't an accident.

My big hands couldn't get a grip on the grooved metal pipe stub to turn off the burner. I began to feel woozy and out of focus from the gas.

I ran to the nearby utensil drawer and looked for something like a wrench that would allow me to turn the stub. I didn't know the name of the implement I found, but it looked like an "X" from its side. I'd seen it used to grab and draw out corn from boiling water. A pincher, a tong?

I ran back to the stove, and gripped the stub with the corn grabber pincher. It gave me just enough grip to turn the stub to an off position. I would have breathed a sigh of relief, except I couldn't breathe.

I needed fresh air. When I threw open the sash of the closest widow I was greeted by another pane of glass, the outer storm window. I couldn't get my fingers into the little slots to pull open the stays on the storm windows, and I wasn't willing to sacrifice my fingers in the attempt.

Again, I looked for the closest implement, anything so I wouldn't have to smash through the storm window with my hands. I picked up a cookie jar and threw it through the storm window, while shielding my eyes.

I felt the rush of air into the room and got closer to the window to take a few fresh breaths.

The crisis was over. All that remained was an explanation.

I wondered if Matthew stayed the night. My bit of jealousy focused on the only stranger. But if Matthew sabotaged the burner, wouldn't he have been in as much danger as anyone in the residence? That made no sense. Maybe he monkeyed with the stove, then went home. I'd find out soon enough.

I went back to the couch where Kayko slept. Her breathing remained regular.

I picked Kayko up as before. I carried her up the stairs, only once almost falling backwards but stopping myself before I fell. I carried her down the corridor. I pushed her door open awkwardly and I placed her gently on her bed where she curled up into a comfortable ball.

She'd made some feminine changes in the room, some frills that I couldn't identify, some softening up of a generic bedroom. The room was becoming a reflection of her. One I could see.

I wondered if she would remember anything after she fell asleep in the waiting room. Would she be amazed to find herself in bed?

Was this still the same day?

* * * * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Only four months after her smash Paris debut showing, Jessica Jeret is returning to her native country to establish a new house of fashion with branches in New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles.

The rising star, whose remarkably original designs caught the world by surprise, left from Paris Wednesday for America, amid widespread belief that she is also fleeing romantic entanglements.

Rumors of the identity of her lover have centered around Artur Belmondo, the star who swept all the international awards last year with his latest hit movie, "Smitten." Belmondo is famously married to Arlette Farbert, the heiress. Their marriage, once strong, appears to be falling apart, because of Belmondo's obsession with Jessica.

Speculation reached a crescendo when the woman known simply as "Jessica" to her many admirers was offered a role in Belmondo's latest film. Jessica has not yet announced whether she will accept that offer. She has also refused to admit a liaison with Belmondo.

" _I don't feel I need to supply the who, what, when and where of my intimate life." Jessica told reporters at Paris-Charles De Gaulle Airport Wednesday._

Jessica also declined to comment on rumors of drugs and debauchery among her new set of friends, some talented and some famous for only being famous.

The fast expansion of her business interests has also fueled interest in who is her financial backer. If not Belmondo, then speculation has centered on an as yet unrevealed relationship with an older businessman, one who values his privacy.

"Do you see what trash is being written about her? Hasn't she any self-respect?" Lewis asked, not waiting for an answer. "Jessica was always a difficult child but her mother and I did our best to instill some values."

"I know you did." I put the printout of the article back onto his desk.

"She always had this rebellious streak. All the boarding schools in the world couldn't give her self-control."

"She turned out great. She's a very talented young woman. For all we know, this article was written by her own publicist just to stir up some interest in her moving back home."

Lewis considered this and his face probably brightened. "I hadn't thought of that. You're right. All this could be some attention-getting that's based on nothing. I hope you're right."

"I'm sure I am. What time is her plane arriving from New York?"

"About 3 this afternoon."

My most recent memory of O'Hare airport was my near assassination. "I think we should send Keith and the limo."

"Thanks. I was going to suggest that, but I'm glad you offered. Jumping into a waiting limo is a great idea. She could escape from the reporters, and Keith could grab her bags and spirit her out of the airport as fast as possible. I'll check to see if she's made her own arrangements."

That being settled, I asked if Matthew stayed the night. Lewis probably thought I wanted to know so I could invite him to late breakfast/early lunch. But I really wanted to know if he could have sabotaged our kitchen stove. Perhaps he was the one stealing antiques from the Mansion. I wanted to believe our staff was honest and that a stranger was guilty. But I still couldn't imagine what would motivate Matthew to acts of theft and dangerous pranks.

"No, Mr. Leininger was called away shortly after you left. Something about a crisis in one of the subdivisions of the Corporation. He was able to eat most of his dinner before he left."

That put my theories back to square one.

I didn't want to alarm Lewis with the thought that the Mansion had almost blown up. "By the way, I smelled gas when I arrived home. One of the knobs on the stove came off in my hand. I had a devil of a time getting the gas off."

"So you're the one who broke open the window in the kitchen?"

"That's me."

"I'll have someone fix the storm window as soon as possible. Cook is already complaining of the draft. Keith may be able to fix the knob on the stove, or go buy us another."

"What's the progress on getting up more security cameras?

"Someone is coming out Wednesday to give us an estimate. The company salesperson said that pre-Christmas is one of their busy seasons. People are afraid they will be robbed while they are out partying."

"Talking about parties, does Marsha have a firm grip on our Christmas/birthday/all purpose party?"

"Yes, of course. Oh, I wanted to ask you something. Keith asked if he could bring a guest, a Miss Finglehaufer."

That wasn't her name, but I knew who he meant. I was sure that Keith already had a firm grip on the heart of the young reporteress. Not all bad news. We couldn't insulate the party from all news coverage, but maybe, I thought, she would be more sympathetic if she was romantically entangled with someone from the Mansion.

"OK with me who he invites. But remember, she's a reporter and should be handled with some discretion."

"I'll tell Marsha and remind Keith."

"Do we know when my mother and stepfather will be arriving?"

"Later than we thought. Some party in Amsterdam. Something your mother couldn't miss, she told Marsha. They'll probably arrive more like the end of the week."

I picked up the news article about Jessica again. Something bothered me. "Do you know who this old businessman is who's supposedly backing her company?"

"I know nothing about her business arrangements. That part about the old businessman bothered me too. Greatly. Has she ever mentioned anything to you about her business arrangements?"

"No."

Lewis didn't know I'd helped pay for the launch of her fashion line. But my yearly allotment from the trust funds was nearly exhausted. She'd be on her own about starting branches of her business around the U.S.

Kayko joined me for lunch. We sat in the dinette surrounded by windows. The day was bright and clear, perfect for flying. Just a few hours more and Jessica would walk through the door.

"What's she like? Jessica. I've read she's a successful designer."

"Hard for me to say what Jessica is like."

Kayko knew I was being evasive. She paused for a few seconds, saying nothing and hoping, I suppose, that her silence would prod a better description out of me. "Is there something I should know about her? Some deep, dark secret? Something I should avoid talking about?"

Jessica was important to me. Describing a family member or someone like a family member must be difficult for anyone, not just the perceptually impaired. I could describe her but I couldn't explain her.

"I've known her all my life, but only on vacations or holidays, like I said. Marsha and Lewis tried every possible boarding school to find one that could bottle up her energy. She'd arrive home and be so relieved to be free from the discipline she'd be like an exploding volcano."

"Was she . . . violent?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Irrepressible. You'll just have to meet her and form your own conclusions."

I imagined Kayko thinking to herself, "I'll bet!"

Kayko's insistence on specifics reminded me that I was irritated with her.

On the one hand, I smarted at the thought she was my therapist. My therapist, so my superior, someone who possessed knowledge and skills to be applied in dealing with my imperfections, like a drug counselor treating an addict. I was the addict who needed to be set upon the proper course. I resented the implication that I needed to be readjusted. Why shouldn't I be resentful? Adults usually aren't subjected to behavior modification techniques unless they are deviants or criminals.

On the other hand, lifting and carrying Kayko gave me a different perspective about her. I was aware of her body, her lightness, her softness. She was more real than before. I had a better sense of her.

Kayko changed the subject. My face may have been showing my conflicting thoughts. Maybe I was starting to look upset with her. "How in the world did you get me home last night?"

My turn to wonder how she felt. Was she smiling as she asked me about our trip home from the waiting room at the hospital, or was she angry about the . . . liberties I took? Women don't like to be touched without permission, even if the permission is unspoken. She'd been almost comatose, too asleep to give even silent permission.

"I couldn't get you awake. I didn't know you were such a sound sleeper." Why was I suddenly talking about her sleeping habits, which were none of my business?

"I was very tired. Was the little boy alright?"

On firmer ground here, "Yes, I was able to determine that he hadn't ruptured any organs and that the nerve damage was minimal and would heal quickly." Feeling flustered and starting to babble. "God protects little children is what Marsha always says."

I wasn't off the hook. "So, let's see, you just got me to my feet and I walked like a zombie back to the car."

"No, I carried you in my arms. You are very light. I hope I didn't hurt you."

"Oh, I don't break so easily. I'm tough."

That wasn't the impression I got. She was small and soft. Maybe she meant tough minded?

"You aren't bruised?" Going into my doctor mode to retreat from further embarrassment, pretending my contact with her was merely doctor-patient.

"No, I'm fine. And then what? You carried me to my room and laid me down on the bed?"

She could have used the word "put" as in "you put me down," or she could have said "placed me down," but she'd used the word "laid." As in "getting laid", a Keithian euphemism.

Alarmed and waiting for an accusation of taking advantage.

She must have sensed my discomfort. "I'm teasing you," she said. "I'm grateful you didn't leave me in the waiting room and took good care of me."

Great relief swept over me.

I changed the subject. "You're still going out tonight with your friends?"

"Yes, and I want to go shopping for an outfit. You said I could use one of the cars."

"Right."

"Do you think that you and Jessica might want to come to the play next Saturday night?"

Was she asking if we were a couple or just being friendly? "I'll ask her when she arrives."

In the late afternoon, Lewis knocked at my door. "Jessica is on her way home from the airport."

"Everything go okay?"

"No, someone stole her case with her personal things. It wasn't there when she and her assistant went to pick up her suitcase. The airline said no other bags were missing from the flight."

I knew that Jessica sent most of her clothes home by express during her day and a half in New York City, but that she kept a suitcase worth of clothes, make-up and jewelry with her.

I wondered if the letters I'd written her were in that case.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

"I couldn't wait another second," Jessica said. She stood at my bedroom door. My hand reached out to her. She was naked. Too pleased to scold, I eagerly embraced her and felt her delightful skin next to mine down the tingling length of my body.

I drew her quickly into my room, the better to hide her. The four adjoining bedrooms of the eight bedrooms of the south wing were full. In a row, all with a southern exposure, was Kayko's room, the one furthest away from mine, then Jessica's room, then the bedroom of Jessica's assistant, Lissa, and, next to her, my room. Other members of Jessica's entourage--her bodyguard, her hairdresser, her personal maid-- had rooms in various parts of the Mansion. I didn't know if Kayko was back from her play, and I did not want her to find a nude Jessica out in the hallway.

We kissed many times. Deeply.

"I've missed you so much," I whispered. She shivered in my arms. She pressed so hard against me, I was afraid she'd either knock me over or lose her own balance. "We'd better lie down." She eagerly followed my lead, and we immediately rolled into each other on the bed, leaving no space between us.

In the darkness, touching, I was most a normal man. My fingers traced over her face, her breasts, her whole body. Her hands caressed me with the same awed rediscovery. Insatiable. We confirmed the reality of each other's existence.

Our first coupling was quick. We were too eager to be with each other. The second was more leisurely but no less intense.

"I love you," she said.

I wanted to say this back to her, but couldn't. My doubts always spoiled this moment. Jessica was the irrepressible force and I was the immovable object. I knew I loved her, but was not sure I really knew her, certainly didn't understand her. Even while accepting her passion and meeting it with equal passion, I found her unknowable.

Perhaps love was beyond my limited capacity.

A little testiness from Jessica. "Still can't say it back, you little coward. You're still that frightened, lonely little boy"

"And you're still that willful girl I found in my bed."

I deflected her attempted punch. Her hands wandered until we were in another embrace. The embrace became foreplay.

Coming up for air. "Adam, I want you to marry me."

I analyzed her statement, not my first marriage proposal from her. She could have said, "Adam, I want to marry you." But what she said was that she wanted me to be married to her. Telling. She wanted me to be married to her while she continued with the life she was leading. She didn't want to become part of my life. I was supposed to become part of hers.

"Wouldn't marriage interfere with your plans right now?" An innocent question from an innocent man.

"We'd need to run away secretly, Adam. I don't have time right now to plan or live through an elaborate ceremony. I've got to be in Los Angeles in a few days. First I've got to rent some space here on Michigan Avenue, hire someone to manage the place and find some capable employees. I'm very busy. You could help me."

My turn for testiness. "I'm practicing medicine now, and have patients to follow. I can't drop my life to help with yours. Besides, what about this Belmondo fellow? Wouldn't he feel left out? You wouldn't even be inviting him to our wedding."

"All that stuff is made up crap. Something Artur's agent and mine cooked up for mutual publicity. Arlette is a good friend of mine. I could never cheat with Belmondo."

"Who's this older man providing backing for your new business? The mystery man."

She was silent for a while. Was she thinking of a convenient lie? "Dear, you are that older man. You backed my showing, and your trust fund will have to take up the slack now that we're so close to next year and the next payout. I'll need $2 million to set up the next phase."

I involuntarily bristled at her presumption in using the word "we" in regard to my family's money. "Sorry, I've already committed those funds for some investments and improvements on the Estate."

Glaring at me, probably. Her hands becoming little fists poised to pound on my hairy chest. Temporarily at a loss. "Well, as soon as we're married, other sources of funds will open up to your new wife."

Even I knew when I was being suckered. "I'm very busy."

She pushed me away. "No more goodies for you!" She threw her legs over the side of the bed. Silent, angry, her back towards me, shutting me out. After a few moments, she felt guilty and searched behind until she found my hand.

She lay back down and hugged me. "I can't be mad at you. I love you."

I wasn't ready to forgive and forget, but I stayed silent, enjoying, basking in her attention.

"I've got to go soon," she said. "I can't let Mommy and Daddy catch me in here with you."

An old story, her hiding from her parents. "Don't you think they have a pretty good idea what's going on."

"Maybe."

"Talking about knowing something, I haven't told you that someone went through your letters in the locked drawer of my desk."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, they were out of order. I had them in chronological order."

"You had my letters to you in chronological order! Why would you do that?"

"I'm peculiar. I guess I liked to read them in order." She tickled my ribs. I laughed. "Were any of my letters in the suitcase lost or stolen on your New York flight?"

"All of them. I keep them close."

I shouldn't jump to conclusions. Her suitcase also contained jewelry. Some were presents from me. I shouldn't assume that everything that happens to my friends is somehow aimed at me. Paranoia, as clinically defined.

"I'll hear more about my suitcase tomorrow, or is it today? Now I have to go or my parents will catch me bare-assed."

That must be the origin of the word em-bare-assed, I thought.

"One more thing, before you go. The news articles said you and your friends were deeply into drugs and, what was the word? Debauchery."

"Don't believe everything you read. On the other hand, do you really expect me to act like a nun when you're not around?"

I'm not around! She was the one who ran off to France.

I couldn't remain angry with her for very long. We kissed briefly, and then she stood. I felt, as I did whenever she left me, unbearable loneliness.

As my door closed behind her, I heard a voice, not Jessica's. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'll turn around."

"No need, it's just us girls." I imagined introducing them. Kayko, this is my girlfriend/lover Jessica, currently buck naked and post love-making. Jessica, this is Kayko, she helps me see.

"You must be Ms. Brasen. Mr. Karl mentioned you."

"Yes, I'm helping Dr. Karl during the start of his practice."

"You're a therapist."

"Yes."

"How long will you be helping him?" Jessica asked.

"Until he feels I no longer need to help him."

"That shouldn't be too much longer."

"That's up to Dr. Karl." Exactly how attractive is Ms. Kayko, I wondered, if Jessica was giving her the coldest of shoulders and an invitation to leave as soon as possible?

"I see." Translation: we'll see about that.

"I understand that you have had a recent great success?" Kayko being nice, rising above the lack of friendliness from Jessica.

"Yes, isn't it lovely?" This couldn't be the best time for Jessica to discuss fashion. "That's a nice outfit you're wearing." Nice, meaning cheap.

"I'm just coming back from the theater. I met some old friends."

Here was an opportunity for Jessica to talk about her friends who specialized in drugs and debauchery. But all she said was "How nice for you."

Why didn't they just go their separate ways? "So, as I understand it, you are the daughter of Lewis and Marsha." Not Mr. and Mrs., but the daughter of the hired help. Kayko on the offensive.

"Yes." Dismissively, "It's late and I'm exhausted." From all this lovemaking.

"Good night."

I fell asleep, filled with natural "feel good." When I awoke, I couldn't get back to sleep. My mind went over my conversation with Jessica, the mix between love and lust and greed, and I felt sad. I certainly loved Jessica. I would always love her.

I heard the creaking in the walls, house sounds. The south wing was the oldest and overbuilt before wall stresses were calculated on computers.

I stood up, walked over to my desk, and clicked on the lamp. I saw the mail Lewis placed in the in-box. Two letters, among the circulars and advertisements. I sat and slit open the off-white letter first. The return address announced in raised black type that the letter was from our family's personal, not Corporate, lawyer. George Millwell, a lawyer as stuffy and precise as his name. He'd always been the family's lawyer. Probably, his father and his father's father had been our lawyers before him. I could only guess at the secrets he would never divulge even if tortured.

"Having reached the age specified in the trust agreement executed by your father, age 25, you are granted certain other privileges which had heretofore been withheld from you." Did he mean my father had reached age 25? Did Old George actually talk this way in real life? I don't believe I'd ever heard the word "heretofore" in conversation or even in a formal lecture in college or med school. Somehow, I would squeeze it into a conversation to "see" Kayko's reaction.

George wanted to meet with me to discuss my new privileges. Gosh, would I be allowed to be up after midnight or to drive the family car on a weeknight? George suggested certain dates to meet when he knew he had no court appearances.

The second letter had no return address, either on top left or on the reverse flap. Sometimes a sign someone feared the letter would be automatically tossed as an advertisement if its source were known.

My name was written in the address without either a "Mr." or a "Dr." Doctors get a notorious amount of solicitation by the pharmaceutical industry. I didn't mind. Sometimes the literature supplied spotlighted a new medication that would prove helpful. But such letters were filled with identification, that being the point.

This letter contained a single sheet, folded in thirds:

"Asshole, stop investigating the Hutchings murder or you'll be investigating your own murder." No signature.

Could I consider his or her use of the word "Asshole" instead of my name to be the objective evaluation of my personal visage that I was seeking? No, this person's judgment was obviously clouded by his dislike of me.

The letter was printed in New Times Roman, a typeface I found a little too formal. I liked using a sanserif, like Arial. The writer must have commandeered someone's word processor. He or she didn't "sound" like someone who was comfortable around business letters. If he were an office type, he would have written "Dear Asshole," then hit the "enter" button to start a new line. The letter was a little too short to determine if the writer was using the justification setting to square off his sentences and give his work the look of a true professional.

I thought the phrase about "investigating your own murder," was well done, and added a bit of whimsy to what would otherwise be a stark and unpleasant threat.

I left a message for Detective Dunn that I would be interviewing Esmeralda's sister and could he call ahead for me so she knew I was coming?

* * * * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Very quiet, almost hushed. In control of her emotions, calm within herself," Kayko whispered to me. She described the sister of the slain woman, Esmeralda Hutchings.

Esmeralda's sister was a sister in more ways than one, being Sister Teresa. Kayko whispered that she was in her early middle age and wore a very modified and modern habit, just covering her hair. "Her lack of make-up gives her a very scrubbed look and her skin seemed translucent, with the blood vessels almost visible in her face, giving her a pink glow."

We sat in the rectory at a square table, in a small, unpleasant room for the visiting relatives and friends of a nun's renounced life. The floor was an ugly pinkish linoleum, with portions cleaned so often no pattern survived. The room smelled of dryness and a little mildew.

The sound of my voice, odd and flat was noticed by Sister Teresa, but, I thought, she accepted my affliction as a small part of God's will. His just but unknowable plan for the universe and mankind. To her, I was an honest but imperfect creature, a fellow sufferer. "I understand you want to find the murderer who so cruelly ended the life of my sister, and I appreciate your kind efforts."

"I can only imagine your grief over the loss of your sister," I said.

"Nodding, grateful for your sympathy and interest," Kayko whispered in my ear.

I finally had the opportunity to find out something that bothered me since I read the first article on the death of Esmeralda: why her autistic child was in the custody of state authorities instead of being placed with relatives. The child wasn't described by anyone as being unmanageable, and being autistic didn't make him any less a person worthy of attention and care. State custody was only somewhat better today than being put in the poor house in Victorian England or being thrown to the wolves in a Brothers Grimm fairy tale. Why, if there was a close relative, like a sister, hadn't she taken the child? Even temporarily?

"I mourn for my poor sister and for the fate of her child, my nephew, for whom I pray, but I cannot help him."

"No one else, no other relative, has stepped forward?"

"We have few relatives and most are elderly. The others have their own children to care for."

"The religious charities can't help?"

"Overwhelmed."

My expectations as a very wealthy man were obviously in conflict with the reality of most people.

"Tell me something about your sister."

"No more kind or saintly creature has ever lived on this transient earth. God was aware she suffered greatly in life and I'm certain she has found her reward in heaven."

This kind of biggity-goo talk made me uncomfortable. Belief in God wasn't the issue. I just felt God had better things to do than worry about me or anyone on a day to day basis. He was out there on the firing line making perfect babies and turning the earth so that clocks remained on time. He was too busy to reward the good and punish the bad. If I did any good in the world, my reward would only be self-satisfaction. As for punishment, that's why we have policemen, like Detective Dunne.

"Tell me a little about her life." Her own life, I thought, couldn't have been all that different from her sister's, up to the point where Teresa decided to become a nun.

"We were poor, first generation in America. My family was very strong, very proud of our culture. Esmeralda, my younger sister, was a beautiful child, sweet and loving, social, always among a group of friends. But Esmeralda was not a good student. Her interest in bettering her life through education came only later, after her husband died."

I hoped no one would ever sum up my life in a few sentences. High performing autistic child becomes physician, helps people, finds personal happiness only after moving to a monastery in Tibet, renouncing all his worldly goods and chanting mantras.

Kayko asked how Esmeralda and her husband-to-be met.

"His name was Martin, Martin Hutchings, and he worked at the same company as Esmeralda. He was very important, very smart. They met when she cleaned his office. Esmeralda always had a shine about her, a glow that he must have noticed. I'm sure that's what he found in her. A glowing goodness."

It made no sense that Martin was in a high position at a company, considering her bare bones apartment. "Did he decide to leave the company after he got married?"

"Oh, no, he suffered from some kind of nervous affliction. He was forced to leave the company shortly after he and Esmeralda married. Maybe marriage unnerved him. I've seen other such cases. He took the job of a clerk at another firm. He did filing, and that seemed to suit him. Between their two small salaries, they seemed to do alright. They concentrated on their children and were good, faithful churchgoers."

Her description of poor but devout people made me feel a little ashamed. The Karls were members of whatever Protestant Church was closest to the Estate, contributing just enough each year so no one thought we were heathens.

"What became of Mr. Hutchings, did he die of his illness?" I felt on firmer ground asking for the medical, rather than the religious, details.

"He was murdered." She said Martin was killed on his way home from work. Shot in an apparent robbery attempt as he walked past an alley where his assailant was waiting. He did not have a chance to run away.

"Where was he shot, what part of his body?" I asked.

"He was shot in the stomach, and lost so much blood he was dead when he reached the hospital. He was not given last rites, poor soul, but hopefully, our prayers helped him to attain his just reward."

Kayko and I walked slowly back to the car in the nearly abandoned rectory parking lot, the cold causing our breath's to steam up. Snow from the recent storm lay untouched by any snow plow. Melting and refreezing caused ice to form on the driver's side of the car, and I held Kayko's elbow until she felt secure enough to sit. She thanked me. I was glad that I could touch her socially again without feeling I was a deviant.

"That was a refreshing afternoon of poverty, illness, and murder," she said. She started the engine and put the car into gear.

"If this stuff really bothers you, you don't have to come, you know. Nothing in your unwritten contract says you have to accompany on murder investigations." My question was deliberate. I wanted to rule out the possibility, unlikely at best, that Kayko wrote the threatening letter to avoid further participation in the murder investigation. Just being suspicious and not knowing whether I really knew the real Kayko.

We pulled onto the street, headed for the expressway.

"Are you kidding, this investigation is the most interesting thing going on. I've led a sheltered life compared to this."

Relieved by her answer, I still wanted to be clear that all her time wouldn't be spent in odd pursuits. "I probably won't need your assistance Wednesday. I'll be going to see my lawyer about some family business."

"OK. I wanted to spend some time during dress rehearsals with my theater friends. But, about the Esmeralda case, shouldn't we check in with Detective Dunne?" she asked. "He never mentioned anything about Esmeralda's husband being murdered."

I didn't want to talk to Dunne unless it was absolutely necessary, and I especially didn't want to tell him about the threatening letter. I feared he would order us off the investigation. Or maybe, who knows? For all I knew, Dunne might keep me on the case because he'd enjoy the idea I was in some danger.

"No, I'm sure Dunne knows all about Esmeralda's husband, and just wants us to find out for ourselves. We'll need to look at the police records about his murder." Changing the subject, "How was your reunion with your theater friends?"

"I'm smiling. We had such a good time. Someone brought our college photos. Amazing how styles can change so quickly. We all looked like little kids in the pictures, with odd hairdos and bizarre clothes. I'd never seen some of the guys without beards."

"Did you go out afterwards?"

"Yes, to one of the quaint places in a very upscale shopping plaza on Shermer Road. "

Sounded expensive, and I didn't know if her Saturday night was a date with someone specific from her group paying for her meal, or whether she'd paid for herself. Uncle hadn't told me the amount of her salary. I appreciated her help and felt she was worth whatever she was paid, and more. I also thought about Jessica's comment about Kayko's dress, almost telling Kayko that her dress was cheap. "Do you need more money? The Karls are rolling in it."

"No. Really. I'm shaking my head. I'm being very well paid." Long pause. Was Kayko going to say something about me? That she liked counseling me, being my therapist. That I was an interesting case for study. Maybe she would write an article about her strange experiences with Dr. Karl. "I'm enjoying our relationship."

Like all men, I had no idea what the word "relationship" meant, since the word "relationship" meant anything and everything. As in "I had a nodding relationship with him" to "this child was a product of our relationship." Also, would saying "me too" in reply, meaning that I too was enjoying our relationship, be as difficult or impossible as saying "I love you" to Jessica?

No. "Me too," I said. I added "You've been a big help," so she wouldn't think I was overly friendly.

I toyed with the idea of mentioning the whole naked-in-the-hall episode, but felt too shy and did not want to bring up an em-bare-assing memory. I laughed inwardly at my own poor wit.

Thinking of a naked Jessica, my head suddenly jarred forward towards the dashboard. The airbag expanded, hitting and mashing my nose with some force. I snapped back, wobbling between the force of impact behind and the loss of forward momentum as Kayko automatically applied the brakes. Both our airbags retracted and we were at a standstill.

"Are you. . . are you alright," I asked.

"Yes . . .what the hell was that?" Kayko asked.

"We must have been rear-ended." I tried to look backward, but gave up when I realized my neck muscles were tight. I adjusted the rear view mirror to see behind the car, but whoever rammed us was gone. I'd been too shocked to even hear the car backing away and driving around us.

Now I really felt guilty that I hadn't told Kayko about the threatening letter.

* * * * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Wearing a surgical collar made nodding an impossibility. I hoped this made me seem more formal, an appropriate demeanor for a visit with one's lawyer. I certainly had to sit up straight.

I responded courteously to the ritual greetings of the Karl family attorney, George Millwell. I told him, in response to his questions, that Uncle, Mother, and Step-father were all well. I inquired about his family, although I'd never met any of them. He advised me that they were healthy and prosperous. I would expect no less of the family of such a careful and efficient man. His eldest son recently joined the practice, Millwell said, and I could look forward to meeting him. Implying that one day, I could be represented by him.

"I understand from your uncle that you have launched upon a career as a physician. He is very proud of you. I also am gratified that someone I've known or known of since birth has been so successful."

I didn't quite understand why Millwell took some credit for my success, unless he felt his mere existence in the Karl universe had an overall positive effect. I didn't know and would never know if Millwell liked me as a person. Wasn't I just the potentially troublesome child of his wealthiest clients?

I didn't need Kayko to be told that Millwell looked exactly the part of a successful lawyer. By my calculation, he was in his late 60's. He'd been our family lawyer since he joined his father's firm after attending Harvard Law School. I wondered if he'd ever thought of being a rebel, defending the poor and downtrodden, instead of the rich and uptrodden, those that tread upward.

His office was Lawyer's Office Classic, with lots of dark wood, degrees and honors displayed, every wall covered with bookshelves filled with law books. To one side of his large immaculate desk was dusty, accordion-type expandable briefcase, in which he surely carried his briefs to court. The case looked ancient and probably belonged to his grandfather, who had also been a lawyer for the Karls.

His only concession to modernity was a computer monitor, pushed far away from him to the left corner of the desk.

"Yes, I'm a neurologist now, in practice with Dr. Bradley. You may remember my parents mentioning him?"

"Yes, he was involved in your early treatment." He spoke to me in the lawyer's equivalent of _a cappella_ , without any memory aid. He was not referring to his computer monitor and he had no notes in front of him on his desk. The man had perfect memory. I remember Uncle telling me that. Millwell didn't need to write down anything because he remembered everything. "Dr. Bradley must be getting up in years by now."

"Yes, I didn't know you'd met him personally."

"I haven't. I do extensive research on everyone who serves the Karl family."

Did he have files on everyone who worked at the Estate? Or were subsections of his mind dedicated to all he knew about each Karl employee?

My neck ached.

As a physician, I'd healed myself. A very small joke, a variation on the admonition "physician, heal thyself." Similar to the joke that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. If he asked me about my surgical collar, I could make this small witticism to lighten the mood. But no mention of my neck so far. I brought the subject up.

"I've recently had a small accident," pointing to my neck.

"Yes, a rear-ender. Is Ms. Brasen alright?"

I was again startled by Millwell's apparent knowledge of everything I did. I didn't know if my amazement showed on my face.

I told him Kayko was fine and didn't even need a collar.

"I'm glad." I wondered if Millwell was capable of being "glad" or any other of the common emotions.

The formalities being concluded, the due respect and interest owed to the son of clients who had him on permanent retainer, Millwell almost visibly moved onto the topic at hand.

"Adam, I have several things to tell you." If Millwell was true to lawyerly form, he would tell me he had things to tell me, then tell me, then tell me what he'd told me. I should listen the first time he told me something, but if I did not understand, I might understand upon subsequent repetitions.

He went on in what I was sure would be a remarkably tedious monologue. "In your late father's trust, which has only been partially executed as of this time, the passing of a specified age milestone requires an adjustment of payouts, in this case, when you have attained age 25. In the trust agreement, which, of course, was drafted by me, your father further specified that certain information would be conveyed as of the time you were informed of the adjustment to specify the rationale for the change in payout. In addition, the trust orders the communication of certain family details heretofore withheld from you."

There was that use of the word "heretofore." I really needed to frame a sentence in talking to someone with that word used prominently and correctly. My interest in the word "heretofore" almost distracted me from wondering what "family details" had been withheld from me.

I sat in respectful silence so that I would not encourage him in thought or deed to expand his explanation beyond his ordinary wordiness.

"Your monthly payout from the trust is hereby, through execution of the trust agreement, doubled, as you will note in the next transfer of funds. Your father was amenable to my suggestion that this change begin not in the month of your birth, November, but in the next calendar year, for bookkeeping purposes."

So, I thought, I might after all be able to help Jessica in her plans to expand her company. My emotions conflicted. I loved her but doubted I'd ever have enough money to personally finance her plans, which grew by day. She already appeared on the verge of losing herself in her ambitions. I also didn't want to encourage her insatiable social desires, which included me as a pawn.

"Your father, speaking with his customary vigor through the trust agreement even though his life was, unfortunately and with the greatest malice, terminated . . ." I was thrown from his train of thought for a few sentences, thinking about my father's death, then caught up with the train at ". . .voiced his intent that the additional funds now made available to you should be used to pay for your nuptials."

I had a momentary loss of comprehension, then realized that Millwell spoke, not about paying for some hobby or article of clothing or even some physical improvement, but of weddings and marriage: My father wanted me to get married.

A coincidence that Jessica proposed to me again so recently, which I had rejected. I thought of my marital prospects. My conscience and whatever good sense I possessed chilled at the thought that someone would marry me for my money. Yet, rich people do get married. I could dedicate the next few years to finding a rich woman who would love my humble, odd self.

Catching up again with Millwell, I realized he was at the section of the oration in which he would reveal some family secrets. "And so, it is my duty to instruct you, as well as I can . . ." now he was the one being humble. ". . .about one of the overriding principles that has been followed by your family. Do you know what primogeniture is?"

Millwell had heretofore forgone the Socratic method of instruction, but now embraced it. Socrates on one end of the log drawing the knowledge from me, on the other end of the log, the poor student struggling to answer the eternal questions.

"Primogeniture? Something about a Scottish farmer allowing the inheritance of his farm to only his eldest son. If the land is divided among the sons, and their inheritance divided among their sons, soon the estate would be reduced to postage stamp-sized plots."

"Exactly." New respect may have shown in Millwell's eyes. The odd child did have a mind. "Now I need to tell you something and caution you that you must hold this in the strictest confidence: you are to inherit all, that is, 100 per cent of the Karl Family fortune and properties, reality and corporate interests."

Stunned, confused. "You mean everything?"

"Yes, all that now is vested in your grandmother, the Baba Yaga."

"I don't understand. You mean all the Corporation's assets, 100 per cent, is now owned by my grandmother?" I'd thought Uncle, at least, and probably my mother, owned some stock in the Corporation.

"Yes."

This short answer from Millwell was the most shocking. No qualifying phrases, nothing to limit the meaning of what he said.

"I still don't get it. Uncle owns nothing?"

"Your uncle received a settlement long ago as the younger brother. More money than he could spend in a lifetime."

Briefly silenced by surprise. "Now let me get this straight. I'm the only son of the elder son of Baba, so all goes to me? Aren't there any other Karls?" I'd assumed the existence of other relatives, first cousins, aunts and uncles, but thought Baba's abrasiveness drove them away, or I was, alas, being hidden from them because of my impairments. I thought I would meet one of my relatives someday by chance and be pleasantly surprised.

"No other Karls."

Was that even possible? Even royal families have common offshoots. Weren't the Karls part of humanity? "Didn't my mother inherit anything from my father?"

"Only through a trust. Enough, again, to last a lifetime. This from your father's personal investments."

Again, baffled. "So when Baba dies, I'll inherit the Karl holdings?"

"No, you will inherit all when you attain age 30. If your grandmother dies before then, an unlikely possibility given her relative youth and unquestioned vigor, the assets will be held in trust until you attain age 30."

"I don't understand."

"This is the tradition of the Karls. Upon age 30, the eldest son inherits all."

"So my father never inherited the Karl assets and fortune?"

Long pause from Millwell. Hesitation from the soul of tact? "No."

My father was murdered just before his 30th birthday.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"He is skeptical of everything you tell him," Kayko whispered. "Veiled and not so veiled contempt."

The unadorned police station cubicle of the Detective Dunne was barely large enough for his chair, a desk, and the two metal chairs for visiting felons. Loose papers, files, notebooks, and an ancient computer terminal filled every possible space on his desk.

On top of the clutter was an opened file, carefully labeled by some unknown clerk. The file on the late Mr. Hutchings murder. "I'll give this to you, but what are you interested in finding out?"

"Two things. Did Hutchings know his murderer and did he, Mr. Hutchings, seem older than his chronological age?"

Dunne paged through the file and found the report of the first officer on the scene. "Hutchings walked past the alley. He was shot in the stomach. He must have been facing his assailant. He could have been surprised by a threat from the alley and turned to see what was the matter, but I get your point. If I'd suspected something in the alley, I would have speeded up, especially in that neighborhood." He leafed ahead to the investigative reports. "The detective in charge, not me, also had the brilliant thought Hutchings could have known his assailant. Several of his co-workers were interviewed, but nothing cast any suspicion on them."

"Was anyone from Hutchings former employment interviewed?" More leafing. "No and there's no indication in the file what company was his former employer. Do you think we check on a victim's job history going back to day one? Do you think we interview his kindergarten playmates?"

"No, but in light of his wife's murder, the place where they met, his former job, becomes more interesting."

"We know where Esmeralda worked. Trigenera." Dunne was of those argumentative people who simply don't respond when they've been proven wrong. They just go on to dispute the next thing you say, not giving you the satisfaction of being right.

"Sister Teresa, Esmeralda's sister, told us she still worked at the job where she met Hutchings."

"I interviewed some people in her office. Nothing."

"Would you mind if Kayko and I did the same?"

"Smirking," whispered Kayko.

"I suppose this is all to help you get something out of the Hutchings kid, the autistic one?"

"That's what you wanted me to do."

"Alright, just keep me in the loop." Dismissive, getting tired of talking to me, maybe irritated with the sound of my flat voice. "Anything else I can provide you, Sherlock?"

"Do you have Hutching's autopsy report?" He found the report and began to read it. Must have become bored with the medical gobbledygook. He pushed the whole file over the desk to me. "Knock yourself out."

I sat and read the report. My friend at the morgue, Dr. Haney, was the one who performed the autopsy and submitted the report. Nothing stood out. X-rays of the skull, taken because Hutchings fell forward hitting his head before he died, were not included with the summary report. I'd have to ask Dr. Haney to let me see the x-rays. "Can you authorize my view of the whole autopsy file for the case?"

"Anything for you. You have a critical need to see this before you interview the autistic kid?"

"A matter of necessity."

"Willing to indulge an eccentric," Kayko said.

After we left the station, we walked several blocks to my car. We were in an urban renewal area and walked around orange colored construction cranes and trucks. The temperature was sinking, the clouds looked ominous. A late afternoon storm was in the forecast.

"So you think the two murders were related," Kayko gasped out from under her scarf.

"I think so. This isn't some kind of random serial thing, not with a husband and his wife murdered, a few years apart. The murderer must be desperate if he follows the same pattern from murder to murder."

"Why do you say that?"

"A smart murderer knows to vary his method of operation. That's the first question asked about a murder: how it was done." I hoped to tone down the seriousness of what I said by being entertaining. "Say a murder was caused by a knife wound across the neck in the middle of the night on a boat and a chess piece, a knight, was left on the stomach of the victim."

"As a for instance!"

"Yes, bear with me. Those with a motive for the murder, Mr. A, Mrs. B, and Ms. C are interviewed by the police, but something is missing and rules out each suspect. Either the suspect lacked the physical strength to overcome the victim, or he passes out whenever he sees blood, or she is deathly afraid of drowning and won't go near the water. The police are baffled."

"Go on."

"A second murder occurs. Again the knife, the neck, the middle of the night, the matching chess piece, again a knight, left on the stomach."

"Same color chessman?"

"Yes. The suspects with motives are Ms. C, Mr. D. and Mrs. E. Who do the police arrest?" I could use the Socratic method of teaching as well as Millwell.

"Ms. C, of course, she's the one suspected in both similar murders."

My lips were numb. "Right. The similarity in the murders linked them together and the only one with a motive who was involved in both has to be the murderer. You won a free trip to Hawaii."

"Thanks I can stay in the warmth until my pneumonia clears up."

We were still a block from the car. Why hadn't I done the gentlemanly thing and walked by myself from the station, then driven back to pick up Kayko? Too late now.

I decided I'd push on with my lecture. She might think I was distracting her from thinking about the weather. I hoped she didn't think I was just babbling. "Now, if Ms. C had been smart, she would have killed the second victim in a totally different way, to make the murders seem unrelated."

"For example?"

"I'll give you a different murder situation. Let's say a first victim, just short of his 30th birthday, is shot while in his office. The murderer would want to make the second murder seem unrelated, so he wouldn't shoot the second victim when he was approaching his 30th birthday and he wouldn't shoot him at the victim's office."

"What would he do?"

"If he came to me for suggestions, I'd advise him to shoot the second victim at a shopping mall or other large public place. The murderer could pretend to rob a store but, in escaping, he could shoot the intended victim. The police would think he'd shot an innocent bystander. Or the murderer could stage the murder to look like an accident. Or the murderer might disturb the victim's world so much, the victim would go nuts and kill himself."

"You've really given this a lot of thought." Was this approval or disapproval? "I'm thinking you're dwelling on the morbid."

She got that right.

I felt conflicted. I desperately wanted/needed to get her opinion about my real or imagined plight, but couldn't risk she'd think I was paranoid or irrational

Then there was the trust issue. I thought I could trust Kayko, but couldn't extinguish that last bit of doubt.

I debated with myself. I told myself I was being overly careful. What had she ever done that would show she couldn't be trusted or wasn't on my side? She hadn't been totally honest about acting as my therapist, but, maybe she wanted to spare my feelings. In her favor, she unselfishly acted to save my life when a crazed gunman threatened us at the airport. Whether or not I was really in any danger, she believed I was and pushed me to the floor, leaving herself vulnerable.

I needed an ally. I couldn't trust my own perceptions. I made up my mind to spill my guts out to Kayko and take my chances on the consequences. But I wanted to be on the highway before I told her so we'd have a long undisturbed time to talk.

We reached the car and got in. She hesitated a second before she turned on the ignition. "I've been meaning to ask you . . ." People only say that when the subject is difficult or disturbing, so I listened carefully.

"Did you still want to go to the theater? Matthew asked me out on Saturday night and I thought we could double with you and Jessica."

"I'll ask her."

The thought she might have divided loyalties, or, worse, that she would discuss me and my problems with Matthew, made me shelve the idea of spilling out my guts to Kayko. Matthew might even tell my Uncle what I was thinking.

This Matthew guy. How had he wormed his way into my life?

"What do you think of Matthew?" I asked.

"He called. We talked for a while. He seems nice. What do you think of him?"

"He's certainly a success at the Corporation." I might as well use this opportunity to find out more about Kayko, I thought. "Aren't you interested in any of your theater friends, no hot and heavy romance there?"

She must have glanced at me, then remembered my face wouldn't reflect my thoughts. "No." A short answer from Kayko. Did she think I was teasing? "It's been a while since I dated."

Interesting. "Have you ever . . . well, I know it's none of my business, but have you ever been married, engaged, betrothed, lavaliered, engaged to be engaged, gone steady?"

"I'm laughing. I've been all of those except for the married part." That meant she'd been engaged, at least once. "How about you?" she asked. "Any of the above?"

On the spot. I wanted to confide in Kayko about my fears of getting murdered, but I wasn't prepared to discuss my emotional life. Of the two, I preferred talking about my murder.

"You're asking about Jessica." Stalling for time while I thought of a clever lie.

"You and she seem close." Jessica coming out of my room naked in the middle of the night must have somehow tipped Kayko off.

"I love her. I'll always love her. But . . . you know the nursery rhyme about Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater?"

"Yes."

"I'd have a wife but couldn't keep her."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Could you help me with a personal problem?"

My patient, a middle-aged mother of three with bursitis, surprised me with a question. "I understand that sometimes physicians are able to help place children for adoption." Her eldest daughter, unmarried and pregnant, would not abort the baby. A good family was needed and my patient feared the whole public adoption process.

"I've only been here less than two weeks. I'll have to ask Dr. Bradley if the practice does that. I'll have an answer for you by your next appointment, which should be in two weeks."

I wanted to help. That's why I became a physician.

I had no prejudice against adoption. I felt I was adopted myself. My father died when I was seven. My mother was not the parental type and couldn't stay in one place very long. Uncle was as close to a parent as I had.

I'd always thought he was watching out for my best interests. But what did I really know about Uncle? He was my father's younger brother, but I didn't recall him ever reminiscing about him. I didn't know what he thought of his own brother. Why was that?

Now that I knew Uncle didn't own part of the Corporation, I wondered about his motivations. He'd dedicated his life to the family business but had no claim on it. And even if he did have a claim on what he'd helped to build, no one could inherit from him, since he had no descendent, no child of his own.

That raised another question in my mind. Why hadn't Uncle married and had his own family?

Over lunch, I asked Dr. Bradley about the practice's policy on adoption. "I've helped place some children for patients. I found it gratifying, but time consuming. Unfortunately, I got caught in a legal battle between a patient and the adoptive parents. My patient's daughter changed her mind and wanted the baby back. The final adoption was blocked, and this festered in the courts for almost 3 years. I had to testify about the mental state of my patient's daughter, whether she had the capacity to give consent to the adoption. I felt beaten up and victimized in the cross examination. All in all, it was a heart ache, and I never participated in a placement again."

"So you don't recommend getting involved?"

"I can't advise you one way or the other. When an adoption goes right, it's a beautiful thing. I just lost my courage, but you may derive great satisfaction in helping to find a good home and a good life for a baby." I imagined Dr. Bradley had a kindly face, like I'd read about in the old novels. He was the family friend, the good Samaritan, the faithful, understanding old doctor.

"I'll let you know what I decide to do."

He asked about a patient's progress.

I made a few comments then changed the subject. "Talking about adoption and parenthood makes me wonder about my own father. I've read his official biography, but I don't think I've ever gotten a non-public relations view of him. I remember him as being very busy, but that he always had time to read to me."

"You were quite young when he died and hadn't overcome many of your problems. I'm sorry you didn't get to know him as an adult. I met him several times. I insisted then, and I still insist that both parents participate when autism is involved. I don't need to look at the statistics to know that marriages often break up when a child has birth defects."

I appreciated that Dr. Bradley didn't use euphemisms, but I hated the idea that I was defective.

I wanted Dr. Bradley to keep talking about my father. "I've read some of the old magazine stories. He must have been quite a womanizer."

"I wouldn't believe everything you read, but he was a handsome man, wealthy and prominent, and women sought him out."

I waited for Dr. Bradley to tell me that I was also handsome. The perfect opportunity, but he said nothing. Maybe a comment on my appearance was too personal to say aloud, face to face. Maybe I was so familiar to him, he didn't really see me anymore. In any case, I still had no unbiased appraisal of my looks.

"You've met Uncle at my graduations. Is he very like my father?"

"Your Uncle is also a very handsome man."

"Why is it, you think, he never married?"

"I don't know. I always supposed that he hadn't married because of his great wealth, that he couldn't find an equal or was scared about all the divorce among the rich. I know he dated. The society columns and gossip magazines always showed him with some starlet."

This seemed to answer my questions about Uncle's sexual orientation.

My cell phone burbled. A very aggravated Lewis. "Adam, come home. There's been some problem with the paparazzi at the front gate. An accident involving Jessica. She's physically alright, but someone was hurt."

I was up and running. I yelled to Nurse April as I passed through the office door to reschedule all my appointments, that I had a family emergency. Where was Kayko when I needed her? Out getting a less cheap dress for Saturday night.

I hated to drive, but had no choice.

As I approached the Estate's entrance, I saw a large number of people walking aimlessly about. A police car, its blue light flashing, made the scene look surreal. Several wooden horses blocked the entryway. These would need to be moved to let me drive through. This impromptu check-point was manned by a police officer.

The crowd was made up of paparazzi who'd gathered over the past few days to observe the now famous Jessica. The news accounts said Jessica was staying at her family's estate, which was somewhat of a distortion.

As I slowed to a stop, men and women with cameras yelled at me and pressed against the windows of my car. I'd have my own accident if I continued forward through the mass of bodies.

Someone yelled above the tumult. "Adam, Adam, it's me, Ms. Frangelmore!" The local reporter who was Keith's new girlfriend, stood just behind a photographer who was frantically snapping pictures of my face. The rest of the world would know how I looked long before I did.

The photographer gave way as he realized I was responding to Ms. Frangelmore's increasingly belligerent efforts to gain my attention.

"Adam, it's best to make some kind of a statement so that these animals will be satisfied and go away," she yelled.

She made sense. I lowered my window an inch. "What do you suggest?"

She raised her voice above the crowd noises, so the others could hear. "Mr. Karl says he is very concerned about Jessica, has not yet had a chance to speak to her. He is not going to be holding a press conference until he is allowed inside and can assess the situation." A lot of grumbling followed, but the pushing seemed to subside.

A policeman approached. I opened the window so the officer could thrust his head into my car. "Hi Adam, it's me, your classmate from grade school, Jeff Berringer. I'm smiling and happy to see you." Jeff was a soldier's son, who'd moved away when his father was reassigned. He knew me well enough to know I was limited in my ability to recognize him. I was grateful for the efforts he made to describe himself.

I answered him with some relief. "Yes, hello Jeff! I'm glad you're here. I always wondered what became of you. So now you're a police officer."

Too distracted to continue our conversation, he withdrew from the window and ordered those near the car to move back. "Give him room! Get out of the way! Nothing's happening here until he gets through the gates!" He moved the wooden horses to unblock the entrance.

I drove slowly, creeping forward, afraid someone would dart out into my path. Once through the gates, I picked up speed. Keith waved to me from the front of the Mansion. I abruptly pulled the car to the driveway curb, not caring how I parked. I ran up to Keith.

"Isn't this the most fun riot ever!" he said. Contrary to the rules of decorum, Keith seemed to be enjoying the chaos.

I didn't feel the same way. I felt oddly disoriented. Order disintegrated around me, and the comforting sameness of my home evaporated.

"What the hell's going on?" I asked. "Jessica's okay?"

"She's fine. In her room. You should be asking about the paparazzi and how deep her tread marks are across his chest." Keith told me rapidly about Jessica's return from downtown Chicago, where she'd rented some office space for her company, and the sudden descent of even more photographers and reporters. "I'll bet her publicist issued a warning she was about to appear." A little cynicism from Keith or an accurate analysis?

I pushed the front door open with enough force for it to hit the rubber bumper and rebound against me, hitting my knuckles. Lewis stood, a grim look on his face, and just wordlessly pointed upward to the bedrooms of the wing.

I wondered how someone with Lewis' disposition could ever have a daughter like Jessica. Hard to believe she was his child. She was so unlike him and nothing like Marsha. Dr. Bradley always said that temperament was inborn and could not be explained. The gentlest soul can have a monstrous child.

I wasn't sure I totally agreed with Dr. Bradley. Some of Jessica's problem were undoubtedly, clinically speaking, hyperactivity, uncontrollable by medication. But the rest, the willfulness, the lack of foresight about the consequences of her actions. I wondered if some wildness lay hidden in her parents' genes, ready to break through when least expected, in another generation.

Jessica sat at her desk, calmly. I expected some hysteria or at least a barrage of questions about the injured photographer. "Adam, do you think I'm right about how much office space I'll need in Chicago? I can get an option on the rest of the floor on Michigan Avenue." She showed me a skyscraper's floor plan.

"Aren't you at all concerned about the man you ran down?"

"He got too close Adam. It wasn't my fault." Nothing was, I thought. "Besides, this is great publicity. Every news outlet in the universe is now talking about little me."

Indeed.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The woman known simply as Jessica, the irrepressible new force in the fashion firmament, hit a few immovable objects Thursday, sending one paparazzi to the hospital and inflicting minor injuries on several more.

In Chicago to set up a new base of operations, Jessica found herself trapped by literally hundreds of paparazzi waiting outside her Midwest estate on the prestigious North Shore. Apparently, in a panic for her life, she mistook the accelerator for the brake of her car, according to a spokesperson.

No official word has been released on whether Jessica herself suffered any injury. Sources believe she was treated by a physician in her entourage and needed to be sedated. Some damage was done to a bumper of the car, thought to be in the $300,000 range, according to witnesses.

A source who is close to Jessica, but who asked not to be identified, said the injured man is doing well, has one broken bone, and is expected to make a complete recovery. Stay tuned for the inevitable injury law suit against Jessica, followed by the inevitable settlement. That's one suit she won't want to wear for too long.

Jessica has been the focus of interest since her rumored affairs and wild parties thrust her into the limelight after her recent wildly successful showing in Paris.

Spotted entering the estate was the notoriously reclusive scion of the Karl fortune, Alan Karl. Little is known about Karl, except for rumors of his enormous wealth. If he has formed a liaison with Jessica, the mystery of her financial backing may be solved.

Karl, obviously wanting no part of the vigil being carried out by the paparazzi and reporters outside of Jessica's estate, tried to hide his face from the cameras. Few photos of the heir are known to exist.

His previous connection with Jessica is unknown. Statements from Jessica's publicist do not rule out an intimate relationship.

The little known Karl Family owns a wide range of companies, some involved with computer component design, apparently run by Alan Karl's almost equally reclusive Uncle Walter Karl. The European wing of the family corporation is rumored to be led by Karl's grandmother. Her name is listed in various forms on internet databases, but is Barbara Karl.

I read the article on-line barely a half hour after arriving home. So I was part of her entourage?

I briefly considered changing my name to Alan to conform to the article. I just liked the name, more of a solid, friendly name. Adam always sounded like a very stuffy name to me. Uncle's name was wrong too, his name being actually Wallace. And if Baba's name was really Barbara, this confirmed one of my long-held suspicions. Also, I hadn't thought about her leading the family's European interests, but this made sense. Baba was European. But I'd never been told which European country was her native land. Why was that?

One thing was almost right in the article. My home had become, in effect, Jessica's. The Estate, and all its daily rhythms, was in upheaval, changing to accommodate Jessica's presence. And the reality of having a large number of shouting, demanding people at the front gate.

Altogether a circus. I had, heretofore, never really appreciated the peace and quiet around the estate.

Lewis met me in the vestibule waving a notice from the local Board of Health.

"Trash receptacles and portable toilets are required at once, or multiple citations will be issued. Apparently, the Karls are legally responsible for anything that occurs during the so called demonstration at the front gate. I hope it's alright with you that I ordered portable toilets as soon as I received the notice."

"Of course it's alright." I was glad he'd acted so quickly.

"I'm worried that the toilet paper will be burned by the paparazzi in the receptacles." I must have looked even more blank than usual. "For heat, Adam. I'm also worried that any source of fire is a threat to the 100 year old trees in front of our property, so I hired an off-duty firemen to keep watch. The portable toilets will arrive . . . may already be arriving. I suppose these companies are set up for emergencies. The fireman won't arrive until around dinner time."

I picked up the ringing phone in the vestibule. Mother, returning home from her long European sojourn and calling from the airplane, wanted to know immediately what was happening. I imagined her voice was angry, in that she talked much more rapidly than usual. She must have read the same article I'd read. "Adam, I am quite upset. Can't you call the local police to disperse the mob?"

"I'm sure smashing a few heads will only make matters worse."

"And Adam, what's this about you having an affair with the daughter of our butler and housekeeper?" Mother refused to use the titles of Estate Supervisor and Associate Estate Supervisor. "I won't have it Adam. I will not approve of a love match or of a marriage! Inappropriate! Inappropriate! Inappropriate!"

Her anger verging on hysteria was very much out of character. Her usual attitude was sunny, an always-on-vacation attitude towards life. Appropriate because she was literally always on vacation.

I didn't understand her concern about Jessica's status. Snobbery, social inequality? But Jessica was educated at the finest schools and was quite accomplished and talented. I had no doubt, would someday be successful in her business.

My mother's vehemence in forbidding my relationship with Jessica almost made me want to marry her out of sheer defiance. Almost.

"Adam, Baba will be quite disturbed that our privacy is being invaded." I guessed real fear was in my mother's voice. She'd always spoken about Baba in as few words as possible. I wondered what had put the fear of God in my mother about any kind of disapproval from her mother-in-law. "Nothing about the family or our business must ever be mentioned to the media. That's the rule, and we need to take this seriously."

I remembered Attorney Millwell's admission that both Uncle and Mother had received settlements outside of the Corporation's assets. Perhaps public scrutiny of our family would somehow result in a loss of Mother's yearly income.

I took the opportunity to focus my own scrutiny on the family. "Is Baba's name really Barbara?"

Only airplane noise on Mother's side of the phone. "I can't say."

"Where is she from?"

"I can't say."

"Are there any other Karls?"

"No." Mother had enough of my questions. "I'm hanging up now, Adam. I'll have more to say about your behavior when I arrive home."

Easily the strangest conversation I'd ever had with my mother.

As I hung up the phone, I heard a knock on the front door. I hoped some paparazzi hadn't managed to break through the barriers. I was relieved when I found a slightly out of breath Kayko standing in our doorway.

"I avoided the front gate by parking a half mile away and walking through the cold." I was glad to see her. Compared to the chaos and unpredictability of the current crisis, she was a familiar, calming presence.

I called Keith and told him where he could find our car. I advised him to dress like a chauffeur so no one would bother him. He said he would wear his chauffeur's cap.

"I'm laughing," Kayko said. "I leave the house and everything is normal, and I come back and we're at Woodstock." Her good humor cheered me and I laughed with her. This really was an absurd situation. "How long will Jessica be staying with us?"

"She'll leave Sunday for Los Angeles, after our double date on Saturday night, and will fly back for the party next Saturday." Jessica had agreed, but reluctantly, to an evening with Kayko and Matthew.

Kayko's face probably showed the same relief I felt at the thought that Jessica would be leaving soon and would take the paparazzi with her.

But I also had mixed feelings. I'd miss her sleeping next to me at night. She'd always be a part of me. I'd always worry about her. Want to know where she was.

Kayko carried a bag. I asked if this was the dress for our double date.

"Yes, I hope you like it. Oh, and Adam . . ." I knew to listen carefully when she started a sentence that way. "I hope you don't mind. I asked Keith and Ms. Frangelmore to join us on Saturday night." She paused to let that sink in. This date was shaping up into a real study in contrasts. "Does anyone know her first name?"

I drew a blank. "I'll ask Keith."

"Great, I'll see you at dinner. I'm knocked out by all this shopping."

An hour later, darkness descended over the estate, and I could see nothing through the windows of the dinette. Sunset was well before 4:30 p.m., an indication of the coming winter solstice. I was glad to have an early dinner. Only Kayko joined me. Uncle was avoiding the tumult by staying at a Corporation condo downtown, and Jessica was avoiding all contact after sensing I was less than pleased with her about the accident.

"Mother should be arriving soon."

"What's she like?" Kayko asked.

"I thought she was a very cheerful, outgoing, social person, but her last phone call different."

"How so?"

"She must have been very upset and angry. She talked very rapidly and in bursts." No one but Kayko, would understand what I meant.

"Adam, I'm sorry about your mother's mood, but what's going on with you? You've been upset since you talked to that lawyer on Wednesday? Can't you talk about it?"

I heard sirens in the distance.

Lewis walked into the kitchen. "A word, Adam." He came no closer so I got up from the table and walked to him. Very unusual behavior from Lewis. He usually treated mealtimes as if they were sacred. Disturbing the diners was usually unthinkable.

"What's wrong?"

"I received a cell phone call from the off-duty fireman I hired to monitor the impromptu fires in the paparazzi colony at our front gate. He was able to get her earlier."

"Yes?"

"Someone has been injured. I hesitate to advise you what you should do. You might not want to help because of the possible legal liability. Paramedics should be arriving soon."

No choice here. "Tell Kayko. I'll get my doctor's bag from upstairs." I was already out the kitchen door.

Kayko met me at the front door. "I'm coming with."

I just kept going, running with Kayko behind me.

A crowd stood at one end of what Lewis called the paparazzi colony. One of the large metal trash receptacles we'd provided, probably four, four and a half-feet tall, was in the middle of the crowd, its top off. Smoke rose above the receptacle, the remains of a fire probably lit as night descended and the temperature plunged.

As I approached, the crowd pulled back, allowing me through. My medical bag being my passport.

I could see two trousered legs, scorched, capped with boots, sticking out from the top of the receptacle. I reviewed in my mind what I knew about treating burn victims, but I doubted the man was still alive.

I stood looking into the receptacle.

A man reduced to charcoal.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN

Officer Jeff Berringer, my friend, said whoever put the photographer, who was named Alex Mantay, into the trash receptacle was either "TFT" or TFS," that is, too fucking tall or too fucking strong.

We, Berringer, Kayko and myself, sat at the kitchen dinette.

"We have to guess what actually happened because the crime scene was so thoroughly messed up by the crowd," he said. "To hang someone face down into an upright receptacle, the murderer would need to be enormously tall or he'd have to use a cherry picker. More likely, the receptacle was placed on its side and the victim pushed inside. But pulling the receptacle back to a standing position would have required a lot of strength. So maybe there were two murderers, maybe three, since that many would be needed to lift the receptacle with the victim in it."

I tried to picture what he was saying. Once the man was inserted into a receptacle on its side, his weight, by average around 150-180 pounds, would present a problem in lifting the receptacle back to a standing position, the way it was found.

Berringer went on. "And all this while the receptacle had a burning fire inside. We're checking for people with burned hands or charred gloves. But I don't think we'll have much luck. People wear gloves in this kind of cold weather, but anyone could go back to his car and change his gloves. That means we'd have to search each car. That's multiple opportunities not to see where someone has hidden his charred gloves. We can't impound fifty cars to do a thorough search."

"Or the gloves could be thrown into one of the other fires," Kayko suggested.

Officer Berringer gave Kayko a long look. Just how attractive was Kayko?

"I was about to present that theory. Besides the other burning receptacles, there were some burning fire pits, round things resting on the ground and using wood. Available almost anywhere for people who like to watch a fire in their backyard. Anyway, that's what I'd do, toss the gloves into another fire. We're checking all the receptacles."

I was more interested in the why of the murder, rather than the how. All the usual motives for murder were available. Killing the photographer solved someone's problem, but what was the problem?

Maybe the murderer's problem was this: I need to focus the world's attention on Adam's front gate to drive Adam insane. What would be the best way? Oh, I'll just kill one of the paparazzi in a bizarre way in front of a large number of people, all carrying digital cameras.

Flashing pixels of the murder must have appeared almost instantaneously on every news outlet throughout in the world.

Berringer rose from his chair. "I'll keep you informed. We'll be out there most of the night. If you need me, call this cell number." He handed Kayko a slip of paper.

"We're very grateful for your help, Jeff," Kayko said. Another long pause from Officer Berringer, as, I imagined, he looked into Kayko's eyes.

I used the pause time to note that Kayko was speaking for the both of us. I didn't know if that meant she felt solidarity with me or that she thought I needed to be protected by my therapist. Or, alternatively, she thought that, I, a male, was too self-centered and insensitive to be polite.

I asked Berringer if he'd be available as an off-duty policeman at my party the next Saturday, the 21st. He said he'd check his schedule.

"A handsome man," Kayko said, after Officer Berringer left. I said nothing, but may have nodded.

"You could have just invited him to the party. You said he's an old friend. Maybe you insulted him."

"You're probably right, but he never was a close friend. Maybe I was insensitive, but what I don't need is another guest to my party. I need someone in case of an emergency."

"For instance."

"Someone lifts my mother with a cherry picker and places her, upside down, in my birthday cake."

"Another interesting image."

"Then we could invite the paparazzi in to take pictures for all the world to see. To change the subject, I'm going to ask our friend at the morgue, Dr. Haney, to consult on the autopsy for our newly dead photographer."

"Why? What are you thinking?"

"I just want someone I trust to do the autopsy. These local coroners are part-time. We rarely get a murder this far from downtown Chicago."

What I thought of saying was that I wondered if there was a connection between all the murders or potential murders that had come my way since I'd arrived back home. But if I said that, Kayko would think I was being paranoid.

I couldn't get to sleep for a long time. No visit from Jessica that night. Either she was now avoiding me or she'd taken something to help her fall asleep, and was too drugged to visit me.

I tossed and turned, and finally fell into a trance-like sleep with no dreams I could remember. I barely heard the commotion at the front door, which I assumed was the arrival of my mother and stepfather, Frank. I should have gotten up to greet them, but I fell back to sleep before I could act on my good intentions.

I woke and looked at the clock. Four-fifteen. I gave up trying to sleep and decided to go down to the kitchen for a pre-breakfast snack.

My stepfather sat at our dinette table. We greeted each other with a handshake. Frank was one of my favorite people.

"Couldn't sleep," he said. "Slept on the plane. Not sure what day it is."

"I couldn't sleep either. You heard about the mess at the front gate?"

"Yes, Lewis filled us in. I saw all the sleeping bodies and tents as we drove up. The police were moving about, but I thought they were just doing their job, pre-doughnuts."

Frank was a great companion, a great story-teller. He was like an 18th century aristocrat who shunned the world of commerce as being beneath him. I never knew him to mention anything as crass as working for a living. He was a great card player. His rootless life with my mother, going from resort to social event, seemed to suit him. They had condos in London and Copenhagen, and possibly still in Miami. Slightly younger than my mother, he'd just reached 50 years of age, but looked like he was in his early 40's. A worry free life will do that to you.

I grabbed some cereal from a cabinet, found some milk in the huge refrigerator, and poured the cereal into a bowl. I sat across from Frank. I'd never called him dad, but he'd been my stepfather since I was 10.

"Sorry about the jet lag. You got in, when, about 2 a.m.? I heard you but was too semi-conscious to get up. Was Mother insulted?"

"The only thing on her mind was aggravation. She couldn't tolerate her privacy was being invaded by people with the bad taste to use outdoor toilets." I laughed. Frank knew how to find the humor in any situation.

We both ate for a while. "Frank, some things have been bothering me about the Karl family, some questions. You've probably have thought about the same things over the years."

"Like what?"

"For instance, where are the rest of the Karls? How can there only be four Karls, three and the widow Karl?"

"I see what you mean. No other relatives. When I got married to your mother, I assumed that there were so few relatives invited because it was her second marriage and she didn't want to make an international event of it. Do you even remember our wedding? You were just a child."

"Vaguely. Baba was there." I tried to visualize the wedding, but without success. "Did anyone ever meet my grandfather? I assume he died before I was born. No one has ever talked about him."

"Gossiping about Baba is strictly _verboten_. I know as much about her today as I knew when I got married. Which is, nothing."

Shocked. "Why, what's the big secret?"

"I don't know Adam."

"Nothing comes to mind?"

Frank thought for a while. "Baba gave us a wedding present, a silver bowl. She probably didn't even know it had an inscription on the underside."

"What did it say?"

"It was nearly illegible, rubbed out, from, I thought, a century or two of polishing, but I clearly saw the word "Karl. I asked your mother if Baba's husband, your grandfather, had been very wealthy. I was assuming Karl was his family name and the bowl was from his side of the family. Your mother was off guard for once, a weak moment. She said that she didn't think Karl was your grandfather's family name. That Baba retained her family name of Karl when she married."

Stunned and surprised to finally hear a detail about my heritage. "Did Mother ever say anything else about it?"

"Several years later I was again handling the bowl, and I reminded her of what she said. She got angry and denied she'd ever said anything about Baba's maiden name. She said I must have dreamt it."

"But you don't think so."

"It was the only thing I'd ever heard about the Karls. I didn't dream it."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

Gonzo journalist, Alex Mantay, whose body was found smoldering in a dumpster early Saturday morning in the paparazzi encampment surrounding fashion star Jessica's estate, was known for comforting the oppressed and oppressing the comfortable.

The driving force behind a recent expose on money laundering, Mantay was known to be starting a new investigation, but his editors and associates say he kept the subject of his latest investigation a secret.

Police sources announced on Saturday morning that Mantay's laptop was found when his car was finally located among those illegally parked near the North Shore estate.

The laptop will be examined to see if anything points to a possible motive for the late night attack on Mantay, which left him stuffed upside-down in an area on the outskirts of the encampment. Preliminary reports indicated, however, that Mantay's files were encrypted, and police sources voiced doubts the files could be made readable.

Police searched for witnesses on Saturday morning, but none were forthcoming, it is speculated, because of fear of involvement.

Mantay, 32, a star of the investigative website, The Monitor, was married and had two children. Funeral arrangements have not been issued and are pending the post-autopsy release of the body.

I was in the room I would always think of as my father's office. I called Berringer, using the cell phone number he'd left with us. "Are you too tired to talk? I could call back. You must have been up all night."

"No, that's okay, Adam. We get so little action up here that a little adrenaline feels good."

"Jeff, I got a lecture from Kayko about being so formal and not just inviting you to the party. I do want you to come as a guest and to bring a date if you want. You'll probably recognize some kids from junior high. I was just kind of wrapped up in myself with so much going on."

"That's okay. I knew what you were talking about. Jessica will be there. You just want to have someone with a gun and some authority at the party in case something else goes wrong."

I was grateful he understood. "Do we know when the autopsy is scheduled? An associate of mine, Dr. Haney, is coming in from the city at my family's request, to help perform the autopsy."

"He'd do best to check with the coroner's office." He paused, thinking. "It's pretty unusual to bring in a consultant. What's up?"

"I'm worried this murder was aimed at Jessica. Threats or stalking by a crazed fan."

"Does she have a stalker?"

"I'm sure she has a few by now. Her fan base sounds pretty loony to me. Every move she makes causes an international upheaval. I'll find out if anyone in particular has threatened her as soon as she wakes up. She's usually up around noon."

"Good. I'll wait for your call." I guessed Berringer's attention was waning. Maybe he was falling asleep. I didn't know if I'd reached him at the station or at home. I wanted to ask him a few more questions.

"Do you think your captain would mind if I invited in a Chicago detective to consult?"

"I can't speak for the captain, but we work with the Chicago Police Department a lot. We'd be dumb not to. That's where the manpower and the labs are. Do you have someone in mind?"

"Detective Michael Dunne."

A pause. "Dunne, huh. Is he still alive? He must be ancient. A few of his cases were used as examples at the police academy. He co-authored a book with some crime writer that I meant to read but never did."

Interesting, I thought.

I still needed some reassurance from Berringer. I'd found Frank's revelation disturbing. All the smoke around the Karl family certainly was hiding some fire. "Okay, I have one other question and I'll let you go, but it's kind of embarrassing." I hated to throw my weight, in this case, my family's weight around, but I needed to know that whatever turned up in the investigation of the reporter's death wouldn't harm the Karls, their reputation, and, of course, me.

"I'm listening."

"The Karls are very prominent, so are very vulnerable . . ."

He cut me off. "I see where you're going. The Karls are eggs that can't be scrambled." I wouldn't have put it just that way, but he understood what I was asking. "The captain already told all the officers assigned that no reputations are to be messed with. Nothing is going out to the media that will embarrass the family that contributes so much to the welfare of the community."

Money talks, and a large amount of money talks very loudly.

"This encrypted stuff in Mantay's laptop . . ."

"Won't be released if it turns out to be embarrassing to you or Ms. Jessica. That's what the captain said."

I felt relieved. We said our goodbyes.

I heard a knock on my office door. "It's me, your mother!" I swung open the door and Mother jumped through the doorway to give me a hug. "My big, handsome boy!"

Another biased opinion about my looks. She loved me. Of course, I looked good to her.

I hugged her back. "Mom, I'm so glad to see you. It's been at least a year."

"I'm a bad mother, always chasing around. But social obligations you know. I'm so glad to be home and not discuss my digestion with everyone. Let me look at you." She drew back. "Aren't people supposed to stop growing by age 21? I swear you look taller."

"I've just filled in some more. Come sit near the desk. I've been reading on-line about the death last night. Lewis filled you in, Frank said."

"Yes, horrid, horrid, horrid." I never noticed before that Mother often said things three times when she was being emotional. "Also gross and disgusting. This must stop, this paparazzi camping out at our gate. A little publicity is expected, say at a social event, but this is just outrageous. It must stop. When is Jessica leaving?"

"She'll be gone on Monday night."

"I think she should be gone immediately. We'll just tell her she's no longer welcome."

"I'm not telling her that. She's welcome so far as I'm concerned."

"This liaison with her. I don't approve. I told you that. I saw her this morning and she called me 'Mother.' I never gave her permission to call me mother, the little scamp. She's always been a heartache for Lewis and Marsha. They were always sending her away to school."

Her vehement dislike of Jessica bothered me. "I love her."

She couldn't accept that. "No, you think you love her because you've never met someone you could truly love." This bit of wisdom from the world's most frivolous person.

"Besides, she can't leave so fast. We've got a double, actually a triple date, tonight to go the theater."

"Now you're on the right track. Maybe you'll like one of the other girls on your date. That's how I met your father."

"I've never heard this story." Why hadn't I heard that story before?

"Yes, I met your Uncle first. At a party, of course. I loved parties even then. We dated for a while, then I met your father on a double date."

"Wasn't that a little awkward? You dropped Uncle?"

"Oh nothing so dramatic. We were just casually dating. I don't think either of us thought we would get serious. Then I met your father and the rest was history. Your Uncle was very gracious about the whole thing."

So my father stole away Uncle's girl. The elder son who got everything, the one who was famous and destined for everything good in life got the girl. Uncle just handed her off, surrendered her, with a hearty selfless laugh. Hard to believe, pretty counter to my understanding of people.

I had a thought. "Uncle never married. Don't you think he was nursing a broken heart?"

"Of course not. He was a very handsome and wealthy young man. He had many women before me and many, many after me."

"Uncle was, is . . ." Embarrassing to discuss this with my mother, but I wanted to know. "He is heterosexual?"

"Oh, yes, believe me yes." Now what did she mean by that?

"He never voiced any desire to have children?"

"None at all. He said that he didn't want children right up front. Maybe that was one reason I preferred your father. I wanted to have children."

I painfully noted that she used the plural, not a child, but children. Why didn't she have another child after I was born? I was 7 when my father died. Most parents try to space out children so they are within, say, 3 years of each other, so the siblings can grow up together. My mother didn't have another child, because I was so strange. She couldn't take the chance on having another autistic child.

Sometimes, autism does run in the family. Sometimes not, the sibling being perfectly normal. Perfectly. I thought of the murdered Esmeralda. She had only one child and he too was 7 years old. Maybe she'd wanted to have more children, but she was afraid as well.

Another question, as long as I was taking the opportunity to ask. "Why didn't you and Frank have children?"

"Really dear, that's none of your business." She probably wanted to spare my feelings. She didn't want to say she was so traumatized by my affliction, that whatever maternal instincts she'd had were exhausted in caring for me. "But if you must know, Frank wasn't interested in having children." I doubted that. She was just covering up and trying not to hurt me.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY

"Mother, this is Kayko. Kayko, mother." They shook hands across the dinette table, eyeing each other, I'm sure. "She's helping . . ."

"Oh, I know all about it. Lewis told me. Thank you for helping my son. The family appreciates it." That was a little too much for me, the kind of thing she'd say to a therapist who'd found a miracle cure.

"Adam doesn't need much help. I'm learning much more from him than he is from me." Kayko at her most generous. But a convenient excuse for my mother to undam a torrent of familial pride.

"We're all so proud of Adam. When he graduated at 16 from high school, we knew he had extraordinary talents, and his graduation from medical school at 23 certainly confirmed that." Mother took full credit for anything I did well, ascribing the rest to fate.

"Will you and Mr. . . ."

"Oh, just call him Frank."

"Frank be staying long?"

"Just till the day after the big party for Adam next week. I'm sorry Adam. We overcommitted and will be in Aspen, skiing, over the actual Christmas holiday and New Year's. I was so glad we could celebrate Adam's birthday, end of residency, beginning of his practice, and Christmas all together."

We sat, just the three. Jessica was up and about and in conference with her personal assistant, trying "to make an omelet out of broken eggs," she'd said. Frank was out shopping after brandishing a long, specific list from Mother of absolutely necessary presents. Mother would not feel ready to personally "power shop," until her jet lag subsided.

Mother asked Kayko's Christmas plans. I listened with interest, since I'd never asked her myself. "I'll probably fly back to Philadelphia for a few days. My sister has a new baby. My father is still recovering from heart by-pass surgery, which was very successful, Mom says."

There. My mother found out more in two seconds than I had in several months. Kayko was not an orphan, she had a sibling, her parents were still alive. Was the sister with a baby older or younger? If younger, Kayko might be very interested in finding a husband and settling down. If she was older, Kayko might feel she had some time to establish her own family.

I took the opportunity to ask some intrusive questions of my own. "Uncle said he knew your father," I said. "What's the connection?"

"College buddies. They were very close. My father always said he helped him out of some very interesting scrapes."

Hard for me to believe that Uncle ever participated in college hijinks. What else did Kayko know about Uncle? I didn't want to invade her privacy if she didn't voluntarily want to tell me.

"And what does your father do now?" Mother asked.

"He the CEO of a large company, one of the suppliers for the Corporation. That's how Dad and Adam's Uncle have stayed in touch. Meeting at conferences, negotiating contracts. Long lunches. That kind of thing. Uncle Wally is the god-parent for both my sister and me."

I'd never heard anyone call Uncle, Uncle Wally. I'd never even heard anyone call him Wally, always the much more formal, Wallace, if he wasn't just called Mr. Karl. Here was a whole new side of Uncle he'd never mentioned. A surprisingly close relationship with a family I'd never knew existed. Why had Uncle hidden this connection?

When Mother hurried off, I asked Kayko what she thought of her.

"Do you want my opinion as your employee or as a houseguest?"

"Both."

"As a houseguest, I'd say she was still a beautiful woman, looking much younger than her age, and full of life and fun."

"And?"

"As an employee hired to tell you what I see, I'd tell you that she is very social, very young emotionally, immature, very party to party, superficial."

"Something upsetting you?"

"This thing about spending Christmas without you in Aspen. At the least, she could have invited you to come and spend Christmas with her and her friends. A mother who doesn't care to spend a holiday with her son. I'm sorry, Adam, that stinks."

Mother just didn't want to waste a pleasant time in explaining at a party why her child was strange. I understood this intellectually and I'd long ago become reconciled with Mother's ways.

But like so often when Kayko pointed out something, my eyes were truly opened. I suddenly realized that I was offended, had long been upset by the treatment I received from my mother. If Kayko, a person I recognized as normal, felt offended, then I had the right, was right, to feel offended too.

I felt a rush of gratitude. Kayko really helped me to see.

"You're welcome, Adam." She'd interpreted my silence correctly.

Kayko took a last bite of her sandwich, chewed silently, then announced that she needed every minute in the hours before our evening out to prepare. I couldn't imagine what would take hours, since I needed only a few minutes to get ready. I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on articles in the neurological journal.

Jessica came to my room and saw I was studying. "Are we okay, Adam? I didn't mean to upset you with my life. I know you think I'm insensitive, but really, life in the public eye isn't easy."

By asking if "we" were alright, she wanted to know about the status of our relationship.

I hadn't been worrying just then about our relationship, but if she was, then, ipso facto, there was something to be worried about in our relationship.

"Yes, dear, everything is alright," I said.

I wasn't being honest. Her request for my financial aid weighed upon me. I hadn't told her about the increase in my yearly allowance from the Corporation. Having a secret made me feel estranged from her.

"I'm not sure I'm in the mood for a triple date," she said. "Are you sure you want to go out with this whole group tonight? We could just grab some dinner and finish off with some extra-specially nice lovemaking?"

"I promised we'd go to the theater."

She was silent for a while. She liked to have her way. Maybe she felt some rejection.

"Okay, then, see you for our date tonight."

Unable to concentrate on my journal after the interruption, I started to read my e-mail. An announcement for a charity event, sponsored by the Corporation, caught my eye. Uncle was to appear at a fundraiser to provide Christmas presents for poor children.

I wondered what I could learn on the internet about the Uncle and the Corporation.

Obviously written by a team of public relations experts, Uncle's official biography painted a picture of the perfect chief executive who also had a benign and charitable soul. He'd won many awards from business groups and been named executive of the year by numerous business groups. His name was on campus buildings. He'd endowed professorships and awarded research grants to find cures for several intractable diseases.

Nothing about the real person.

About the Corporation, I had even less luck. I found nothing about its history. I couldn't tell where it was incorporated, in what state or country. The Corporation hadn't filed the usual reports required by the SEC, Securities and Exchange Commission, because it issued no stock. I couldn't find out what companies were wholly-owned subsidiaries of the Corporation.

What, I wondered, could a dedicated investigative journalist find out about my family?

I checked my phone for messages.

"Hello Doctor. It's Haney." Haney the pathologist from the city I'd called in to help with the Mantay autopsy. "I've checked with the County there and the autopsy will be performed on Monday morning. They have no problem with me coming in as a consultant. I'll stop by your office on the way back to the city, if that's alright, and tell you about the autopsy. Also you wanted the x-rays in the Hutchings murder. Mr. Hutchings not Esmeralda, that you requested. See you."

I thought I heard one of his children talking in the background.

Another message. "Dunne. I got your call. I won't be able to get out to bumble-fuck where you live until at least Tuesday." Bumble-fuck had replaced the local expression "the sticks," regarding the area between suburbs with names and farms. "Yes, it's a major imposition. I don't feel like I owe you a favor, but the case sounds mildly interesting, so I'll come." Dunne, the soul of graciousness. But I still felt better that the only police detective I knew was coming to help, even if I disliked him personally.

I looked in my snail mail. Again, the only remaining good reason for snail mail was fulfilled. I had an anonymous note and a letter from my lawyer.

The anonymous note said simply. "You see how close I can get. I'm getting closer. I'll try again."

Friendly, earnest and optimistic, to the point.

Lawyer Millwell also got right to the point. He would be unable to fulfill my request made by telephone at such and such date at such and such time. He could put nothing he'd said in writing. He could not speak any further at this time about the subject of my interest.

I'd asked for specifics about who would inherit the Corporation if I were deceased. He would not answer my question.

A mixed bag on the thinking-about-me-dead front.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

This is an access road Adam and I used to sneak out at night without Lewis knowing," Keith said. "It might even be a pioneer path. Maybe covered wagon used this path. Or maybe it was used by smugglers or pirates."

Ms. Frangelmore, Rebecca was her first name but she went by Becky, giggled at Keith's explanation of how the limo was evading the paparazzi watch. She sat up front with Keith but put her left arm over her seat so she could see us in the back compartment.

I'd had my choice of sitting either next to Jessica or between Jessica and Kayko, but chose to put down the extra seat directly behind Keith. I needed to turn my head pretty far to the right to see Jessica, who, of course, had insisted on entering the limo first. Kayko was too far away to jump up and whisper something into ear.

Matthew was working late, so he'd meet us at the restaurant.

"I may be a little underdressed," Ms. Frangelmore, Becky, said.

"I think you're dressed just fine. Maybe I'm overdressed," Kayko said.

"I think you're both underdressed," Jessica said.

This whole underdressed/overdressed conversation was incomprehensible to me as a man. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Keith kept turning his head to get a good view of Becky. Trying to look down her cleavage, I thought. I became nervous that the car would crash while Keith tried to get a satisfying look.

"Watch the fucking road," I whispered to Keith.

He stopped looking to the side, then looked at the backview mirror above the dashboard. "Someone is following us."

"It's probably that damn stalker of mine," Jessica said. "I may have to go back to court to localize the order of protection, domesticate it, my lawyer said."

"That's awful," Kayko said.

"Maybe I shouldn't be saying this kind of stuff in front of a reporter." She meant Becky.

"Oh, don't worry about me. Anything I hear at a social occasion is strictly off the record. OK? If you tell me something it'll be held in strictest confidence. I'll go to jail rather than reveal anything told me off the record. It's the journalistic code. I'll tell you very specifically if we are talking on the record."

I thought Jessica actually made a sniffing sound, a fast breathing out of the nose meant to be a skeptical response, but couldn't be sure because of the car noises.

"I think we're all on edge since that awful thing happened in that trash container," Kayko said.

"I know, isn't it frightening and sad to think that man had a wife and children," Becky said.

I was afraid Jessica would tell us exactly what she thought of the paparazzi, but, fortunately, she remained silent, perhaps realizing she was irritating me with her superior attitude. Instead, she surprised me by asking about Kayko's theater friends. Maybe she was making an effort to be friendly.

"These are really sweet and creative people." Kayko said. "My classmates at school. They're performing in the musical we'll see tonight, but one of them, Eric, has written a play and they are rehearsing that."

"Still following us," Keith said.

"I've lost touch with my classmates," Jessica said. "I really wonder what they're up to. They were a very creative bunch too."

"It's hard to keep up with college friends," Becky agreed.

Again, I had trouble understanding the complaints. I found the "hard to keep up with friends" talk incomprehensible. If you miss someone, pick up a phone, dammit, and call them. This evening was already going badly, I thought.

"What's the play about?" Becky asked.

"Oh, I think it's basically a Cane vs. Abel plot. Eric hates his brother in real life."

We pulled into the restaurant parking lot. "I'm going to the back," Keith said. "There's an elongated space just for limos." That was fine, but if we had any trouble in the parking lot, we'd be far from the restaurant door and help.

As Keith guided the limo into a double-length space, a much smaller late model car drove past us. The car came to a standstill to the far left of the lot, but no one got out. I couldn't see into the car because of the overhead light.

We piled out of the limo. "We have reservations for 6:30," Kayko said. The play is at 8:00. We should be able to eat and run out in time for the curtain."

I'd called in the reservations myself. I told the host at a podium that we were the Karl party and that one more person would be joining us. He checked his register and summoned a waitress who immediately led us to a round table.

"Perfect," Becky said. "Now we'll all be able to see each other and get to know one another."

The restaurant specialized in seafood and was only about half full. Not really a good sign for the restaurant's popularity. But I felt confident we'd enjoy our meal. Marsha had recommended both the cuisine and the restaurant. Just a nice regional restaurant, one of several near the Estate, serving middle-priced food.

We navigated to our seats, with a temporary hesitation to make sure each couple could sit together. I ended up between Jessica and Kayko, with the empty seat next to Kayko. Keith tried to sit next to Jessica, but Becky pushed her way in, the better to be next to the celebrity.

"This is so nice," Becky said. I haven't been on a triple since college."

"That couldn't have been too long ago," Kayko said. Becky looked several years younger than the rest of us, probably a year or two out of college.

"Yes. I graduated two years ago. I went to a small college in Southern Illinois, where I'm from. I majored in journalism, and I was lucky enough to get a job here in the Chicago area because my uncle is the editor. I should be a little ashamed to have taken advantage of a family connection, but I'm thrilled to be here."

"And she covers social events," Keith said, with obvious admiration. No question in my mind which he admired more, her business attainments or her physical assets.

"Maybe we should go around the table and introduce ourselves and what we do for a living," Becky said. "That way we'll all get to know each other. I went first. Who wants to go next?"

No one volunteered, suddenly shy.

"I've just completed my residency, and I've started working as a neurologist. I live in a big house." I hoped they found this amusing.

Kayko moved to cup my ear. "A BFT and BFS just said across from us." I remembered Berringer's explanation for those acronyms as "big fucking tall" and "big fucking strong." Kayko added, "He's making no attempt to hide his interest in us. I think this is our stalker."

"Me next," Jessica said. Maybe she was annoyed that Kayko was monopolizing my attention. "Although I need no introduction, I'm Jessica Jeret. I too live in a big house. I'm recently graduated from the finest school of design in Paris. My first showing was an enormous success and I have been living a fairy tale life." I imagined that Jessica was being a little smug. A kind of no-one-will-be-able-to-top-this attitude.

Keith spoke next. "I'm a humble man who lives near a big house and drives a big car. I'm two credits short of an engineering degree."

Kayko leaned over to whisper. "Becky just took his hand. She crazy in love with Keith!" I was glad for Keith, but still nervous about the stalker.

"My turn," Kayko said. "I'm a wandering player, an actress, almost always between parts. I have a married sister and a brand new nephew. My family lives in Philadelphia and I came to the Chicago area to go to school."

"And you're working for Adam," Jessica said. She obviously didn't want Kayko's status to be seen as in any way equal to her own.

The group discussion turned to my party, just a week away. "I'm so excited to be invited," Becky said.

"Here comes Matthew," Kayko said.

He walked up to the table, very handsome, I'm sure. He bent to kiss Kayko on the check, proprietarily. "Hello everyone. Sorry about being late. Big things happening at the store, a late night blue light special." He sat down next to Kayko, and there was a flutter of movement as he put his hand on top of Kayko's. She made no move to remove his hand, but also made no move to cover his hand with her other hand, a lover's gesture.

"What were we all talking about when I arrived?"

"We were all talking about Adam's party. You're coming aren't you?" Becky asked.

"I wouldn't miss it."

Kayko extricated her hand gently so she could lean over to my ear. "Please change the subject if Becky asks Matthew to give his background. He's got an MBA from a very prestigious university, but he's sensitive about talking about himself. Something about his adoption."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Kayko was not downstairs, ready to drive me to work on Monday morning, the first time she hadn't been ready on time. I didn't know what to do. Should I knock on her door? Should I just assume she needed to sleep in or wanted to take a day off?

Jessica's departure on Sunday blocked any opportunity for us, Kayko and I, to perform a post mortem on our triple date, so I was especially looking forward to our talk on the way to work.

I thought the date had gone well, so Kayko couldn't have been angry with me. She was probably thrilled with the way the group bonded. The only sour note, so far as I was concerned, was the stalker. He'd actually had the nerve to also show up at the show even after obviously following us to the restaurant.

I thought back to Sunday afternoon, the last time I'd seen Kayko. She mentioned in passing as she left the Mansion that she had errands to run. No one remembered her returning, but it's a big house and no one is punching a time clock. Maybe she meant to leave a note, but she'd forgotten.

I stood for five minutes in the hallway near her room, looking at my watch, unable to decide if I should disturb her by knocking. I decided that if she didn't want to work that day, or had decided to start late, it was alright with me.

I couldn't begrudge her a morning or a day off. She'd put in plenty of overtime trying to make me seem more human. I thought her efforts were at least partially successful. I now had a full repertoire of pleasantries to say to my patients. I might not be able to smile at them, exactly, but I could show interest and follow-up on past conversations. This strategy seemed to be working. I'd gained a few new patients by recommendation. "Oh, he's a little strange. But he tries hard and knows his stuff."

I couldn't wait any longer, if I wanted to be on time for my first patient. I called Keith and he said he could drive, no problem. I didn't want anyone to see me arrive in the limo, so Keith drove one of the sedans. He was cheerful and talked about Becky as if she were the Holy Grail of girlfriends. "She's so cute and funny. And what, believe me when I say this, what a body!"

After a few turns on the road, Keith asked when Jessica would be coming back. Everyone seemed focused on Jessica's comings and goings.

"She'll be back for the party. I hope she doesn't cut the timing too closely. She travels with a lot of baggage even for a short trip. Checking in and getting through security must take forever."

"I thought the paparazzi army was smaller this morning."

"I thought so too. Lewis said some of the extra security men he'd hired noticed some of them leaving, and he was able to send a few of the guards home. Some of the paparazzi must be catching planes themselves to LA. It'll be a relief to have them gone."

"Will it be a relief to have Jessica gone?"

Should I be honest with Keith? "A little bit. The tumult is upsetting. I'm an everything-in-its-place kind of guy."

"You're not as bad as you used to be. When you were a kid, if you couldn't find a toy, you would shake."

"Thank you for remembering every embarrassing thing I've ever done."

"Hey, what are friends for?"

I dispatched Keith with orders to show up a half hour after my last appointment. Nurse April greeted me.

"Is Dr. Bradley in yet?"

"Yes, and been working for an hour." Was this a reproach? She'd voiced her hope that Dr. Bradley would slow down now that he had me for a partner. He'd transferred over as many patients as he could, needing their permission. As an incentive, the transferred patients had been promised a new, more modern slant on their problems, a starting over with a fresh eye approach. Some of his patients, especially the ones with chronic pain syndrome welcomed any new medication or technique, but knew the chances for real improvement were elusive as best.

"April, I think I've mentioned, or Dr. Bradley may have told you, that I'm trying to decide if I should help in an adoption placement."

Silence for a while from April. What was that about? "No, Dr. Bradley didn't mention that." A short, not terribly helpful or friendly response to my statement.

"I was wondering where Dr. Bradley kept his files on placement. Which file cabinet? Or is it storage?"

Hesitation in response, as if April were struggling with an answer. "I believe those are all in a file cabinet in his main office near his desk. I'm sure it's locked. Privacy you know. People are very sensitive about releasing information about birth parents. Occasionally someone comes in who wants to trace his or her birth parents. State law keeps changing about releasing that kind of information. I'm not sure at this point if we are required to tell an adoptee if she asks. I'd have to contact our attorney."

"I understand. I'll ask Dr. Bradley."

I started towards my main office. I turned back to her with a thought. "Do you recall any patients named Leininger?"

"It doesn't ring a bell offhand, but you're asking an almost impossible question, considering all the patients we've had over so many years. Unless someone had some long-term care, I mean, over the years, I wouldn't recall them."

That's what I thought.

My first few patients were routine cases. My fourth case was the man I'd examined on my first day on the job, the office worker whose body was completely and inexplicably wasted, as if he'd spent his whole life in arduous labor.

Overall, he was worse. Only about two weeks since his last examination, and the man seemed older, greyer, his joints tighter, his reflexes more lax, his trigger points increasing.

"How am I doing, doc?"

I turned away from him, not wanting to betray my thoughts if they showed on my face. This deterioration was simply impossible. Some unknown underlying illness was attacking every organ of his body.

"We're going to try some other medications. Some antivirals, and see what happens. In the meantime, I want you to follow this diet. It's got a lot of antioxidants."

I checked his chart again to make sure of his age. Way too young to look like this. Something was killing him and not slowly. I felt the helplessness of the physician who had no answers.

At my request, he promised to call me in a week to tell me if the antivirals worked at all.

Nurse April came into my office. "A Dr. Haney to see you. Said you know all about his coming in today." Another reproach. She must have awakened in a surly mood this morning. She was generally not so dour or critical.

Haney, the deputy coroner, was the most congenial and friendly man on earth. He grabbed my outstretched hand for a warm handshake. I remembered Kayko's description of him of him as "benign, interested, 50ish, very married."

"It's a pleasure to see you again, doctor."

"Please, it's Adam."

"Adam. I was very surprised to hear from you. I'm still not sure why you're involved in murder investigations."

"Detective Dunne got me involved. Mrs. Hutchings, Esmeralda, has an autistic son, who is the only witness to her murder. Dunne hopes I can talk to the son, but I've been trying to get my best idea of what happened before interviewing him."

"I think that's great. And this must be your first practice." He looked beyond me to the wall where I'd hung my diploma and certifications. My trophy wall.

"Yes. Dr. Bradley was my neurologist, the one my parents went to when my autism became more obvious."

"That speaks well of you that you've had so long a relationship with Dr. Bradley and that he wanted you to be his partner in his practice." This was the kind of comment that only a veteran doctor would give to a promising new physician.

I would have blushed, or perhaps did blush. "I'm bad at receiving compliments, but I appreciate your kind words."

We sat, me behind my desk, him in front of me, on the other side. "So let's get down to it," he said. "First, of course, I was very surprised to hear from you. I wondered why you wanted my involvement in the Mantay case. Then I was also curious about your interest in the Hutchings case, until I made the connection between the two murders, husband and wife, albeit with much time in-between."

I was afraid he thought I was reproaching him for not linking the two murders himself. "You must have done hundreds of autopsies. There's no reason you'd have linked the Hutchings murder to someone with the same last name. I didn't know about any connection until Esmeralda's sister mentioned Hutchings was also murdered."

"You're being kind. I should have made the connection. But you're right. Similarity in names aren't usually enough to set off my warning bells. Too many murder victims share similar names."

"I completely understand."

"Now that I've performed the autopsy on Mantay, I'm also beginning to see similarities between all three murders."

I'd deliberately withheld my suspicions from Haney that I thought all three murders were somehow related, so his statement startled me and confirmed my instincts. But were his findings of similarities simply the result of the power of suggestion? He must have guessed what I was thinking when I remained silent.

"And I'm much too experienced a pathologist to be influenced by the thought that one case may be similar to another."

"I'm listening," I said.

"The most obvious similarity is that the reporter Mantay was shot in the stomach, as was Hutchings and Esmeralda. By the way, it's hard for me to believe that no one came forward as a witness. This man was shot within an encampment, the report said."

"I thought the same thing. I guess the people who make their living off of revealing the hidden, weren't above hiding their own personal involvement."

Haney probably nodded in response. "Anyway, he was shot in the stomach before he was stuffed into the can and incinerated."

"Really, a large trash receptacle, not a dumpster, as the media reports called it. Just a large, tall garbage can, wide enough for his shoulders to pass through."

"I saw pictures of it. But he was bleeding out before he was dumped. We, the county coroner and I, extracted a shell from his stomach."

"I get that all three victims had stomach wounds, but didn't you tell me that Esmeralda died of her neck wound?"

"Yes, but she was shot in the stomach too. The murderer caught her in the stomach but not dead center, as Mantay was shot. The killer probably then kept firing and hit her in the neck."

"Is the bullet the same caliber as in the Esmeralda murder?"

"That's another possible similarity in all three murders. The caliber was small in all three murders, so it's possible. I'll have Chicago lab do the ballistics. But, well, that's not the way I'd do it. Kind of stupid to keep killing people with the same gun."

"Could the way they were all shot be just a coincidence?"

"Sure, why not? Twice and it can be a coincidence. Anything is possible in a world like ours, but three times and it's beyond coincidence. It's a pattern"

I liked that reasoning. I'd have to remember the three's-a-pattern supposition.

Now Haney was curious. "What led you to guess that there would be similarities between the Hutchings and Esmeralda murders and the Mantay cases?"

"Death threats," I said. "I've gotten two anonymous letters. The first urged me to drop the Esmeralda investigation. That was followed by a rear-ender of my car, where, fortunately, Kayko and I weren't much injured. I also got a second letter, looking much the same, that said he, she, or it was still trying to kill me and getting closer. I couldn't help thinking that killing Mantay practically on my front lawn was some kind of message to me."

Haney was quiet, thinking. "You've told Dunne about this?"

"No. Dunne is very hostile to me. He'd order me off the case if he thought someone was threatening me."

"I see, but, if I were you, I'd back off from the case. You're not a professional investigator. This really isn't your problem."

He was right, but my instincts told me that I needed to go on with the investigation for my own peace of mind.

"Did you bring the x-rays of the skull in the Hutchings murder?"

He shuffled through his briefcase and produced some of heavy, black and white, negatives, and handed them over.

I put them on the back-lit viewer. I could see some damage to the forehead where Hutchings head hit the ground as he fell forward after being shot.

"These are all of them?" I asked. "I was hoping for some MRI's of his brain."

"I can't imagine why, but no. The cause of death must was obvious. I was just being thorough by getting an x-ray of Hutching's head. Why, what's the interest in his brain?"

"Esmeralda's sister mentioned a sudden mental deterioration in Hutchings, reducing him from a high ranking manager to a clerk."

"Could have been anything to reduce a man's abilities. Could have been an organic mental problem, as you're suggesting, but could just as easily been psychosis, drugs, alcohol, sniffing glue, or any one of the numberless ways people find to drive themselves into a stupor."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lewis on my cellphone, upset. He caught me as I finished my last patient of the day. I'd allowed Nurse April to book several patients who felt they needed to see me on an urgent basis. It was well beyond dinnertime. I'd called Keith several times to postpone my pick-up.

"I had Marsha check on Ms. Brasen about mid-morning. She wasn't there. Her bed had been made, but Ms. Brasen usually made her own bed, even though Marsha told her one of the maids would do it. So I wasn't immediately concerned. Thinking, perhaps she had decided to leave early to do some shopping.

"When she still didn't appear, I asked everyone if they'd seen her return on Sunday night, but no one could recall talking to her. I went back up to her room, and took the liberty of checking her closet and looking for her suitcase. However, her things were still there, her clothes in the closet, the suitcase was under the bed. I didn't think it was my place to look through her personal things. I did open her bathroom cabinet, being careful not to take note of anything I really shouldn't see, such as her medications, if any, but I saw her toothbrush.

"I still couldn't rule out an early morning appointment. I remained concerned, however."

"Why didn't you call me?" I asked.

"I was reluctant to call. I know you are in with patients, and I didn't want to disturb you or upset you. I discussed with Marsha what we should do, but we decided to wait a few more hours to see if Ms. Brasen appeared."

"Go on."

"Around 3 p.m., I asked Grace if she'd taken any calls from Ms. Brasen. She had not. I asked Keith if he had driven Ms. Brasen anywhere. He had not."

Lewis was going to get to the point soon, so I waited for him to finish his narrative, which, of course, painted a picture of his thoroughness and attention to detail. "Around 6 p.m., Grace gave me the phone. A man with a deep voice said he wanted to talk to you. I told him you were not available at the moment, and could I take a message."

"Yes?"

"He said to tell you that Ms. Brasen was staying with him for a while and that he would call at 10 p.m. and discuss how you could get her back."

I'm sure that sentence ended with an exclamation point.

"Send Keith to bring me home."

My mind raced as I waited. The man, maybe I should just call him the murderer, who was writing me threatening letters said he was getting closer and would keep trying. Now he had Kayko. A chill passed through me. Not only had Kayko become one of my closest friends, but I had put her in danger without giving her the option of withdrawing from the possibility of harm. I hadn't told her about the threats. So far, she'd faced a gunman in the airport with me, had her room and computer searched, been in a rear-end collision that was no accident, and now was kidnapped. All my fault. My selfishness in enjoying her company and care, without regard to her personal safety.

I was too ashamed of myself to tell Keith the whole story as we drove home. "You know I've been involved with this police investigation. That must be what's going on. Someone wants us to stop our investigation."

Keith disagreed. "What's going on is money. Pure and simple. You've got it, and somebody wants it. You're a target. Some loony paparazzi couldn't afford his ticket to LA, so decided he'd snatch Kayko and gouge out a little money from you."

That's one theory, I thought. Maybe the correct theory. The simplest explanation is almost always correct. Looking at the kidnapping through skeptical eyes, the whole matter seemed very amateur, opportunistic. Kayko was there and whoever it was just needed some cash. The call hadn't mentioned doing any physical harm to Kayko, just preventing her from returning home.

But why Kayko? If somebody really wanted to extract a lot of money from the Karls, he'd kidnap Uncle or me. I certainly was a lot more vulnerable than Uncle, who was in an office building with a security staff. I spent my days in a suite in a small medical office building with no security whatsoever, unless Nurse April counted. Why snatch Kayko when I was such an easy target? Maybe whoever it was thought I had a secret army of body guards ready to swoop down at the merest hint of problems.

A feeling of unreality set in. I had a mental image of Kayko, beaten, her delicate body bruised, eyes blackened, alone, shaking, fearful for her life, brutalized.

A chill ran through me. Drowning in events out of my control.

I felt ashamed of myself that all I could do was wait until the next call from the kidnapper. My inactivity made me feel like a coward. I wanted to charge out of the Mansion and go looking for Kayko myself. But where would I look?

I didn't think Kayko was secreted away to any of the nearby estates, owned by people who had been neighbors of the Karls for generations. More likely, Kayko was tied up in one of perhaps 200 rooms at the three nearby motels. These rooms--their doors-- opened directly onto parking lots. Just drive up, park, drag your victim inside.

Worrying about details.

Calling in the police seemed premature, and I was fearful that an alarm would draw a lot of attention, only making a bad situation worse. I was afraid the media would somehow be alerted. I'd just experienced the full force of public scrutiny and wanted to avoid a repeat if at all possible.

Maybe Baba was right and it was best to be secretive.

The best course, I decided, was to call my friend, Officer Berringer, after speaking to the kidnapper. He'd know how to handle the kidnapping in a discreet way. I also felt somewhat assured that Detective Dunne would be arriving in the area the next day. That meant the Chicago police could get involved, if that was helpful.

Another concern was when to call Kayko's parents. I remembered that her father had recent heart surgery. I wanted to avoid shocking Kayko's parents if at all possible. I decided to wait until I had something positive to tell the Brasens. Maybe this kidnapping would turn out to be an elaborate joke. Some experiment in dramatics by Kayko's theater group.

The phone rang at the appointed time. I answered and heard a gurgle I interpreted as a laugh. "I've reached the high and mighty Mr. Karl?"

"Just tell me what you want."

"I want $2 million."

"Or?" This man wasn't very good at following the script for kidnappers I expected from books and stories. He had to be prompted to give me his threat. Was I dealing with an amateur?

"Or, you'll never see Ms. Brasen again."

I wasn't going to haggle over the price. Two million wasn't so much when your family is rolling in money. I'd expected a bigger ransom demand.

My next line, in all the stories I read, was to say I needed time to raise that kind of money. In the stories, this was always done to give the police more time to find the victim. "I need some time to get that much money together."

He didn't seem surprised. He must have read the same script. "I'll call again tomorrow at 9 a.m. sharp." Oh, an early riser on a business day. Very nice work ethic.

He hung up without saying good-by. Not very polite, not a nice guy.

I called Berringer. I didn't know if shock was in his voice. "Ms. Brasen, your nice friend?" I worried he'd ask for a description of her, one I couldn't give him, but felt relieved when I remembered he'd seen her himself.

Berringer efficiently took down all the information about the time we thought Kayko went missing. I told him about the two calls. I felt useless since I could only repeat what Lewis had said, that the man had a deep voice.

"Kidnapping is under Federal jurisdiction. You'll be contacted by Federal agents." Was I going to be shunted from person to person, like I was asking for advice on fixing my computer? "They're probably going to tell you not to pay the ransom. There's no assurance that paying the ransom will get Kayko back. It sounds to me like the kidnapper has some personal vendetta going on against you or your family."

I couldn't dispute that. "I'm still expecting Detective Dunne tomorrow. I told you I was going to ask him to look at the Mantay case. We might be able to get some help from him in the kidnapping."

"Good, I'd like to meet him. I wouldn't assume he knows how to handle a kidnapping, but I don't know."

A thought. "Do you think there's a connection between the murder and the kidnapping?"

"Anything's possible, but it could just be coincidence." Berringer didn't know of all the events leading up to the kidnapping. Everything that had happened was way beyond coincidence. As Haney would say, this was all the way to a pattern.

He asked if I could raise the ransom money.

"I'll have to discuss it with my uncle." I told him we'd keep in touch.

I hated to run to Uncle for help. Whenever I dealt with Uncle, I felt like I was 12 years old and had broken a window playing baseball. I was an adult, 25 years old, and should have been able to handle problems on my own, even extraordinary problems. But I was kidding myself. I could handle a ruptured muscle but not a kidnapping.

My first two efforts to reach Uncle by phone resulted in me talking to secretaries who couldn't quite make the connection to his office. Finally, Uncle called me.

"Hello, is that you Adam? Celeste said you are looking for me."

I imagined Uncle behind his huge desk, putting aside reports and blueprints to handle some family business for his incompetent nephew.

"I've got some bad news." Silence from Uncle. "Kayko has gone missing."

"Missing?"

"Kidnapped. We've received two phone calls. Someone has her and wants ransom money to get her back."

Silence for a while from Uncle. "I promised her parents she'd be safe here."

I expected his next words to be a reproach. Something like "Adam, you're home two weeks, the house is surrounded, someone is dead, and now you've allowed someone in our care to be kidnapped. What's wrong with you?" But what he actually said was "How much?"

"What?"

"Money for the ransom?"

"Two million."

"That seems to be a popular amount to request these days."

I didn't know what he was talking about and didn't want to get distracted by asking. "I don't have that much in my savings. I haven't been extravagant. My allowance covered med school and living expenses. I haven't wanted or needed more, but I've also made some solid investments too and I don't have $2 million dollars."

Silence a while from Uncle. "Well, money isn't the problem."

What the fuck was the problem? "What do you mean?"

"The Corporation is big and operates all over. Kayko was hired by the Corporation. Corporation employees get kidnapped, made hostage, get beaten up, oh, I'd say, a few times a month. We have someone who handles these things."

Interesting, but I didn't want to waste time speculating about the nature of the Corporation.

"It's really a matter of which account pays for the ransom," Uncle said. "I'll have our man who handles this sort of thing contact you. Maybe he can give you some good advice. He'll probably bring a suitcase with bearer bonds. Will that take care of the problem?"

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"You're an idiot. You should have given me these letters as soon as they arrived. You wasted precious time. Too bad this bastard didn't follow through by ridding the world of your sorry ass."

Detective Dunne never hid his contempt for me. In a world full of people who try to be at least civil, Dunne was the exception. Refreshing in an awful way.

He sat in my father's study. Without asking permission, Dunne had taken the chair behind my father's desk, the better to chastise me from a place of authority.

My face could have been red. I was angry. I considered punching Dunne. I hadn't punched anyone in anger since I was 12 at a summer camp for rich kids. A few more insults and I'd be giving back to Dunne a little of what he was spewing forth.

"I asked you to do one simple thing: get something out of an autistic kid and all of a sudden the bodies are starting to fly in all directions."

"So you think this is all related, the Hutchings murders, the Mantay murder, and the kidnapping of Kayko?"

"Yes, they're related because you've stuck your ugly face where it shouldn't be stuck."

Finally, an objective opinion of my looks! This was too good an opportunity to miss.

"What else have I done wrong?"

"You purposely put Kayko in danger to see what would happen."

This stung because it was at least partially true. "I tried to warn her off helping me."

"Bullcrap." I guessed there was an exclamation mark after that word. "Your little world was disturbed and you used her."

I didn't have an answer for that. Maybe I did use her. She saved my life at the airport, then I used her to find out more about the people I've known all my life. Not much was as it had appeared. Maybe nothing.

Dunne went on, satisfaction probably on his face when I couldn't think of anything to justify my actions. "I don't think Kayko was kidnapped only for the money. May not have been kidnapped at all. You haven't begun to understand what's going on."

"Do you understand what's going on?"

"It's not my life, you little twerp." I knew my height, and it was somewhat over six feet. I flexed my neck downward to talk to his voice. No way he was taller than me.

"I have been asking myself why Kayko was kidnapped and not me or one of my family members. We-- me, my uncle, my mother—any of the Karls would certainly justify a bigger ransom demand."

"I don't know." Well, at least being honest.

Nothing further from Dunne for a long while, six beats.

I thought to myself, I might as well take this opportunity to ask: "By the way, is Kayko Asian?"

"Somewhere in her background, maybe a grandparent. Has anyone asked you for money lately?"

I kept silent. Only Jessica had asked me for money. Come to think of it, she'd asked for $2 million to get her company started, the same as the ransom demand. Haney would say that was a coincidence, not yet a pattern, but getting there.

Was Jessica capable of instigating a kidnapping to get money out of me? The feelings of tenderness I had towards Jessica had hidden her from my suspicions. I just couldn't imagine she'd deliberately hurt me, upset me, play such a trick on me.

In any case, I wasn't going to tell Dunne and make Jessica a suspect.

"I'll take your silence," Dunne said, "as a 'yes.' Who would benefit from your loss of Kayko?"

Could Jessica have been jealous of Kayko? Maybe, but I just didn't think someone with Jessica's self-confidence would feel Kayko was that much of a threat.

What about Matthew as a suspect? He may have felt Kayko was too attached to me. Hard for me to believe someone with Matthew's qualities, so extravagantly praised by Uncle, could in any way find me to be a rival for Kayko's affections. I just couldn't believe Matthew felt threatened by someone as odd as me.

Who else would feel I was too attached to Kayko?

I'd never really considered how much Lewis and Marsha knew about my relationship with their daughter. I was being naïve. They surely knew we were sleeping together. Someone who prided himself on thoroughness like Lewis did, would know where in the Mansion Jessica was hiding, had probably known for years. Was she sleeping with me with their tacit approval? Of course. Did they like the idea that their daughter might someday own the Mansion? Probably. And would they want to remove Kayko as a rival?

I only had Lewis' statement about the kidnapper's first phone call, and Lewis hadn't been with me when I answered the second call.

I wouldn't necessarily have caught Lewis' speech patterns during such a short phone call, if he were impersonating a kidnapper. But Lewis was too careful a person to take a chance, no matter how remote, that I would recognize his voice.

Anyway, I just couldn't picture that Lewis and Marsha, the two people most like parents to me, would plot against me. The idea of them abducting Kayko was laughable.

"Who the heck is Kayko, anyhow?"

She's the secret god-daughter of my Uncle. Until she was unmasked, Uncle appeared to have no personal life. "She's a friend of the family."

"She's not a relative?"

"Not that I know of." Could she be a relative?

"Is she dating anyone?"

"Matthew Leininger.

"Who is this guy, Matthew?"

He's someone who appears to be closer to Uncle than I am. Someone I might have been if I were normal. A sporty guy, someone who Kayko likes. An adoptee whose biological parentage is unknown to me. "He's the vice-president of one of the companies owned by my family Corporation."

"What else does the Corporation own?"

I had no idea. I didn't think it actually was a corporation. I thought it was a glorified family business, DBA, doing business as, the Corporation. I didn't know when it was created. I didn't know its reason for being, except to make money. "You'll have to ask my uncle and grandmother that."

"Your grandmother?"

"Baba Yaga."

"Who is she?" he asked.

Ah, that's the question. "Just an old lady. I only see her on family occasions."

"You don't know a hell of a lot, do you?"

"Less all the time."

The phone rang. Nine o'clock, the appointed time to hear from the kidnapper. I picked up the phone and Dunne picked up the extension at the same time so he could listen in.

"Have you got the money?" I had it. A Mr. Lawford, a man without a business card, an employee of the Corporation, had knocked on the door of the Mansion at about 8 a.m, with a suitcase, which he left without any ceremony. I'd looked inside. Bearer bonds. I could have cashed them anywhere. A lot more compact too. Two million dollars, even in large denominations, would be very heavy and too bulky for a suitcase..

"Yes, I've got it."

"I'm going to give you some coordinates." He rattled these off like I was a geographer or a mapmaker. I had him repeat the numbers several times. He seemed to get more upset the longer he was on the line.

"Okay, I have it." I had no idea what the symbols were for longitude and latitude, but I thought that a GPS system would be able to interpret the numbers if in the right order.

"Bring the money, leave it. I'll be able to see if any police are nearby, so don't think you can hide anyone else from me." I figured that he'd selected a drop off place somewhere in the Illinois wilderness. If there still was some wilderness without urban sprawl.

"Does it have to be me?"

"Yes."

"When will Kayko be given back?"

"When I have the money and can get back to where she's hidden."

Dunne nodded.

"Alright. I'll leave with the money as soon as I can get there."

The phone clicked as the kidnapper hung up.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Oh, now your own personal policeman is going to give you advice."

I took this as sarcasm, but said, "I'd appreciate that." No need to start a fight.

He was quiet for a while, which I took as his effort to suppress any further insult. "You'll deliver the money and I'll coordinate with the local authorities. Then I'm going home."

"Do you think we could see him at the drop-off point from an airplane?" I asked.

"Or a satellite or from the moon?"

"That's what I'm getting at."

He was silent for a while. "If he's smart, he'll choose a spot under a lot of foliage where we can't even see what direction he was headed in. Maybe he's a camper, knows the outdoors. If we can't get close, he just could slip away in a forest. Like a bear in the woods."

I pictured Lewis stumbling through the woods and may have smiled.

"I've got one more favor to ask." I could only imagine Dunne becoming apoplectic, but he said nothing. "You know how to call people and give them this kind of bad news. Would you please call Kayko's parents for me? I can't deal with them now."

He agreed with the grace of a pig shaking mud onto a bystander.

Keith drove about 30 miles northwest to within a short distance of the spot indicated by the GPS, as close as we could get and still be on asphalt. Dunne and I had both been right. I was somewhere in the woods. I walked on a dirt access road until I had to step into the foliage.

I used a portable GPS, the one Keith used when he went camping, and walked to the site represented on the screen by a pulsing arrow. I was very cold. The ground was snow covered. I could hear the wind and wished I had worn a hat. My ears hurt from the cold.

I saw no footprints. At least the kidnapper's footprints would be easy to see after he'd picked up the money. That would allow us to estimate his height and, maybe, identify him from the tread marks, if he was ever caught. But, the kidnapper could do something evasive if he was smart, like, for instance, wear snowshoes.

I dropped the suitcase with a clunk next to a tree. My mission accomplished, I retraced my steps, walking carefully in my own tracks, hoping to leave space if the kidnapper was stupid enough to leave us some evidence.

I got back into the limo, my body stiff from the cold, my face feeling frozen and painful.

"Did you find any bears" to clean up this question, defecating "in the woods." Keith asked.

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"Up to the point the ransom demand was made, your Ms. Brasen's abduction was exactly the same in MO, method of operation, as five, possibly six, abductions at shopping centers in the last six months." Agent Willa Davis said.

She sat across from me in my father's office. We both sat in comfortable, stuffed chairs. I pictured my father smoking a cigar and taking small gulps of some liqueur from a huge globular glass while talking to a friend or business associate after a perfect, delightful dinner.

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting." Agent Davis dived into the subject a little fast for me, a non-expert. I'd reached the point in the last few weeks where I wasn't completely ignorant about the world of crime. But Agent Davis was like a crash course without the prerequisites.

"A number of people in their 20's and 30's have been abducted in parking lots at the various large suburban shopping malls. We assume they have been followed through the mall by assailants who are remarkable for their ordinary looks, since no witness has turned up. The victims seem to be chosen by random, except for their ages."

"Is their age significant? Is this some kind of White Slavery thing? Young women abducted, addicted to drugs, and sold into prostitution?"

"No. These people aren't underage woman new to a city women running away from abusive parents or spouses. These are adults, men as well as women. They had active lives, jobs, were well-educated."

"I didn't mean to interrupt. Go on."

"So far as we can piece together, when a victim reached the parking lot, usually quite a way from the stores and the mall, he or she would get abruptly pushed into a waiting car. So more than one person must be involved, the one who decides who will be the victim and his accomplice who is driving."

"Then what? You said there was no ransom involved."

"Then nothing. The victims simply fell off the face of the earth."

A chilling thought. "What are you suggesting? They're being used for their body parts?"

"Possibly. But if that's the case, we aren't seeing these organs locally or seeing them taken on airplanes, which would be the fastest way to get them wherever they'd be going."

"I'm still baffled. You aren't suggesting these people are being used for scientific study, human experimentation?"

"You didn't hear it from me."

A cold hand seemed to grip my throat at the thought. "But then you say, Kayko's case differs because a ransom was requested?"

"Yes. But from what you've told the local police, the person who demanded ransom apparently is a rank amateur, while the abductors I'm talking about are pros."

"Still not following."

"It's as if someone, a very lucky someone as it turns out, became aware of Ms. Brasen's status and took advantage of it."

"A second set of criminals."

"It's possible."

I felt doubtful. "Were you able to trace the calls to my house?"

"No. They came from several cell phones, the kind that can be purchased at convenience stores, then thrown away after one use. Untraceable."

"And how about efforts at the drop off site? Were you able to get a cast of the kidnapper's shoes?"

"More like a partial photo before drifting snow covered up the footprints. But knowing the tread of a boot isn't all that helpful until you have a suspect. The size of the footprints did show a man of average height and weight. You can imagine how unhelpful that is."

"And the man--I'm assuming it's a man--just disappeared in the woods? You couldn't track him?"

"You don't want to know about our ability to survey people on the ground from above, but nothing could cut through the forest foliage. The drop-off point was in a Wisconsin old growth evergreen forest, remember. The wind covered his escape path with snow."

"So he just escaped?"

"He simply was someone who knew his way through the forest. He just kept walking in the forest, never leaving the woods for a highway until darkness set in."

I felt very frustrated, unable to think of anything helpful to add. "

Agent Davis continued. "Was anyone on your staff here in contact with an outsider about the kidnapping?"

I felt angry at the implication. "I see where you're going on this. Most of my staff has been here with my family for a generation, and the newer staff members came highly recommended. They are well paid, and I can't imagine why they would want to take advantage of a bad situation. Also, they were all here when the drop-off was made." I didn't want to tell Agent Davis about the pilfering problem that upset me from the day I returned home from my residency. I felt justified in withholding this information because the leap from taking a few knick-knacks to demanding millions was just too implausible.

"We may have to interview your staff, but, as of now, we agree that an inside job is unlikely."

"We've had a lot of strangers in the general vicinity. You know about the paparazzi village at our front gate, and the unfortunate murder that occurred there?"

"We aren't ruling out a connection. We're working with the local authorities."

"So what happens now?"

"You just have to wait and hope our suspicions are wrong and that the person who demanded ransom really had Ms. Brasen and will release her."

Why wasn't I feeling reassured?

Walking Agent Davis to the door, I thanked her for her help. She must have given me a long look as we shook hands. Trying to remember my face? "We'll be in touch," she said.

I searched out Lewis, but found Marsha. She sat at her desk, which was piled high with Christmas presents. "Nice to see you, Adam. I'm knee deep in wrapping presents for your mother. We're expecting the delivery in a few days of a beautiful Douglas Fir for the main room. The perfect Christmas tree. It'll make the party extra special. We'll start decorating as soon as the tree arrives."

"I know you're super busy, but can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, dear."

"Thinking back to when Kayko went missing, did you make or receive any phone calls?"

She was silent for a while, thinking.

"Well, let's see, I didn't make too many calls. This was Monday afternoon and evening. I may have talked to the florist. Yes, I'm sure I talked to the florist about the center pieces. The wife of the florist is the expert on center pieces, and I probably talked to her at home. Wait until you see what she's come up with. Your guests will gasp."

I was sure they would. "Did you talk to Jessica?"

"I'm sure I did. I talk to her every day. Not that she tells me anything important. She's afraid I'll disapprove, and I would."

"Did you mention that Kayko was missing?"

"It's possible. We just chatted away. She was excited about her company and its progress. I can't remember specifically everything we talked about, but I may have mentioned that her father was very upset that Kayko could not be located. I was worried about him as well as about Kayko. She's such a lovely girl. So nice and polite. Do you think she'll be back soon? This whole kidnapping business is so horrible."

I reassured Marsha that everything was being done that could be done, and that a Federal Agent had just given me a rundown of the continuing investigation.

I didn't know what else I could do.

I dimly remembered that when I asked Uncle for the ransom money, he'd made a comment I couldn't understand. I thought back. When I asked him for $2 million ransom, he'd said something about this seeming "to be a popular amount to request these days."

What did he mean by that?

I called Uncle in his office, and, again, after reaching a few different secretaries, reached Uncle.

"How goes the search for Kayko? Have you contacted her parents?"

"I had a Chicago police detective who's helping in the investigation call her parents. I thought he'd know how best to break the news."

"That was a good idea. I feel bad that someone under our protection has gone missing. I may call her parents tonight. You know I knew them in college and I've kept in touch, more or less, with her father."

"So I understand. I need to ask you a question."

"Go ahead."

"When I called you about the ransom money, you said something about the $2 million being a popular amount to request."

"I recall that."

"What was that about?"

"Well, I didn't want to mention it. I know you really care about Jessica."

"This has something to do with Jessica?"

"Yes, she asked me for $2 million to help launch her line. I had my doubts, the same as I would for any business proposition, and I asked for a detailed business plan. You know, I get requests like this all the time, but I don't just give the money away until I'm sure there's a good chance for the enterprise to be successful."

"I understand."

"Another concern I had . . . Well, I know she's special to you, but she's always been a very headstrong girl, likes to have her way. I don't mean this as criticism, exactly."

"I get you."

"I just didn't feel confident enough in her venture to invest $2 million. She seemed reluctant to take the time to draw up a plan for me to examine, and I haven't heard back from her. I hope this isn't irritating to you. And then the request for a $2 million ransom came up just a few days later. I was just remarking about the coincidence."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mr. Rossi, my patient with the mysterious wasting disease, was dying. His wife called, hoping I would come to their home.

"He really likes you and wants to say good-by. I think he's hoping you'll find out what went wrong with him, and figure out how to help others. So his death isn't for nothing."

A house call was pretty rare for a specialist, but I felt I had a closer doctor-patient relationship with Rossi than in most cases, even if I'd only treated him for a short while. Besides, his illness was a mystery, one I wanted to solve, along with the other inexplicables of my current life.

I told Nurse April to move my remaining two morning appointments to the afternoon. With Kayko still missing 24 hours after the money drop-off and Keith performing other necessary duties, I had to drive myself.

I missed Kayko terribly.

I spent the drive trying to review Rossi's case in my mind. A middle class, white collar supervisor in his early 40's whose body had collapsed as if he had a lifetime of arduous labor. My guess was he suffered from an, as yet, unidentified form of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, with the Epstein-Barr virus being the trigger. That's why I'd given him a course of anti-virals after his most recent exam. Obviously, the anti-virals did nothing to help him.

I drove to a typical suburban neighborhood, and parked on the driveway. I carried my black doctor's bag.

Mrs. Rossi greeted me at the door. I'd talked to her briefly when she accompanied her husband for his appointments. Kayko's description of her was that she as "a lovely middle aged woman, under a great strain, much in love with her husband."

I shook hands with the Rossi children, two teenagers, a boy and a girl. I greatly wished I was the hero doctor who could save their father. Instead, I felt more like I was a priest come to give the last rites.

Mrs. Rossi brought me to the bedside. Rossi tried but was unable to lift his hand to touch mine. I placed my hand on his. I hoped my bedside manner, as taught by Kayko, would be consoling.

Rossi struggled to talk but couldn't.

Mrs. Rossi intervened. "He's weak, but he wanted me to tell you about the rumors that others at his work are suffering similar problems."

This was new. He hadn't mentioned that anyone else was sick.

"These are people he knows?" I had a scientist's skepticism about work generated syndromes. These stories, usually found eventually to be apocryphal, revolved around illnesses in a disproportionate number at a business or in a small community or neighborhood.

Typically, several employees, out of nowhere, come down with a rare form of cancer, and the investigators are stumped as to the cause. Speculation centers on some kind of unknown environmental factor. The walls of the business are stripped down to the studs and nails, but nothing is ever discovered. Rumors persist that something in the air, maybe in the carpeting, is the cause, but no conclusions are ever reached. The dying employees are well compensated by the company and sign agreements to remain silent. End of story.

"No one in his unit was affected except for him, but he heard of at least two other cases in other parts of the building."

The problem with these reports is that they aren't scientific research but just anecdotal reports, usually not even third person hearsay, but fourth or fifth person rumors.

Mrs. Rossi said she didn't have any names of similar victims, but gave me the exact address of Rossi's employer and the company name. I wrote them down carefully. I intended to look up the company and to search for other stories of similar illnesses when I could get to a computer.

"Is this a medical company of some sort or does it deal with chemicals, such as solvents, dangerous or otherwise?"

"No, nothing like that. Just a company selling a product. But I have heard, through the grapevine, that it does have a research floor."

Ah, the great, universal fear that mad scientists are cooking up something awful in their mountaintop laboratories. The Frankensteins of the future.

The truth is that research into new medications benefits everyone. Most medical research is carried out at a great financial loss to the companies involved, with only a tiny per cent leading to the kind of medications that are profitable. The few successes finance the overwhelmingly unprofitable medications.

I listened to Rossi's heart with my stethoscope. His heart sounds were very weak. I could hear his lungs straining. Death was coming and nothing mere mortals could do would stave off the inevitable.

I tried to think like a medical detective. If Rossi had some kind of virus, it must be the kind that is very difficult to catch. Otherwise, all of the Rossi family would already be infected. He must have come into some kind of direct contact to a source of contagion. He'd been in the wrong place when some virus had escaped its captivity. Or been the subject of a deliberate effort to infect him. My mind rejected this theory, too Dr. Frankenstein. I couldn't comprehend that kind of evil intent.

"He wants to die here, with his family," Mrs. Rossi said.

"I understand. I'll assign a home health nurse." What Rossi needed was a respirator, but I wasn't going to argue with a family's desire for a parent to die with some dignity.

I returned to the office. The afternoon appointments were at least time consuming.

Lewis greeted me as I entered the Mansion. "Anything new about Ms. Brasen? Anything from the police, or from your horrid friend, Mr. Dunne?" "

"Nothing new. The kidnapper said she'd be returned as soon as he could get back to her. Unless she was hidden in South America, he didn't keep his word."

"The word of a criminal."

"No need to remind me. Any word about when the Brasens will be arriving?"

"Mrs. Brasen, Kayko's mother, will be arriving tonight, after dinner. Mr. Brasen is too convalescent to make the trip."

I dreaded meeting Kayko's mother and the guilt I'd feel. I took the pause in the conversation to change the subject. "How goes the party preparations?"

Nothing would persuade Marsha or Mother from cancelling the festivities. Between the two it was decided: cancelling the party would only put our dampened spirits on public display. No one must ever see the Karls faltering. Besides, informing the invited that the party was off would be the height of tediousness, Mother said.

"The party plans proceed as if nothing has happened," Lewis said. "Marsha assures me she has everything under control. As you know, Adam, she is a master party planner. No one is better." Lewis' chest expanded with family pride.

"And is Mother being helpful or her usual self?"

"Each does as much as one can. Your mother is pressing herself to the maximum, buying a great number of Christmas presents."

I'd never thought of purchasing presents as being a heroic act, but what did I know?

"And Jessica will be returning when?"

"I have her probable schedule and the number of her flights for an after dinner Friday arrival, but she indicated that her business dealings may cause her to arrive during the night or even early Saturday morning."

"It sounds like she is making good progress. We should see a line of her clothes in the stores fairly soon."

Lewis remained silent, indicating clearly his desire to avoid all further discussion about his daughter. "Will the security cameras be ready for Saturday?" I asked.

"Some of the security cameras we ordered will be set up by then, but just including the public areas, as you wanted. I have been in contract with Officer Berringer. He said he would not be in uniform at the party. Is that what you wanted?"

"Yes, unobtrusive security. He'll just be there if we need him. I want to make sure that no one enters who wasn't invited, and that no one gets so drunk, he's abusive. That kind of thing. So no one makes a scene and ruins the party."

"One last thing," Lewis said. "Ms. Brasen indicated before she went missing that you'd given permission for some more of her theater friends to be invited. Is that still what you want? It's already Tuesday, and an invitation later in the week for a Saturday event would probably be thought rude."

Should we act like Kayko would not return? The thought was painful. "No, go ahead and invite whoever she added to the guest list." If the worst case scenario occurred, if Kayko did not return or if she were found dead or injured, her friends wouldn't want to party anyway. Chilling thought.

I finally escaped Lewis and went to my room, where I was happy to find no new threatening letters. I sat down wearily at my desk, woke my computer up from its hibernation, and keyed in the name of Rossi's company.

Much more information was available than I'd found about my family's Corporation. This company manufactured and sold a number of diverse products. Its stock was publicly traded. Nothing sinister here.

I was startled to discover that Rossi's company owned the company where Esmeralda and her husband had both worked. Where Hutchings had been some kind of executive until he'd suffered some kind of mental impairment or breakdown. Ha, another coincidence, I thought. Small world.

I spent a great deal of time trying to find out who was the chief executive officer of Rossi's company. I finally found his name in a reprinted article about a company event. His name, Stan Hagel, was familiar. I looked up his picture. Mr. Hagel had been a visitor at the Mansion. More than once.

I wondered if my family business, the Corporation, owned Rossi's Company.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Don't count Kayko out. She's a fighter. Her kidnapper is probably sorry he ever even thought about abducting her."

Mrs. Brasen, who seemed taller than Kayko, was herself a feisty and full-of-life woman. I must have appeared very discouraged, and Mrs. Brasen, Corinne, was trying to cheer me up. A role reversal. A pep-talk from someone who was only presenting a confident façade.

"I know Kayko is a resourceful woman, and smart."

"And sure to walk through that door as soon as she reduces her kidnapper to dogmeat."

The flurry of activity required to usher her into the house and bring her bags upstairs had given me some time to catch my breath. Dinner was hours in the past and the drive from O'Hare to the far northern suburbs had taken Keith longer than I'd expected. Or maybe time seemed longer while I worried.

Sitting across from Corinne at our dinette, I wondered how Kayko had described me to her. Did I meet her expectations, or was I better, or more, likely, worse than her preconceptions of me? "Kayko told me so much about you, I feel like I know you." Was that good, I wondered? "And I can see the resemblance between you and your Uncle."

No one else had noted the resemblance. Was Uncle handsome, by any chance? "I understand that you and your husband know my Uncle very well."

"Oh yes, good old friends, from college. I met your Uncle the first week of school. Such a nice man, so handsome." Truly handsome or was this just a prejudiced opinion, colored by love and affection? "Your Uncle, Wally, introduced me to my future husband, Micah. Did Kayko tell you that?"

No, and she didn't tell me lots of things, and I was never going to get used to someone calling my uncle Wally. "She may have told me. I don't recall."

"Yes, and we three were inseparable."

"Did you and my Uncle date?"

"We were together for quite a while, then I realized I had feelings for Micah. Wally was quite good about it and the break-up was very amiable. We all remained friends."

Again, my Uncle stepped aside without any rancor when a woman he was dating chose another man. Uncle was either a saint or someone able to hide his anger.

"How is Mr. Brasen?"

"Much better. We expect him to be released any day now to return to work."

"That must be a great relief for you."

"Yes, I knew in my heart that he'd pull through."

There was that optimism that poured from her. "It was a double by-pass?"

"A triple. I wonder how all that plaque managed to get into the vessels of such a young, active man."

"As a physician, I've seen many such cases. We still don't know all that much about what causes heart disease, why one man is untouched and another has clogged arteries."

"Kayko told me what a brilliant physician you are."

If I was so brilliant, why didn't I know what was going on in front of my face? "Kayko was being kind. I'm just a . . ." what? A poor, country doctor riding to his next appointment on the back of a horse? ". . . an inexperienced neurologist." An awkward pause, while I tried to think of something to keep the conversation going. "You know, maybe Kayko has explained this to you, I have difficulty in putting facial features together. For instance, I don't see any ethnic differences."

"How interesting! Maybe the world would be a better place if we all could just treat everyone as people and get past the ethnic differences."

I hadn't thought of my autism as being politically correct. "Well, I hope this isn't something that will offend you, but someone mentioned this, and I didn't know what to say. I know Kayko is beautiful." On safe ground here, all mothers think their daughters are beautiful. "But I'm curious and never got up the nerve to ask her. But, are you, is Kayko . . . does she have some Asian ancestry?"

I hope that I would hear would be an amused, tolerant laugh and not a snort of anger. "Kayko really hasn't told you very much. Kayko definitely has some Asian ancestry. Didn't she tell you she was adopted?"

No, but no one tells me anything. "No, I can't recall that her adoption ever came up in conversation."

"Micah and I couldn't have children. Your Uncle said he'd heard of an available baby and his lawyer . . . oh what was his name?"

"Millwell?"

"Yes, and a personal physician . . ."

"Dr. Bradley?"

"Yes, they .arranged for us to adopt this beautiful baby girl. Our second daughter, our surprise child, is our biological child."

"Interesting." So Uncle supplied Kayko and became her godfather.

A thought I couldn't repress. Was Kayko my Uncle's illegitimate child? Worse thought. Was she my first cousin?

I couldn't sleep when I finally got to bed. My mind whirled around. Who was Kayko and why had she come into my life?

I called Keith around 2 a.m. He hadn't been to sleep. I heard music in the background. I wondered if Becky the reporteress was visiting, but doubted their relationship had progressed to the point where she stayed overnight.

"Are you alone?" I asked.

"Me and my fantasies."

"No Becky?"

"I wish. What's up?"

"Do you know the meaning of 'breaking and entering?'"

Keith faked irritation. "Can't you just look these things up? You know how to use the search engines."

"No, I want you to help me get some information?"

"Why? What?"

"I can't tell you. It might get you killed." I needed to be clear with people. Tell them if they helped me, they might be in danger. Dunne had made his point.

"In that case, I'll help. Nothing like beginning the day with risking your life."

"It won't be breaking and entering exactly, since I have a key. But you'll need to bring your lock-picks."

"Whatever. I'll drive one of the cars up to the front door in 15 minutes."

Keith and I drove to my office, a very quiet trip with few cars on the road. "So, let me guess," he said. "We're going to your office and you want me to get something out of something locked."

"I'll tell you when we get there."

The coffee shop across from my office was closed, one of the few times I'd seen the sign dark and the shop itself empty. The whole area looked strange to me, the transformative effect of darkness. We parked in the lot of the coffee shop, in an area not visible from the street or to a passing patrol car. I didn't want to excite any interest.

We walked across the street. The coldest part of the night, the street light illuminating the clouds of hot air coming from my mouth. I took off my gloves to take my keys out of my pocket. I opened the front entry door and the door into our medical suite.

I didn't want to turn on the lights, fearing attention. Fortunately, Keith had a flashlight. A huge flashlight, handy for illuminating during a tornado or for knocking out any passer-by who'd become curious.

We walked behind the cone of light. I directed Keith to Dr. Bradley's office, the one with the large desk. I motioned towards a locked file cabinet.

"What do you want to know? Who among Dr. Bradley's patients has carpal tunnel?"

"Just get it open." I didn't think I owed Keith an explanation and was very hesitant to give out the information that Kayko may have been a relative. Keith's advice about Kayko always included encouragement to "grab her ass." A potential violation of incest laws as stated specifically in the statutes of the State of Illinois. Lucky I hadn't taken Keith's advice. Score one for shyness on my part.

I held the flashlight so he'd have a clear view of the lock on the top right casing above the first drawer of the tall, six drawer cabinet. I realized that some Federal law was being violated. The rules of patient privacy are very strict. If a patient actually read the waiver he or she was required to sign before being treated, he or she would know that access to their records was strictly limited to their personal physician and his nursing staff.

"This isn't an ordinary file cabinet, and the lock is much more complicated than the ones in your father's old office." That made me wonder where Keith practiced his lock picking skills. "I'm not sure I have the right picks with me." He took a felt bag from his pocket and loosened the little tie-string at the top. He withdrew several long metal sticks with various shaped heads.

Keith made some tentative motions while trying to get an angle for the picks to enter. He seemed to be making some progress on the tumblers, then abruptly stopped. "It's impossible with this equipment, Adam. Sorry, either I'll have to find a local crooked locksmith or I'll have to go back into the catalogs and get some more complicated tools. It could take a few weeks." He thought about this for a moment. "This could be the beginning of a new career for me."

I was disappointed, but understood. "Alright, I'll pay for the equipment, but don't start breaking into the homes of our neighbors."

"OK, I'll start in some other suburb." His mood sobered. "Was this so important someone will die without this information? Couldn't you just ask Bradley?

What if Dr. Bradley wouldn't tell me? What if he were afraid to tell me?

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Do you believe in evil, Dr. Karl?" Mrs. Mantey, Kara, asked.

We sat in her small living room in the city. An expensive apartment on the Gold Coast, but small. I assumed it was a two bedroom apartment, with her two children sharing one room. The living room served as a dining room on one end. The rest of the room was two sofas and a small play area for the children. They, she and the late Mr. Mantey, must have paid dearly to be this close to downtown, at the cost of adequate living space.

Her children, both under the age of five, were asleep.

Keith waited downstairs.

Still no word about Kayko, I'd gone to work on Wednesday with a heavy heart. Trying to distract myself, I'd called Mrs. Mantay, Kara, and asked if I could come to speak to her. I'd introduced myself and explained how badly my family felt about her tragedy. That I wanted to deliver our condolences in person.

She was still reluctant, said she appreciated my concern but a trip into the city wasn't necessary. I said that I really didn't mind the trip and was hoping I could somehow help in the murder investigation. I told her I might have a different point of view as a physician. That I might ask questions "outside the box" or which were based on a familiarity with the murder scene, that might help the police.

She was still reluctant, said she'd told the police everything she could think was relevant. She'd been told by the police that Mantay's murder was a random homicide, and she doubted that anything I learned by talking to her would change the mind of the authorities. But if I felt I could help, I could visit. Maybe she was being generous, willing to help me to assuage my obvious sense of guilt for allowing a dangerous mob scene to be created at my front door.

Her husband's was only one day in the grave. She was upset, but oriented in all three spheres, as psychologists like to say. She could correctly identify familiar individuals, the date/time and the place. Her affect was flat and her mood depressed.

I'd given her my statement about autism. For once, this seemed to make someone more open, as if we shared the same miserable reality together.

I guessed she was about five years older than myself, about 30, based on the ages of her children. I supposed she talked with a worldly weariness.

Would Kayko have liked Kara? Kayko would have been filled with compassion and would have been able to set Kara at ease. She'd convey concern, ask a few questions about the children. Jessica, on the other hand, wouldn't have given Kara the time of day. Too ordinary, and now that her husband the journalist was gone, of no use.

Kara asked more questions than she answered. I struggled with her question about whether evil existed in the world. "I'd be more interested in knowing what you think," I said. "I'm a scientist. I don't do abstract philosophical or religious principles very well."

She shook her head, probably sadly. "I mean, do you think there is a devil lurking, whispering in people's ears to do bad?" She answered her own question before I could answer. "I don't. At least I didn't. I've always felt that most of the problems of the world are caused by indifference and greed."

I couldn't disagree with that. "What did your husband think?"

"Alex was the classic liberal. He thought he could make the world better. A meliorist."

"I'm not . . . I'm not totally sure I know what that means," I said. I wasn't sure Kara and I were talking in the same language. I'd avoided anything about philosophy in college, except during a short discussion in a course on medical ethics.

"Someone who believes that society is getting better and that individuals can actively work to help this process."

"An idealist then. Yes, I don't see mankind as being hopeless either. I think things can be made better through our efforts. I don't think a doctor could feel any different. Each day, we physicians are trying to make people better."

"I think you're probably stretching the concept." She must have sighed. "Alex was so much better at these conversations."

"His journalism work? He tried to expose the evil, well, let's call it, the harmful things in the world?"

"Yes," she said. "But let's just talk about harmful things. Because evil is such a slippery concept."

"He'd exposed some very scandalous situations, abuses, illegal things?"

"Yes. He was a wonderful investigator. Computers were his sword. The computer is mightier than the sword. He could find out almost anything."

"He must have been very adept."

"Yes, a talent for unearthing the hidden." She must have shivered. I guessed she'd reminded herself that Alex was now beneath the earth.

"Was he . . . a conspiratalist? Did he believe in secret organizations controlling the world or trying to?"

"No, nothing so grandiose as that. He wasn't really into politics or witch hunts. He seemed more interested in human nature, what people would do if given a chance to be good or to be bad."

"I'm not sure I'm following you." I saw the opportunity to pose the question I needed to get answered. "Do you know what he was investigating at the time of his death?"

"Alex felt he'd found an ancient criminal organization. Not out to dominate the world. Not at all. Just happy to provide whatever people or nations needed to be at their worst. And make a profit."

"Do you really think such an organization exists?"

"Alex did. And why not? Police are always fighting organized crime."

"But this organization he was researching? This was different from what we in Chicago call the Outfit?"

"Yes. He was fascinated with the thought that some criminal organization had existed from time immemorial, long established, functioning for many generations. Something, some group, with no moral values at all, operating outside society."

Kara might not believe her husband was a conspiratalist, but what she was proposing certainly sounded like that to me. Stripped of the philosophic crap, she was suggesting a criminal organization existing through the centuries.

But wouldn't such an organization fall apart from competition within? Don't all things fall apart eventually? Jealousy, factions, in-fighting. That kind of thing undermining the structure. The whole concept made me a little dizzy and certainly very skeptical.

As I rose to leave, I thanked her for talking to me. I told her I felt terrible that her husband's murder had occurred on my doorstep.

Not much else to say. I thought about promising her I would help her with the police or give her any other help, but hesitated. I didn't feel I should say I felt responsible for her husband's death. I had my doubts and suspicions, but nothing solid to show that I was somehow responsible for his death. Was I responsible?

Driving home, Keith asked me what I'd learned. "A criminal organization is not trying to take over the world."

"Well, that's a relief," he said.

I called Berringer from the limo on my way home.

"Hello, I meant to call you," he said.

I didn't even mention talking to Mrs. Mantay, because I didn't think I'd discovered anything useful. Instead I concentrated on Kayko's kidnapping. "Any news about Kayko? Any new developments?"

"Sorry, we've heard nothing further here about the kidnapping, the kidnappers, or her return."

Disappointed, I still wanted to be polite. "Thanks for the update. Keep in touch about this, would you?"

"Of course. Also, before I forget. Do you want me to come to the party an hour early, just to check things out? Lewis thought a half-hour would be sufficient. Also, can I bring anything? Wine, or what's appropriate? Also, thanks about letting me bring Brittany."

"Sure to coming an hour earlier, rather than a half hour, if you feel that's a better idea. Bring wine if you want." I had no idea what was appropriate, and felt strongly the loss of Kayko's advice on the subject. "Who's Brittany? Your latest conquest?"

"Yeah. You'll like her. She can do cartwheels."

"Great! If there's a pause in the festivities, we can have a talent show." I paused, trying to think of my talent. Treating a torn meniscus? "Anything else? Any luck with unencrypting what was on Mantay's laptop?" Slipping in the real question with real finesse.

"No, and it's now a non-issue. No need to concern yourself about the laptop anymore."

"Huh?"

"Our guy the computer expert couldn't get through the encryption. We notified the Chicago PD that we were sending the laptop to their expert. But when we checked before sending the laptop out, its hard disk was blank. Wiped, and not just deleted, but completely, irretrievably gone, reformatted."

I felt a rush of guilt. Had Berringer taken my concern about what was on the laptop and overzealously acted to protect me? Of course I also felt relieved that anything that would put my family in a bad light was gone. But I had the sinking feeling I'd done something really wrong. Corrupted a cop.

But maybe someone else besides Berringer had been responsible. "Was the laptop shown to Detective Dunne when he visited headquarters?"

"I believe it was."

"Was he alone with it? Was the laptop wiped clean before or after Dunne was there?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"I guess not. What else did Dunne say?"

"I was only with him a short time. He's like talking to a frontier sheriff. His time is so far in the past, I wonder why he keeps on going."

I felt the same way. "He must be well beyond retirement age. Or there's something I don't know about the retirement age for cops. I thought they pretty much pushed them out at 55."

"Can be even earlier. If Dunne is getting away with extending his career, he must be using his status as a living legend. I meant to tell you I went to the library, it's across from the police station you know, and got that book out that Dunne and some writer collaborated on, talking about some of his greatest cases."

"Any good?"

"I haven't gotten into it much, only a few pages. It's been busy here."

"I'm curious about Dunne. Wondering what I've done to make him hate me so much."

"He probably hates everybody. Some cops are like that. Maybe that's the best way."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sitting at my desk at the office, filling time until the next patient, I remembered something else Uncle said when I requested ransom money for the still missing Kayko. He'd said that Kayko was an employee of the Corporation. So not an employee of me or my family, as I'd assumed. I'd asked Lewis in an off moment if he also worked for the Corporation. Yes, he got his paycheck, hospitalization and other benefits, all from the Corporation. Keith also was an employee of the Corporation.

Not so surprising, really. Based on my other recent discovery that the Corporation really was just a front for my family.

I wondered if the Corporation owned the Estate. I could go, I thought, to the Recorder of Deeds for our county and look up the paperwork. Find out when the Estate was purchased by my family or the Corporation. The date of the deed might tell me something relevant to my family history.

Or not. So what if the Corporation owned the Estate as of a certain date? Ownership can be hidden in many different, Byzantine, ways. Even if title had been held by an actual person before the Karls took possession, wasn't it possible that the person who sold the property was simply a stand-in, an agent, for the Karls?

Another thing I didn't know. Was my father born in the United States? I'd assumed he always lived at the Estate, as I had. But, so far as I knew, my grandmother, Baba, was European. I couldn't remember anymore who told me that. Probably Lewis when I was a teenager. He'd probably made this assumption based only on her accent. I believed Lewis when he told me he didn't know Baba's native country, given the secrecy that surrounded everything about the Karls.

If Baba had ever lived at the Estate, why wasn't there anything of a personal nature she'd left there? I'd walked through the Mansion many times, but never seen even a photograph of Baba, much less a family portrait or a family heirloom.

I decided to draw a timeline for my family, based on what little I knew. I tore out a piece of paper from a notepad, provided by a medical supply representative, which cheerfully advertised a new Alzheimer's medication. How appropriate!

Baba and Mr. X, my grandfather, had two children, Father and Uncle, a year apart in age, my father being the elder. So far as I knew, my father and Uncle were both U.S. citizens. Could I assume they were born in the United States? They could also be U.S. citizens if their parents were U.S. citizens, even if they were born outside of the United States. Baba could have been a U.S. citizen or a naturalized citizen, or even a person with dual citizenship, in that case. Or they, my father and uncle, were born in the United States and Baba was a citizen of some other country. Maybe Mr. X, my grandfather, was also European.

Or not. At some point, Father and Uncle lived at the Estate, either because they were born in a nearby hospital or because they were brought to the Estate from wherever else they could have been born. For example, the entire world. I could go to the local Bureau of Vital Statistics and look for birth certificates.

Mr. X, my grandfather, apparently dropped off the face of the earth sometime after the birth of my father and Uncle. He could be buried in a cemetery close to the Estate. I didn't recall my father speaking about his father, but I was very young. Uncle never mentioned his father, did not visit his grave, and had not named a charitable foundation after him, to my knowledge. Why not? If I wanted to know more about my grandfather, I could look for my grandfather's death certificate, or wander through our local cemeteries looking at tombstones.

Father died just before reaching age 30. I was 7 then, so he must have been about 23 when I was born. Uncle would have been a year younger, 22, at the time of my birth.

How old was my father when he married? I didn't know that either.

Lewis was hired, he said, shortly after the marriage of Father and Mother, and before my birth. He married Marsha, also hired after my parents' marriage, and they had Jessica after I was born. I was about two years older than Jessica.

If Father was around 23 at the time of my birth, he must have married in his early 20's. My mother could have been in her late teens or just 20 when they married, since I knew she was about 27 at the time of his death. Since I was 7 at the time of my father's death, I must have been born when my mother was around 20 years old.

Hadn't Baba objected to her son marrying at such a young age? If so, no one had mentioned her distress to me.

So looking at Uncle's timeline, he met my mother, dated her, and surrendered her to my father, all before she married and gave birth to me when she was around 20 years of age.

Kayko was only a year younger than me. She'd told me that. So she was born when my father was 24. Uncle, who'd met and dated Kayko's mother, Kara, in college would have been about 23 when he helped place Kayko.

Did Uncle meet Kara before or after he'd dated Mother and she'd ended their relationship to marry my father? I couldn't know yet, but thought the likely sequence was Uncle lost Mother, then lost Kara, then helped Kara adopt Kayko.

Were Father, Uncle, Mother, and Kara all in college together? If so, did Kara know my mother and father?

Also who was Uncle dating at the time Kayko was conceived, and was he her father?

If my head could spin 180 degrees around my neck!

My appointments finished and having a car because Keith was too busy shuttling my mother, I decided to drive to our county's Bureau of Vital Statistics.

I found the Bureau in a dimly lit corner in the basement of a county building. The Bureau, which was no more than a sign and some square footage, was monitored by a woman who acted like her day was ruined by my presence.

I was most curious about my grandfather. I knew my father and uncle had birth certificates somewhere, but I knew nothing about Grandfather X. I decided to start with the death certificates from a year before Uncle's birth. Figuring, rationally enough, that my grandfather must have been alive at the time of Uncle's conception.

Disappointed that the records were digitized for only the past 25 years, I went to the shelves where the actual copies of death certificates were bound in huge multi-year volumes. Lugging a heavy book, I staggered over to the one tiny carrel provided by the county for the perusal of old records. I sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair, where generations of researchers had worn the varnish off its seat.

Even at the date where I started, the county was well established and had been under development for more than 100 years. Farmers moved elsewhere when the lakefront became populated with businessmen who'd made their fortunes in the city. The newly wealthy wanted country estates.

I started to look for the Karl name at the top of the documents, but remembered what my step-father had said, that Baba kept her maiden name. My grandfather's surname was unknown, so I looked at the addresses of the deceased, hoping to find the address of the Estate.

Flipping through the pages, I finally found a death at the Estate when Uncle was 17 and Father was 18, so possibly just before Father left for college. The man's name was Michael Samuelson. My real name, following the Anglo-Saxon practice, was apparently Adam Samuelson. I liked that. Dr. Adam Samuelson. The whole "son" bit, made me feel like I was a part of long line of actual people.

I looked for the cause of death, thinking that I, as a physician, would be able to interpret the medical jargon of some long-dead old country doctor.

The cause of death was "accidental death, fatal trauma, gunshot to the head."

I must have gasped because the woman tending the Bureau's desk came by and gave me a long look.

That was also how my father died. Shot in the head.

Another coincidence.

I hoped I was wrong and this death certificate was not my grandfather's. After all, the Estate must have had a predecessor to Lewis, and many other domestics. No reason to jump to the conclusion that the deceased was my grandfather.

I needed further confirmation. I didn't want to believe my grandfather was also murdered.

I asked the woman, who probably thought I was dangerously insane, if I could use her computer. She agreed quickly and moved as far away from me as she could as I took over her desk. A search engine confirmed that the local newspaper was digitized and archived for the time period involved.

The screen showed a facsimile of the front page of the newspaper issued after the date of death in question. At the bottom of the third page, I found a paragraph under the headline, "Local Man Killed in Hunting Accident":

"The tragic accidental death of Michael Samuelson [of the Estate's address], a resident of 15 years, while hunting, was reported this week by family members. The late Mr. Samuelson, an investor, was well known for his charity and membership in the [local church]. He was pronounced dead on arrival at [the local hospital]. Funeral arrangements have not yet been announced."

If they had nothing to hide, then why remain silent about such a tragic accident? Had my family used its influence to cover up a murder? Probably.

I strained to remember if my father or uncle ever mentioned hunting as a hobby. Nothing. Not only had they never mentioned my grandfather, they'd never indicated the least interest in the sport of hunting. I'd never seen Uncle in hunting gear or heard him boast of bringing down a goose. We'd never even remotely had a hunting dog.

My imagination ran wild.

Did Uncle shoot my grandfather?

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY

"My husband, James is dead." A sad voice over the telephone. Mrs. Rossi, the wife of my patient who suffered from a strange wasting disease. "He held out with all his strength to the end."

"I'm so sorry." I rebalanced the cell phone so I could hear better. "He was a very good man."

"How I know it."

"Have the funeral arrangements been set?"

"Not yet. Are you thinking of coming? It would mean a lot to my family."

"I'll certainly be there." This was the death of my first private patient. Others had died in the emergency room during my residency, but I'd had nothing like a personal relationship with any of them.

"James wanted me to give you something, an address."

"An address? Why?"

"One of his last visitors was able to confirm the location of the research facility we were talking about?"

Frankenstein's lab? The secret facility that the rumor mill probably manufactured out of thin air. I still felt skeptical but was willing to listen. "Oh, you mean the place where Mr. Rossi and some other sick employees may have picked up a disease. Or the source."

"Yes. Here's where it is." A crossroads, two intersecting roads in a downstate county. She read the names of the roads aloud several times, spelling out each letter, and I dutifully repeated them back from what I'd written. "I'll leave it up to you whether this should be reported to the health department," she said.

"I'll certainly look into this." She was very grateful, and seemed slightly more cheerful, as if a weight had been lifted.

After she hung up, I read the road names out loud to myself. Probably named after some old farmers, as in, take the road east of the old So and So farm.

I was sitting at my desk in my room. I'd slept in because Thursdays were my day off during the week. I worked on Saturdays, since that day was often the busiest of the week. Maybe I'd work only for an hour this Saturday, I thought, because of the party that night and the holidays.

I called Jessica's number in LA, but was told by an assistant that she was in a meeting. A little early for a meeting in California. She was probably still asleep.

I wandered downstairs, thinking about breakfast or lunch. Lewis caught me.

"Adam, you've been getting phone calls from Mr. Matthew about Kayko. He's left several messages. Do you want to listen to them?"

No. Matthew's interest in Kayko, no matter how well intentioned, was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment. Kayko was missing and I didn't want to hear the moans and groans of her suitor, a person I thought I should like, but probably disliked. He seemed to have everything, including good looks, a successful business career, and my uncle's esteem. I knew I was jealous. "I'll give him a call later. Maybe we'll know more as the day goes on. I assume that you haven't heard anything more about Kayko?"

"Not a thing."

I had a thought. "Did Matthew leave his telephone number?"

"I believe he left several different numbers."

"Did you clear the caller identification?"

"No, I wanted to check with you first."

"Do me a favor. Listen to the messages and copy down his various numbers and where he was calling from, if his own name doesn't show on the screen."

"Of course, if you think it's important."

"I don't know if it's important. I'm just curious."

His was not to reason why. Lewis went to complete his task. Marsha bustled past my line of vision. "Adam, the tree has arrived! You must go look. We have a lot of the tinsel up and some of the ornaments. Now it really feels like Christmas!"

I wanted to be as cheerful and filled with the holiday spirit, but too much was wrong. "Did you hear from Jessica? I can't get through to her. She must be very busy?"

"I'm sure. She said some financing had come through and she had to have a dozen meetings and see 50 people."

Interesting. I'd expected to hear from Jessica and be further beseeched for investment money, especially after Uncle rejected her request.

Marsha ran off.

I finally reached the dinette to find Stepfather eating alone. "Hello, Adam, I thought I was the only one who slept in. Your mother is supervising the decoration of the tree."

And not lifting a finger while doing so. Poor Marsha. "I'm glad to catch you," I said. "You've been pretty busy. Do you utter some magic word that opens up malls, like Aladdin's cave?" I meant that Stepfather was the constant assistant of my mother in buying Christmas questions for half, perhaps two-thirds, of the wealthy and socially active in the world.

"Don't underrate the difficulty of my mission. I'm sore from carrying packages. I think I've strained one of my fingers. My wrists hurt from carrying packages."

I picked up his hand and did the Tinel's Test, which caused a pins and needles reaction. "You'd better come to see me before you go to Colorado."

"Thanks, Adam, I will if I can."

"Let me ask you something. Did Mother ever mention my grandfather, my father's father? Baba's husband."

"No, I'm sure she didn't. She never says anything about your family. Just that thing I mentioned about Baba's maiden name, and she later denied she'd said it."

"Do you recall ever hearing that Uncle goes hunting, or had a hobby of hunting?"

He seemed surprised at the question, but paused to give it some thought. That's what I loved the most about my stepfather. He took me seriously. "No, I don't think so. I don't recall ever seeing your uncle with a rifle. Hunters like trophies. I don't remember ever seeing a trophy or hearing him talking about hunting trips."

This pretty much confirmed what I thought. Uncle was not a hunter. He hadn't learned to hunt from his own father, who'd managed to die in a hunting accident. If that actually happened.

I reached for a biscuit, and started applying some jam. Kara, Kayko's mother, entered the kitchen and sat across from me. "You've met Kara?" I asked Stepfather.

"Of course, how are you holding up?"

She nodded, ignoring his question to get right to her question. "Any word, Adam? Anything at all?"

I was sorry I couldn't give her good news. "Nothing yet. Remember, it's only been a few days. The Federal authorities are working full time on this."

"My mother's instinct tells me she is alive. She's just waiting to be rescued. We will all have a good laugh about this someday."

"How's your husband doing?"

"He's heartsick in both senses of the word." I liked that comment in a grim kind of way, and would remember to use it among my colleagues.

"May I ask you a question? I've been trying to recall something Uncle said about college. Did you know my mother in college?"

"No, I just met her for the first time yesterday. She and I went to the same college, so I may have seen her around. I guess that your Uncle met her sometime after we stopped dating."

So much for my timeline.

So Uncle met Kara, gave her up to another man, met Mother and gave him up to my father. Wouldn't that have made him even more upset to lose my mother to his brother since it was the second time he'd lost a woman to another man? I wondered if the early romantic traumas were why Uncle never married. Maybe, giving in to pure speculation, that's why he hadn't married Kayko's biological mother, if he was her real father and had, instead, manipulated her adoption.

Hiding back in my room after brunch, I heard a tapping on the door. A tapping I recognized as Lewis' tap.

I invited him in, and he stood half way into the doorway, which was his habit. "I've got those phone numbers for you. I listened to each message and coordinated the time of the message with the caller identification, as you asked."

"Good, thanks." I took the list from his hand.

He started to leave. "I need to supervise some deliveries for the party."

"Fine, we'll talk later."

I sat down at my desk and read the numbers. The ones with Matthew's name underneath were obviously his home phone and his cell phone. One which turned up several times was the Corporation's offices.

The last number surprised me. Matthew called from the offices of the company where Rossi worked.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I keyed in the crossroads on a search engine in my computer's browser. The alleged research facility was in southern Illinois. The words "ill" and "annoy" suddenly came into my head. No wonder I always felt I was missing something whenever anyone mentioned the name of our state.

I decided to do more than contact the local health authorities. I called Keith and told him we were going on a field trip.

"I love field trips," he said.

"Do you own a gun?"

"A hunting rifle."

"I didn't know you hunted."

"I don't really. Just something I toyed with, thinking it would make a good hobby. It's your family's rifle. I found it in a shed."

Interesting. Keith probably had the rifle that killed my grandfather. I didn't want to think about my grandfather's "accidental death" at that moment. "Well, bring the rifle. Is it loaded?"

"I can load it quickly. Are we going hunting?"

"Maybe."

Keith didn't ask for an explanation for why we were going downstate. He also hadn't asked for an explanation for why we needed to break into Dr. Bradley's file cabinet. Keith was operating on pure loyalty. I couldn't express my appreciation, without embarrassing him. Or myself. But I did need to tell him something, give him an out. I couldn't lead another friend blindlessly into harm, without so much as a warning. "This could be dangerous. You don't have to come with me. You could get hurt."

"Now I really can't wait to get started."

Ten minutes later, sitting next to Keith in our smallest car, I repeated the cross streets of our destination. We watched as the GPS plotted a route. "Mostly interstates," Keith said, "until we get into a really rural area. I better make sure we have enough gas before we get off the highway. This place isn't near any town, maybe five miles from a convenience store,"

How long do you think it'll take to get there?"

"Five or six hours. We'll get there in the middle of the night."

I fell asleep long before we turned off the highway onto rural roads. I felt the difference in smoothness even through the dampened shocks. "Just so you know," Keith said. "Driving this far from civilization makes me nervous."

"You've seen too many movies. These are farmers, not devil worshippers."

"I want to believe you."

Closing in our destination, according to the GPS, I told Keith we should park about a mile away and walk. "I don't want them to know we're coming."

"OK, but you want to walk a mile in the dark? Aren't you afraid of scarecrows that eat people or were-cows?"

"You've been reading too many comic books. We'll park and walk. The sky is clear. There's a moon. Take the flashlight."

We pulled to a stop. "If I'd known we were going undercover, I'd have donned my superhero cape," Keith said.

"You're terrifying enough in your regular clothes. Oh, and do you have a tire-iron?"

"I have the part of a portable jack that's used as a crank."

"OK, bring that too."

"And the rifle?"

I had a moment of indecision. Carrying a gun would be an instant warning of our intent. I at least wanted to get into the building. Whoever saw the rifle would bolt the doors for sure. Then there was the possibility that Keith would accidently shoot me or some innocent third party with the rifle. So that settled it. "We'll come back if we think it'll be useful."

Keith went to the trunk to get the metal bar, while I tried to see ahead to the crossroads. Too much darkness to see clearly, but I may have seen windows reflecting moonlight.

I carried the metal bar and Keith kept the flashlight, switched off and in his coat pocket.

We were lucky the road wasn't icy. Apparently, no snow had fallen here for at least a week. Keith complained that the uneven surface hurt his feet. The road was mostly compressed pebbles and black asphalt, buckled in many places from the heat of the summer sun. The cracks were wide enough so weeds would grow there during the warmer months.

Approaching, I saw a building at the near left corner of the crossroads. The ghost of an office building or small factory, with most of its windows boarded over. Only two windows, on the side of the building facing us, were still uncovered.

Between us and the building was a small parking lot, lit by one bare bulb on top of a pole. Several cars were parked. Only one was a recent model, the rest clunkers.

I saw a door near the windows. Keith wanted to go directly to the door, but I thought we should wait and plan. We squatted in some brush, beyond the dim light thrown by the bulb on the pole. "Now what?" Keith asked.

"We'll just observe." I ignored Keith's grumbling about his knees. He refused to sit and get his clothes dirty. I listened for any sounds. I saw some smoke come out of a small metal chimney.

Nothing moved. I became aware of the cold. An amazing amount of stars were visible outside the smoke and light of urban areas, and I tried to identify a few constellations.

A car approached along the road that intersected with ours, made a left onto our road and then a right into the parking lot. The car rounded and was parked facing the road.

When I was sure we couldn't be seen, we moved silently forward. We walked diagonally until we were at the rear of the parking lot, behind the car. We stood in the darkness at the edge of the parking lot asphalt.

A sole figure, a man, got out of the car. He wore the blue uniform of a janitor or someone who does night maintenance.

He seemed distracted and stood looking at the road. I snuck up behind him as quietly as I could. I ran the last few feet. He may have heard me but his reaction time was too slow.

I hit him on the back of the head with the iron bar. I felt the moment of impact and the man crumpled to the ground.

"Are you nuts?" Keith asked. "I can't believe you did that. I've never seen you hit anybody since we were kids, and that was just for fun."

"Odd situations make for odd actions. We've got to get into that building and there was no other way."

The man groaned. I opened his eyelids and examined him, as best I could, in the dim light. He was not seriously injured. He probably had a slight concussion and would have a nest egg lump on the back of his head. He'd only be unconscious for about 15 minutes. But he wouldn't be operating at full capacity for several hours. I hoped he would decide to go to a local hospital, rather than try to find out who hit him or to call the police.

I searched the man. I found a pass card with a magnetized strip in shirt pocket.

We ran to the door, and I swiped in the card on a black box. We heard a click, and we were inside, temporarily blinded by fluorescent lights. We saw a long corridor. The walls were off-white and had handrails. Uncarpeted but with patterned linoleum. Easy to clean.

In fact, the place looked and smelled like a hospital. I felt like I'd gotten off the elevator at one of the hospitals where I had visitation rights. Any second, I expected to see a uniformed orderly pushing a patient to surgery.

We passed through a series of windowless metal doors, each opening only with a swipe of the pass card. The locks were on both sides of the door, so someone without a card would be locked inside.

We turned onto a corridor and found six rooms, three on a side.

I went into the closest room and found a young man on a modern hospital bed, hooked up to monitors. His heart beat was slow but steady. He had an intravenous drip through a tube into his arm. The bag, suspended on a pole above an electric pump, held some clear liquid, like dextrose.

The room itself was very modern. Places for oxygen, multiple outlets, light fixtures that would respond to a patient's touch. Everything I'd expect, except for a television.

I looked at the patient. Very thin, his arm muscles were flaccid to the touch. He seemed comatose. An obvious long-time resident of his bed. He needed a shave, but otherwise seemed to have received good care.

I saw no paper chart for the patient, but noticed a portable computer terminal on a wheeled stand. I thought that if I could bring up the home screen, I'd at least find out the name for this facility. But when I exited the current screen, I found no identifying name or corporate symbol, just spaces for the typing in of a name and a password, which, of course, I did not know.

Keith started to pull me out of the room. "No time, let's get out of here. Did you find out what you needed to know?"

"No, and we're not leaving just yet."

I decided to look in the other rooms.

I ran into each room in turn, finding a man or woman similarly tied to a monitor and intravenous drip. Keith said they were all in their 20's and 30's. "This place definitely gives me the creeps. What is it you are looking for?"

In the sixth room, I found what I was looking for. Who I was looking for.

Kayko!

"I can't believe it. How did you know?" Keith ran up to the bed, but was momentarily stumped about what to do next. "Do we pull the wires? She looks like crap!"

Breathing hard with anger. I became conscious of my heart hammering. The pulse of blood rushing to my face. I felt horror.

I tore the pump's plug from the wall socket. I ripped away the paper tape that secured the needle on her arm and pulled out the needle. A drop of blood oozed out and dripped onto the bed.

I threw off the blanket and sheet. I sat her up as best I could, cradling her with one arm, and loosened and untied her hospital gown at the neck with my free hand. I tore out the electrical monitor wires from the adhesives from her chest and torso. Leaving, I was sure, painful looking welts. I let her lay back.

"We've got to get her out of here." I was talking mostly to myself. "There's sure to be guards."

I tried to wake Kayko, but she was unresponsive.

"Lift her head." Keith went to the other side of the bed. When her head lifted from her pillow, I retied the gown at the back of her neck. "We'll need to get her in a standing position. I want to put my coat on her." Keith moved to my side of the bed and grabbed her feet. I awkwardly lifted her upper torso. Once she was on her feet, Keith grabbed Kayko from the other side, stopping her from falling by holding her up at the armpit.

I took off my coat, and with Keith's help, managed to get her arms through the sleeves.

I was taller than Keith and heavier. "Help me get her over my shoulder." I bent and Keith positioned her. I lifted her in a fireman's hold.

"Are you sure you can carry her?"

I considered how far away we'd parked the car. She was light and terribly frail, but she'd start to weigh a ton as my muscles weakened from use. "I'll start. You may have to take over."

I heard movement outside. A nurse was approaching from some distance down the corridor. Maybe calling her a nurse was too much of a courtesy. A woman in a nurse's uniform. Tearing out the monitor wires must have alerted her that something was wrong in Kayko's room.

She saw us and screamed. "Stop! Stop! Someone call the guard!"

Keith took the pass card from my shirt pocket. He ran in front opening the series of doors, then shutting them quickly behind us. A guard chasing us would need to pause long enough to use his own pass card, slowing him down.

I reached the outside door and felt a blast of cold air. I thought I heard Kayko moan. A good sign, her return to sensation in the real world, escaping from the drug-induced coma.

We crossed the parking lot. The man I'd hit was standing, but seemed unsteady on his feet. A voice at the door said, "Stop them!" The man turned to look at the guard at the door but did not react. Still too stunned from the blow and concussion.

The sound of our running changed when we hit the pebble-tar roadway. My shoulders began to ache from Kayko's weight. I continued to run, but her position put me slightly off balance. I needed to slow down or fall.

Still blocks away from the car. My breathing became labored. Keith was saying something, but I couldn't understand his words.

I tried to focus on pleasant thoughts. I searched through my memories of the past few weeks but couldn't think of anything pleasant. My darkened world. Threats, revelations of past crimes, nothing as it appeared. The calm center of my life slipping away.

Keith yelled something. I heard him but it took a while to understand what he said. "He's shooting at us!" In the movies, I thought, the good guy wins because his bullets work, reach their intended target, but the bad guy's bullets always miss. No wonder our soldiers always win their battles.

I was afraid a bullet would hit Kayko. That a bullet would hit her and I wouldn't even know. She was my armor, her body protecting part of my back as I carried her in the fireman's hold. Ashamed to be hiding behind her, terrified I'd be carrying a corpse by the time I reached the car.

No coat. Exertion protecting me from the cold. But energy is required to sustain a running man. A lot of energy.

"Get the rifle! Run ahead." Keith passed me. The car still seemed like a phantom lump of darkness, blocks away up the road.

I thought I heard the discharge of a gun. Did the guard want us dead? Or just to stop. Were his orders to recapture the patient, or, if necessary, to kill rather than allow an escape?

Kayko became very heavy. My legs became rubbery.

I saw Keith ahead. Had I made a mistake telling him to get the rifle? I'd be between Keith and the guard. Wasn't there as good a chance as any that Keith would shoot me? Maybe Keith was a better shot than I'd imagined? Good thing that the bullets of the good guys work and those of the bad guys fall to the ground useless.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd run a mile. Not since college, the phys ed requirement. I promised God that if I made it to the car, I'd take better care of my body, exercise more, work out at the gym.

A bullet, the one that was supposed to fall to the ground useless, whizzed over my head.

Fear-induced adrenaline hit with a wallop. I was able to increase speed, ignoring the crying of my leg muscles. Kayko stirred on my shoulders.

The car's shape grew larger. My lungs felt like they would burst, and a sick feeling rose in my chest.

Keith, cradling the rifle, ran to open the back door of the car. I focused only on the door. I thought I could hear the breathing of the guard, but maybe I was only hearing the moaning of my own lungs.

My legs were almost spent. I leaned down and Keith helped to get Kayko off my shoulders. How do you get dead weight into a car?

Once she was on her feet, I lowered her and awkwardly tried to place her head through the opening into the back seat. Keith ran around the car and climbed in, grabbed Kayko's shoulders and pulled her inside, with me holding her legs. Her head bobbled. Keith turned her on her side and I pushed her legs up into a fetal position.

We switched sides. Keith threw open the front, drivers door and jumped in, all in one motion. I tried to do the same on the passenger side.

Keith turned the ignition key almost as soon as his body touched the seat, and threw the car in gear. We lurched forward. Unfortunately, we were facing the guard.

He lowered his handgun to shoot at us. Keith turned the wheel towards the guard. We would be shot but the guard would be hit with tons of car.

The game of chicken only lasted mini-seconds. The guard jumped off the road.

Keith never drove so fast away from the intersection. I worried that the guard would recover and shoot us from behind. I heard a pistol retort, but the back window remained intact.

I started to breathe again, but wasn't sure we were out of danger.

Keith flexed up the rear view mirror. "He's headed back to the parking lot. We'll have a mile on him before he can chase us by car."

I hoped that was enough. "Can we shoot back?" I asked.

"Only if your arms are very long, since I tossed the rifle when I needed to climb into the back seat." Thus ended the saga of the gun that killed my grandfather.

He gunned the engine. Seconds passed but seemed to be hours.

"I think there's a car behind us," Keith said.

That must be the guard's car. Unlikely to be someone else driving in so remote an area so late at night. "How fast can this car go?"

"We're about the find out." I remembered only one late model car in the parking lot. Ours was a luxury car, way too heavy to function like a sports car, and way too big to be a race car.

"He's gaining on us. I'll try to get us on an interstate." Keith swerved, turning at another crossroads. I knew we lost precious time by changing directions, but we had no choice.

The engine roared. Up ahead I saw a single light marking the entryway onto an interstate. I knew steering was difficult at that speed, the slightest movement of the wheel greatly exaggerating the change in direction.

I worried we'd merge onto the interstate and need to brake to avoid hitting cars moving in our direction.

Fortunately, no other cars were on the highway.

Our chances of escape greatly improved, I forced myself to relax. I looked back at Kayko.

She slept like a child after a day at the amusement park.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

"Oh Mom, I'm fine!" Both Kara and Kayko melted into tears and hugs.

"I knew in my heart you'd be coming back. I just knew it. I called your father as soon as I heard and he is so happy."

Sobs of relief. "I'm so glad to be here."

"Tell me all about it, dear."

I felt like an eavesdropper. We sat in the Mansion's formal reception area, a place to wait until the King summoned. Kayko and I could only get this far before Kara rushed to greet us. I'd called her from the highway as soon as I was sure that the guard wasn't still following us.

"I was doing some shopping Sunday afternoon, day dreaming, when someone I hadn't noticed pushed me into the back of a car. Someone was sitting there and put something over my mouth, something filled with some chemical. The next time I swam into consciousness, I was in a hospital bed. And the next time I woke after that Adam was asking me if I was alright."

"Did you get a look at the car when you were first abducted? Color? Make?" I asked.

"I'm sure I don't know. A dark car. They all look alike. I don't think it was a super small car. A regular sized car."

Typical woman's blind indifference to technological wonders.

I knew that Agent Davis would arrive soon and ask Kayko the same questions. And get nowhere, same as me.

I'd called the Agent from the car as soon as I was sure Kayko didn't need any further medical attention. She'd been sedated but she woke with only the normal side-effects. She was disoriented for a short period. Also very hungry and we had to stop several times on the trip back to get Kayko some fast food. By the time we pulled up to the Mansion entrance, Kayko was feeling like herself.

I'd called from the car and given Agent Davis the exact address of the research facility where Kayko had been held. She was pleased, but less than convinced that the Bad Guys could now be caught. "If I were them, I'd be evacuating the facility as we speak. It'll take hours for our guys in St. Louis to get there." She wanted me describe each of the five other people being held. I reminded her about my autism and that I wouldn't have been able to describe their faces under the best of circumstances, much less during a period of high stress and danger.

"You shouldn't have attempted this yourself. How did you figure this out, where she was?" Agent Davis had asked.

What to tell her without telling her any of my other suspicions? "Someone who asked me to promise I wouldn't get him or her in trouble, tipped me off."

"You'd be wise to tell me the whole story. It's illegal to withhold evidence."

I didn't want to incite her, so I'd said nothing in reply and changed the subject. She could talk to Lawyer Millwell if she wanted to get a non-answer that wouldn't get me in trouble. Nothing Agent Davis said could dampen the elation I felt over finding Kayko.

Mother and daughter continued their dialogue and all felt right in the world.

Kayko tired and said she wanted to lie down. Kara and I walked her to her room. I stopped at the door. "I'm so glad you're alright," I said.

Kayko turned to me and I wished I could really see her face. She held my hand. "Adam, I am so grateful." For a moment I thought she was going to kiss me. Maybe she thought she shouldn't because her mother was present. I felt both disappointed and relieved at the same time, if that is a possible reaction, because I didn't know how I'd feel about being kissed on the lips by someone I suspected to be my first cousin.

Kara went to make another phone call to her husband. I wandered downstairs.

Keith was talking to our housemaid, Grace, his mother. "No, Mom, I was not in danger. I was totally safe at all times. Do you think Adam would put me in a dangerous position?"

A good question. I felt guilty. I had most certainly put Keith's life at risk. I'd taken advantage of his loyalty and friendship. I'd endangered one friend to save another. A wrong, even if in a good cause.

Keith saw me and used my presence as an excuse to end his conversation with his mother. "Wait up," he called out. I slowed down to let him catch up. "Mom's got her nose out of joint about rescuing Kayko, but I'm just glad you asked me. That's the best time I've had in months. Even better than breaking into your office."

"I aim to keep your life interesting. No need to thank me."

"By the way, that lock-picking tool is on its way by express. I'll tell you when we can make another midnight excursion."

I almost sat Keith down to explain the whole thing. My suspicions, what I'd learned about my family. But even trying to put this all in words made me feel I'd built a chain of speculation, not facts. I really had nothing concrete. I imagined Keith laughing away my musings with his straight-forward, no nonsense obnoxiousness.

Keith went out to nurse his cars.

Lewis was the next one I saw.

"Are you alright, Adam? That was a very brave thing you did in saving Ms. Kayko. But perhaps not a very wise, possibly a very incautious, thing to do. Maybe you should have brought your suspicions to the police?"

Good old Lewis. The orderly course in an orderly world would have been to allow the authorities to do their job. "I'm sure you're right, but there didn't seem to be time."

"You've been very upset since you came home." A bold statement by someone who felt strongly in maintaining one's place. I felt a rush of affection for Lewis. He really cared about me. On a day to day basis, Lewis was as much my substitute father as Uncle.

"It's just the starting of a new practice." I hope that satisfied him. I couldn't come up with any other explanation he'd find credible. But I still felt he was waiting to hear something else. "Lewis, am I wrong? Is my family quite strange?"

"I really couldn't comment, Adam." In other words, yes, Adam, goddamn strange.

"Have you ever come across family secrets and found yourself conflicted about what to do about them?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." In other words, yes.

I changed the topic. "Lewis, when you realized that Kayko was missing, how long was it until you heard from the kidnappers?"

"You mean from the time I became convinced that something was wrong?"

"Yes. How many hours?"

"About five hours, late morning and Sunday afternoon, then I heard from the kidnappers in the early evening."

I thought that the long wait to hear from the kidnappers was somehow significant, and that, if I were a kidnapper, I would have called for ransom almost immediately. I'd have been too nervous to wait. On the other hand, Agent Davis said the kidnappers who were operating at the mall, the ones who obviously were just trying to get subjects for the research facility, didn't make ransom calls.

"Did you mention to Marsha that you thought a long time had elapsed since the discovery of Kayko's absence and the lack of a ransom call?"

He thought about this. "I think I told her I was somewhat relieved we'd received no call about Kayko, because it was a good sign that nothing was wrong. She wasn't injured, so we weren't hearing from the police or from a hospital. And she wasn't, well, I wasn't using the word kidnapping yet, detained or we'd hear from whoever was detaining her."

So Marsha could have told Jessica that no ransom request had been made. Jessica could have found someone to call the Estate and demand money when it became obvious that the real abductors hadn't called. What did she have to lose? So what if two sets of people eventually called to ask for money. She could have taken that chance. That she'd get the money rather than the real abductors.

I needed to take a nap. My trip back to the Estate from downstate hadn't been restful. I'd fought the urge to sleep so I could keep an eye on the reviving Kayko.

I didn't want to check with Marsha about who'd responded to the invitations. I didn't want to go and admire the tree. Mother and Stepfather were probably out shopping. Nothing was happening and wouldn't happen until Jessica arrived from LA for my party. I couldn't fight the urge to fall asleep any longer.

I experienced an unrestful sleep, full of chases by faceless assailants, batting down bullets as if they were bees, racing down highways. In my dream, I'd missed something important. Something someone had said was very telling, something very revealing that would fill in a lot of blanks in my life. If I could only remember.

A gentle knock on my bedroom door drew me back to semi-consciousness. My door opened and I heard the shuffle of clothes being shed. Bedding was pushed aside, and I felt the gentle weight of someone else on my mattress.

Jessica's lips brushed over my check. She'd returned early from California. "Adam," she whispered. I put my arms around her, feeling the lushness of her body, its heat.

I should have pushed her away instead of drawing her close and kissing her. I should have been angry, considering what I thought she'd done. But I didn't hate the creatures of the earth for hunting each other. I couldn't hate the animal that followed its instincts, doing what it was created to do. Jessica was just being herself, following her nature, preserving herself.

"Adam, I love you." The word "love," washed over me, filled me with warmth. "I've missed you so much. Make love to me."

I did.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

In the morning, things look different.

I felt a soft shake of my shoulder, followed by stronger shakes. "Adam, Adam, are you awake?"

"Now I am. What's the matter? It's not morning yet." I looked at the clock. Six ahem. I'd hoped to be well rested for the party.

"I can't sleep, Adam. I'm not feeling happy, Adam. I'm worried about something."

I hadn't realized that making her happy was my job. A great reluctance swept over me. Was there any way I could avoid asking her what would make her happy? But, no escape appeared. She'd made me seriously happy during the night, now I owed her. "Anything I can do?"

"Really, anything, Adam? You'd be willing to do anything to make me happy?"

That's not quite what I meant. "Anything within reason, sweetheart."

She liked the "sweetheart" bit and snuggled close. "I knew I could count on you."

A response appeared necessary. "Oh?"

"Adam, all is going well with my company, but now it needs an infusion of funds. People are hired, space is rented. I have the interest of important investors. All I need is to give the green light to production. Oh, and have a successful first season."

Still groggy. Slow on the uptake. "So?"

"Adam, I need you to loan me a great deal of cash."

So nice to feel needed. Calling the money she wanted a "loan" was a nice touch. "Wasn't the $2 million you embezzled from my uncle enough to get you going?" I turned over on my side, shutting her out.

I felt her rise on her elbow. She pulled me back, until I was back on my side. I, of course, couldn't hear the surprise in her voice, but my imagination supplied the necessary emphasis. "How in the world do you know about that?"

"Easy. I found it interesting that you asked my uncle for $2 million. After he refused, you talked to your mother and found out Kayko was missing. You got one of your stooges to give me a ransom call, knowing what a sucker I am. That wasn't kind of you. That was taking advantage of an already bad situation, and making it worse."

I was winning that argument, so she switched to another.

"What was I going to do, Adam? You weren't coming up with the money. Your uncle said no. I just figured that one reason for giving me the money was as good as another. In a good cause."

I gagged on the self-justification, the overwhelming feeling of entitlement she carried around with her wherever she went. I hoped that my voice had at least a semblance of anger. "You little twit. The world doesn't revolve around you."

I felt the bed rising and falling with her suppressed sobs. Then heard her crying loudly. What an awful person I was to make such an innocent cry.

"You are a cruel, unfeeling person. I don't know why I've wasted my love on you. You don't love me, can't love me. Is it because you're too . . .messed up? Is that it? You can't love me, because of your . . . problem?" The wrong argument for getting me to comply with her wishes. I was too defective to love her back!

An insult not worthy of a reply.

One last try from Jessica. "Adam, you know I want you to marry me."

Here we go again. She wanted me to join the Jessica Team.

I doubted my voice could project the right amount of disdain. I gave her a push. "Out, out of my bed." She didn't believe me at first and just moved away from my reach. When I moved closer to her, I pushed her hard and she tumbled onto the floor, rear first.

"Adam, you'll be sorry about this. You'll die unloved and alone. No one will ever love you. You impossible creep."

Maybe what she said was true. I couldn't rule it out. Maybe I'd never be loved. But at least I was rid of Jessica.

She obviously didn't agree. "You haven't heard the last from me, Adam."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

True to his word, Berringer arrived an hour early for the party. "I'll check all the doors, windows, the security cameras. I brought my gun." He patted a holster inside his sports coat. "You can leave the security to me and just enjoy your party."

My usual self would have objected to the gun or asked him to keep it in the car, but recent events had increased my anxiety. I hoped his holstered gun wouldn't be noticed. "I'm very grateful." With Berringer on the watch, I felt sure that none of my guests would be upended into fiery garbage receptacles or kidnapped, at least while inside the Mansion. "And who's this?"

"I'm Brittany. Do you remember me from grade school?"

Brittany was a popular name and I had at least one Brittany in each class. Which one she was, I had no idea. So I lied to be polite. "Of course, how you've grown." Actually, I had only the vaguest idea how she'd grown but knew, based on her age, she must be a fully matured young woman.

I sensed, rather than saw that Kayko joined me. She whispered in my ear, to my great relief. "A tall, slender woman, full of energy and life. Very pretty. I like her."

"Brittany, this is my friend and colleague, Kayko Brasen. Kayko you remember Officer Berringer?"

Nice to meetchoos, and a hello again.

"So, I think I heard as I walked up that you went to school with Adam?" Kayko asked.

"Yes, Adam was very different then." Brittany stopped suddenly when she realized she was verging on troublesome territory. I'd come a long way perceptually and as a social being since my early days in school. She certainly wasn't going to mention me crying in the back of a classroom, frustrated by my oddness and inability to fit in. "What a lovely home you have, Adam."

Good recovery. I thanked her for the compliment. Kayko and Brittany went off to talk together, and I hoped that every embarrassing thing I'd ever done in grade school was not going to be revealed, in horrifying detail.

"She seems like a very nice girl. Are you two serious?" I asked Berringer.

"Not to the stage of introducing her to my parents." He picked up a briefcase. It probably contained his police transmitter and other paraphernalia, like handcuffs and mace. "I better get started with my duties." He started to move away. "Oh, I almost forgot." Those words drew my full attention. "That book, the one about Dunne. I have it here in my case." He put the case back down, and knelt to open the snap locks. He handed me an old book. "It's the one from the library, the only copy. I had no idea you were the only witness to your father's murder."

I took a second to regain my composure. "I was only seven. Sometimes I forget I was there. I certainly don't remember much about it. Just a blur. What's this got to do with Dunne?"

"Dunne was the chief investigating detective in your father's murder. I thought you knew that. I just assumed since he is your friend that your relationship went all the way back to the . . . incident."

Dunne and my father. Dunne, my father, and me. An autistic child being the only witness to the murder. An unsolved murder that bothered him for 18 years. Dunne discovering the autistic child, now grown up, almost shot at the airport. Another murder and Dunne needing to get information from another autistic child who was the only witness to the murder of his parent.

"I'll check with you later," I told Berringer. I went to my father's office and sat down at his desk.

I opened the book, authored by Dunne and his collaborator, an author of true crime books. I found my father's murder in the index. I felt like an explorer opening the undisturbed tomb of a previously unknown Egyptian pharaoh. Great wealth could be found there, but watch out for the curse.

" _Most frustrating for any professional investigator is the case with a thousand clues that, nevertheless, cannot be solved._ [I'd have to add the word "nevertheless" to "heretofore" as a word I wanted to use in casual conversation.] _A prominent murder victim, an undisturbed murder scene, an eye witness, yet the murderer remains free to this day._

Adam Karl, whose name was so familiar to readers of gossip columns and magazines, died not in some remote spot but in the heart of his home, with family members within earshot. Police were summoned immediately and the murder scene was scrupulously guarded. Karl's dead body presented no hurdles to modern forensic science. His cause of death was apparent and obvious, a gunshot to the center of his forehead.

Most frustrating of all was the presence of an eye-witness to the murder. Karl's seven year old son, Adam, Jr., sat at a child's table, filling in square boxes, as the murderer entered, sat in front of Karl's desk, drew his gun, and killed the unsuspecting heir to the Karl fortune.

Adam Jr., a victim of that mysterious neurological disease, Autism, held the secret of his father's murder within the distorted folds of his brain. No effort, either by the police investigators or by prominent specialists, could unlock that secret.

Distorted folds of my brain, huh? The description was a little lurid for my taste. While the murder was taking place, I was filling in squares to train my brain to recognize lines as boundaries. To strengthen some neurons in an attempt to bypass my prosopagnosia.

That diagnosis was not particularly accurate, or not accurate enough. Every brain is different, and my precise limitations were uniquely my own. My native intelligence took an especially long time to show itself and at seven I just appeared to be a child who'd never break through to the world. I was filled with fears. With any change in my environment, I became overwhelmed and would rock myself back and forth into a state of calm.

I felt a sudden nostalgia for my little table, now stored in some half-forgotten spot in a shed somewhere on the estate. My father had placed the table, with its miniature chair, where he could check on me by raising his eyes from the work on his desk. Someone sitting directly in front of the desk would not see me. I'd be behind the visitor's field of vision.

I skipped down to the timeline for the murder.

Interviews with members of the domestic staff set the time of the murder at between 10:00 p.m., and the time his body was discovered at 5:00 a.m. by the Estate Manager. Based on body temperature and other forensics, Mr. Karl died between 10 and 11 p.m. This was consistent since Karl advised members of the domestic staff that he expected a visitor at 10 p.m.

Late night visitors were not considered out of the ordinary. Karl was notoriously a womanizer and the staff assumed another late-night assignation was imminent.

Old news for me, but still shocking to see it in print. I'd long ago learned to deal with the fact that my father was not faithful to my mother. I don't remember how old I was when this unfaithfulness came to my attention, but I didn't hear it from my mother. I probably overheard it from classmates. Also, an article about the murder, written on its 10th anniversary, dwelled on all the women my father "dated" while married. Father was obviously the antithesis of Karl modesty and reluctance for the limelight.

Just as likely, they insisted, was a late night business meeting. Karl, who was heir to a huge fortune, was about to gain control of some of the Corporation assets, according to some impeccable sources among his business associates.

That certainly was consistent with Lawyer Millwell's statements about the inheriting of the Karl assets upon the attainment of age 30. Father was only a few months short of his 30th birthday at the time of his death.

Whoever entered the gates of what the residents call the Estate drove up in their own vehicle. Security was surprisingly lax at the Estate, but, perhaps not incredibly so, given the distance of the property from the heart of the city and its isolation. The Mansion, situated as it was along Lake Michigan, was far from any other residence, and the distance from the gate to the Mansion was several blocks. The family did engage a watchman who could observe the comings and goings at night. But he, like the staff, had been dismissed for the evening. The watchman assumed that someone who was recognizable would be arriving, all the more reason for him to go back to his own home and go to sleep.

Security at the Estate remained lax. Isolation and the shroud of secrecy that lay over the Karls seemed more than adequate until recent events, specifically, when the paparazzi army camped at the front gate.

Karl answered the front door himself. Perhaps he was waiting in the vestibule for a knock on the door. More likely, since his child was sitting in the office, Karl may have known exactly when the visitor would arrive, and walked over to the door at the designated time, leaving the Karl child alone for a brief period.

Which raises the question of why the Karl child, myself, would, at age 7, be awake at that hour. The most likely explanation, given my less than accurate memories of that period in my life, was that my sleep patterns were eccentric and remained so until my adolescence. Awake, and with no one else around and my mother asleep, I must have simply taken up my post in my father's office.

I skipped far down to the reconstruction of the murder.

Karl sat behind his desk, obviously talking to the unknown killer, who sat directly in front of the desk on a wooden office chair. Other more comfortable chairs were present in the room and could have been pushed to the same position, but, it is speculated, the conversation was not expected to last for long.

From the autopsy and the angle of the bullet, the visitor shot Karl from a seated position. Perhaps, if the murderer was a man, he had the gun in a briefcase which he'd opened on his lap. He could have opened the briefcase on the desk in front of his chair, and been able to reach for a gun in the case, which would have been only the distance away necessary so his knees wouldn't bump the desk. If the murderer was a woman, she could have hidden the gun in a purse.

So why, I wondered did no one hear the shot? I skipped down to the place in the timeline where the body was discovered.

Besides Mrs. Karl and the Karl child, only one other person was present in the Mansion at the time of murder, the victim's only brother, Wallace Karl, also a businessman. His bedroom and Mrs. Karl's bedroom were very far away from the office, in different wings of the Mansion respectively. Both Wallace and Mrs. Karl told investigators that they heard nothing.

To determine the veracity of statements by Mrs. Karl and the victim's brother, Detective Dunne had officers stand in these bedrooms while he fired a pistol with a blank in the office. Dunne was able to satisfactorily verify that the gunshot could have gone unheard or even been misinterpreted as a house noise."

Skipping down further:

Much speculation has centered on the reason Karl did not use the gun he had in the center drawer of his desk, directly in front of him.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Oh, here you are, Adam," Kayko said. "The guests are starting to arrive."

The Great Room was resplendent with decorations. Brightly and cheerfully lit by a dozen overhead lights. The warmth from a roaring fire beckoned.

She continued describing for me. "The tree is magnificent. So much tinsel! I think the amount of metal will cause interference on cell phones."

I laughed. Wonderful to have Kayko back. I'd never realized how much I missed her.

I saw Marsha doing a last second check of the candy dishes. Under her watchful gaze, the serving staff brought out trays of chicken chunks on sticks with several dips, quiches, and even more exotic pre-dinner snacks I couldn't identify.

As each guest entered, he or she, knowing my limitations, walked over to identify themselves. I greeted many old friends, mostly classmates, but also sons and daughters of Uncle's business associates. I'd become friends with them at various parties over the years and corresponded with some during college. Conversations started years before resumed as if no time had passed.

I could recognize some friends of long acquaintance and was able to remember some personal details about each of their lives to show my continuing interest in them. Kayko helped, whispering suggestions when my small-talk talents failed.

Celebrating my birthday, end of residency, the beginning of private practice, and Christmas besides, took its toll on me. The invitation stated firmly that no gifts were to be given, but many ignored the warning. I went up and back to a side table where I deposited the boxes. Taking immediate interest in anything wrapped, Mother rearranged the growing piles, so none of the brightly decorated gifts would fall and get trampled.

I was mindful that the party, as demanded by Baba, was meant to be an opportunity for me to meet potential mates. I wasn't the only one who deduced the true purpose of the event. Three sisters of my acquaintance cornered me and I spent at least 20 minutes giving each their appropriate share of my attention.

"Uh-Oh," Kayko said, "My friend Eric has grabbed the attention of your Uncle and Matthew and is pitching his play, hoping for an angel to help him get the play mounted locally, before he tries off-Broadway."

I moved closer to hear Eric.

"Basically, it's about conflict between two brothers for the affection of their father," Eric said.

"Sounds like Cain and Abel," Uncle said. My interest was immediate, considering my suspicions about possible conflict between Uncle and my father.

"Something like that, but it starts out with one of the brothers murdering their father."

I wondered if Uncle blanched at the thought. A strong reaction would confirm that he had some guilty feelings about his own father's death. "How is Uncle reacting?"

"Your Uncle is not finding Eric's pitch interesting or convincing," Kayko whispered.

"You mean he's bored with the plotline."

"Yes."

"His coloring isn't rising?"

"Not at all. He's perfectly complaisant. Matthew seems more interested."

Really? I found that surprising. Why would Matthew be interested in a Cain and Abel story?"

"How close is Matthew to Uncle?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking?" Kayko said.

"His social distance. Is he closer to Uncle than, for instance, a casual acquaintance would be?"

"Yes, quite close."

"Like say, two family members, father and son?"

"I suppose. They are close, aren't they?"

"Does Matthew at all resemble Uncle?" An odd question from anyone but me, considering my perceptual limitations. "I've read that people who look alike often form close bonds. Like a woman choosing a husband who looks like her father. That sort of thing."

"I'm looking. I suppose there is a superficial resemblance. Their coloring is similar. Same hair color." Interesting, I thought. "Matthew is taller, maybe six inches taller."

Eric continued on. "The brother who killed the father is relentlessly pursued by his brother, but the evil brother ends up killing him too."

"Any response to that," I asked Kayko.

"None whatsoever from your Uncle, but Matthew is looking uncomfortable, but doesn't want to leave your uncle to Eric."

"Exactly how much money are we talking about?" Uncle asked.

"Well, the cost of renting theater space for one. There are plenty of small theaters in the suburbs here, but a real splash would be to rent one of the theaters in Old Town or Near North. Hiring actors wouldn't be much of an expense because most would work for the experience or to have something on their resumes. I don't think that scenery would cost so much, and the costumes would be contemporary."

"Put this all in a proposal and send it in to my office on Monday morning. I'll give it a fair look," Uncle said. "You think there'd be a role for my god-daughter, Kayko?"

"For sure, the wife of the innocent brother. She'd be perfect."

I could sense Kayko trying to back away so she wouldn't hear what Uncle was saying. "I don't really want to hear this, Adam. Makes me feel like I'm talentless."

I followed her. Out of earshot of Eric and my uncle, I tried to reassure Kayko. "What do you care if you get a little help? Everyone needs a break to get started. Personally, I think you would be wonderful in any production."

"Do you really think so? Adam, you are just being kind."

"I know you, and I know you have the qualities, the intelligence and beauty needed to become a fine actress."

"I'm smiling and blushing. I'm trying to feel worthy of your confidence in me."

The three sisters descended upon me again, and I couldn't say anything else to Kayko for the moment. I saw Marsha inching towards the tree to make a general announcement that dinner was served.

But the scene with Eric, Uncle, and Matthew stayed with me.

I believed Matthew was somehow involved in Kayko's abduction. He'd called from the company that operated the research facility. The one Mrs. Rossi warned me about. That was one too many coincidences and I'd become convinced that I should search for Kayko there, a leap of intuition that paid off. But I didn't have any actual proof of Matthew's involvement.

I had to be careful about what I concluded. Some of my suspicions were obviously based on my jealousy of Matthew and the attention Uncle paid him. If I'd been a normal person, athletic and with skills for the business world, I'd have been more like Matthew.

Also, I was suspicious of the attention he paid Kayko. But if he liked her as a person, how could he somehow be involved in a plan to harm her? It didn't make sense.

Motive?

I knew Matthew was adopted. Kayko told me that the night of our triple date. Matthew was about my age. He literally could have been Uncle's son. Unlikely, but not impossible. Just as weird and unlikely as everything else I'd learned since I arrived home.

More importantly, did Matthew think he was Uncle's son? He certainly was playing the role of a son, helping Uncle in his business, having dinner with him, playing golf with him, talking sports.

If Matthew thought he was Uncle's son, how would he feel about me? I was the legitimate son of Uncle's brother, the heir to the Karl fortune, while he, the unacknowledged son, had no claim on anything. Kidnapping Kayko could have been a direct attack on me. I'd grown dependent on her. I'd felt great loss when she went missing.

Was I being a bit paranoid? Everything bad that happened in the world wasn't directed towards me. Matthew didn't have to choose Kayko as a way to hurt me. He could have found other ways.

I was entering the land of pure speculation. I thought Matthew was somehow involved in her abduction. What if I wasn't the target? Maybe I was only remotely involved in his thinking. Perhaps Kayko was the target. But what would be his specific motive to hate Kayko and want her dead?

What problem would Matthew solve by killing Kayko?

I'd already concluded, based on the involvement of Uncle in Kayko's adoption, that Kayko might also be an illegitimate child of my Uncle.

If Kayko and Matthew were both children of my uncle, they'd be half-brother and sister or even whole brother and sister, if they shared the same mother. If so, then Matthew had a powerful motive for her death. Ending her life would certainly solve one of his problems.

Because she would be just as entitled to a share of Uncle's estate and he was. His rival. Uncle might be persuaded to acknowledge Matthew as his son. But if he did, Uncle would probably also acknowledge Kayko as his daughter. Alive Kayko could inherit half of Uncle's estate. If Kayko were dead, Matthew could inherit all of Uncle's wealth.

And, so far as he could guess, even have a claim on inheriting the Karl fortune. Then he could have a shot, literally, at eliminating me as the heir to the Karl fortune.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

"I believe your mother is having . . . oh what's the word? Apo. . .apoplex?"

I swung my face in the direction Kayko was pointing. "Apoplexy?" A cerebral stroke caused by a brain hemorrhage?

I soon discovered the cause of Mother's dismay. A woman followed her.

Kayko whispered. "A tall woman, perfectly proportioned, immaculately and expensively dressed, with jewels sparkling. A charismatic woman, she is drawing all the light in the room to her. I can't tell her age, but age is irrelevant to her. Her eyes, Adam, I've never seen such eyes."

"What?"

"Cobalt blue. Impossible to know if she is looking back at you."

Undoubtedly Baba, my grandmother.

"Adam, my darling!" I didn't recognize her voice. I hadn't seen her since high school graduation. Or talked to her. But her presence hung over my entire life, as if she were always with me.

The room went quiet. Following Baba was an entourage worthy of a head of state. Two aides, one with a notepad and the other with a computer pad, and two bulky bodyguards.

"Adam," Kayko whispered. "That's the man," pointing to one of the guards "who followed us on our triple date, the one in the restaurant who also was there at the performance."

I didn't have time to speculate about the connection. All movement ceased in the room as my guests strained to get a better look. Someone asked, "Is she someone famous?" Both Uncle and I, approaching from different directions, were drawn by invisible strings to Baba.

"Mother," Uncle said, "What a nice surprise. We had no idea you were coming."

No apology from Baba. "I couldn't miss such a glorious day in the life of my grandson." As Baba's focus centered solely upon Uncle and myself, conversations began to resume in the Great Room. Only Marsha, standing near the tree, the dinner announcement forgotten, continued to intensely watch the spectacle of Baba's homecoming. My mother was not in the room or had found a way to hide behind the furniture.

"What is her accent?" I asked Kayko quietly.

"Difficult to say. Not anything from the British Isles. A perfect English over Scandinavian, perhaps, or something further east. Nothing I've heard. She must have lived in many places."

Uncle did not embrace Baba, but stood at attention facing her with me. She turned her head to me. "Kiss your Baba, Adam, my darling.

I did. Her cheek was cold at ice. She'd probably just come from the outside. Or was I kissing an extraordinary manikin? An animated but beautiful corpse?.

"Baba, I'm so glad you could come." What else could I have said? Baba, you're scaring me? "I've so much I want to ask you."

She must have smiled. "Not now, my darling. Perhaps very soon. When you are more ready to talk to me."

What the hell was she talking about?

Abruptly, Baba signaled with a crooked finger on her tapered hand that Uncle was to follow her. They went off together to talk in another room, Baba's entourage trailing behind.

"You never told me about your grandmother, Adam," Kayko said. "She's very impressive. I don't think I've ever seen anyone like her. She certainly fills up a room. Remarkable stage presence. But a little . . .scary."

I walked over to Marsha, who appeared lost in thought and frozen to her spot. "Marsha, you can announce dinner."

She was breathless. "Adam, that's your grandmother. Actually here, present. I haven't seen her, in what? Eight years." Marsha was also at my high school graduation. "She hasn't changed. She's exactly the same. Looks just the same Adam. I'm not being kind about the changes caused by age. She is exactly the same, as if she alone stood still while the rest of us aged."

I had no response to that. Baba must have been in her seventies, but looked in her 50's. "I'm shocked to see her, too. But we've got to move our guests into the dining area or the food will get cold."

Jarred from her reverie, Marsha turned and raised a small metal triangle in her hand, and hit it with a tiny mallet. She raised her voice. "Dinner is served. If you will just follow me."

The food display was sumptuous. Dinner was buffet style, with cold cuts at one station, hot meats sliced to order at another. Fish and every imaginable type of side-dish completed a semi-circle. Later, after everyone ate their fill, a dessert table on a brilliantly white tablecloth would be loaded with colorful cakes and every imaginable type of pastry.

The 60 or so guests sat at 10 round tables at one end of the Great Room. A great scramble ensued at each table as each guest tried to get a seat with their closest friends. The noise from conversations was amazingly loud and drove out any negative thoughts.

I sat near the front and to one side. I'd rejected the plan for a straight, main table. Too wedding reception-like. Marsha reluctantly agreed.

Kayko sat next to me, making conversation, except when she jumped up to greet someone she knew. With Jessica repacked and gone back to LA, I appreciated that Kayko stayed with me and played the hostess.

I really appreciated Kayko's good humor. She'd been able to rise above her sadness when her mother left in the afternoon for Pennsylvania to be with her ailing husband. I also felt a little guilty about monopolizing Kayko's company. I knew she would've had a better time sitting with the theater group, who'd gathered at one table towards the back.

Matthew sat down next to Kayko, and, smiling, talked to her in a voice too low to hear over the tumult. Kayko saw Becky Frangelmore, the reporteress and date of Keith, and jumped up to talk to her.

I could only imagine the article Becky would write for the local weekly. _"In the social event of the year, a scintillating Christmas/birthday/congratulatory party was held at the Estate. Everybody who was anybody was there, dressed resplendidly."_

Matthew moved over to take Kayko's seat. "What a glorious celebration. You're very young to be a full-fledged doctor aren't you? How old were you when you graduated from college, undergraduate?"

"Just 19. I graduated early from high school and then placed out of another year by taking advanced placement tests."

I wanted to dislike Matthew, but I had to admit to myself that he was a well-spoken and smart man. An accomplished man, who had attained much in the business world, while I was hiding in academia. On the other hand, I couldn't quite suppress my suspicion that he'd played some role in Kayko's kidnapping.

"Amazing. You've done so much," Matthew said. Was I getting patronized? Buttered up? Would having me as a friend make his relationship with Uncle all the stronger?

"Thanks, I just followed where my talents led me." I hoped this was a modest reply. Was I supposed to ask him in turn how he achieved his own successes? I'd heard some of Matthew's accomplishments the night of the triple date.

Before I could form an adequate question about Matthew's other accomplishments, he asked me about my rescue of Kayko. "How in the world did you ever find Kayko? I mean, how did you know she was in a remote place in Southern Illinois. The exact spot."

I was prepared for this question. "I got an anonymous phone call telling me where she was." I thought this was a very adequate lie, one that couldn't be challenged as being too incredible. I hoped he'd just take my word for it. No such luck.

"So the police weren't able to trace that call?"

"I received the call at work." I hoped I was on safe ground here. But then I thought Matthew might be able to get a list of those who called my office. Could he find out about the call from Mrs. Rossi?

Why was I being grilled by Matthew? I had the disturbing thought that Matthew wanted to inflict some retribution on an informer. What would Matthew do if he found out about Mrs. Rossi? What could I do to protect her?

"And the amazing part," Matthew said, "Was that you went to save Kayko with only a rifle to protect yourself."

Rifle? Who said anything about a rifle?

Kayko was unconscious during the escape and car chase. She didn't see the rifle Keith tossed away. We'd discussed her rescue, which I'd embellished to make myself sound especially brave, but I'd never mentioned the rifle to her. I didn't want to mention the rifle to anyone, including Agent Davis, because I suspected, albeit somewhat irrationally, that this particular rifle was used to kill my grandfather. Kayko could only tell Matthew what she knew about the rescue. That couldn't have included anything about a rifle.

Had Keith mentioned the rifle? I knew for a fact that Keith had been too busy running errands for Marsha to talk to Kayko about the rescue. Besides, I'd told him to hold off talking to her until she felt stronger. Anyway, Keith wasn't the commiserating type.

So how did Matthew know about the rifle unless he'd gotten a report from the kidnappers?

Interesting!

I could see Kayko out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look at her and wished for the millionth time that I could truly admire her looks.

She wobbled on her feet and collapsed.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I gently lifted Kayko to a sitting position, with my arm around her shoulders.

I could not revive Kayko by tapping her cheek or by applying the cold compress Keith brought from the kitchen. She was very pale, and her breathing was shallow and labored.

When he approached, I waved Matthew off, a doctor unwilling to be disturbed by a family member or friend of the patient. Someone, one of the guests, said to call 9-1-1, but another whispered loudly enough to hear that "Adam's a doctor. He'll know what to do."

I only hoped I knew what to do. Taking Kayko to a hospital would relieve me of the responsibility of helping her, but I didn't think that treatment, any known treatment, would help her.

The terrible fear I'd suppressed. That Kayko had been given some kind of virus while at the research facility. The thought hit me again almost with a physical impact. I'd given her an examination when she returned home and found nothing. I'd convinced myself that she was fine and had escaped any experimentation. But I could no longer delude myself. Something was very wrong with Kayko.

"Should we get her up on your shoulder again?" Keith asked.

"Let's get her into my father's office and put her on a couch, me holding her under the arms and you grabbing her feet. If I carry her on my shoulder, people will become alarmed even more."

To the growing crowd of on-lookers, I said something like "too much excitement, needs air."

Keith and I carried Kayko to a leather couch in the office. I put one of the leather pillows under her head. She looked very tiny and helpless to me.

"What do you think is wrong with her?"

What I could have told him was that she had the same virus that aged and killed one of my patients, Mr. Rossi, the same virus that caused Esmeralda to look 20 years older, and the same that reduced the intelligence and stamina of her husband, Hutchings. "I don't know yet." I said.

My imagination ran wild. Maybe the virus was meant as a weapon of war and would be used to take over the world. Or it would be used to blackmail governments into submission. A little too huge a theory, too much like Mantay's world-wide conspiracy. More likely, the virus was just meant to extort money.

But how? If the bad guys wanted to use the virus as a poison, they'd have to be able to control who was infected. Whatever the virus was, its current means of spreading was not airborne or by personal contact. Otherwise, Rossi's family would also have the illness, and they'd looked very healthy to me.

But what about an earlier version of the virus? If Rossi's widow was correct, the virus infected a few unsuspecting employees, like Hutchings. How? Perhaps an early form of the virus escaped and spread through the air. Hutchings was just unlucky and may have caught the virus by accident.

Was that how Esmeralda caught the illness? From her husband by personal contact? Not likely, because, so far as I knew, her son Elyet was healthy except for his autism. Perhaps she and Rossi received a later form of the virus that could only be spread by injection. Maybe they received the injection in the guise of a company provided flu shot. Horrifying thought.

But later experimentation required constant observation, as I'd seen at the illicit research facility. That must have been why the later victims were kidnapped and immobilized. Maybe the kidnapped victims were being used to create an antidote?

Made sense. The idea was probably to target important people. The important people would be infected, then they would have to pay for an antidote. Force a victim to pay for a cure.

I needed to get that antidote. Somehow and from someone, and my only suspect for the creation and spread of an enervating virus was Matthew.

"Keith, did you ever tell Kayko or anyone about the rifle we brought when we rescued her?" Keith must have thought my mind had snapped. Why was I talking about the rescue?

He humored me. "No, not a soul. I didn't think that throwing the rifle on the grass so I could grab the car door was a particularly smart move or showed me in the best possible light."

Another supposition confirmed.

"Keith, would you do me a favor and go get Matthew? Oh, and once he's here, why don't you go back and be with Becky."

"Sure. Tonight's the night." He hesitated, then realized this wasn't the right time to talk about his conquests. "Do you want me to hang around for a while after the party? I could ask one of your friends to give Becky a ride home?"

"No need."

Keith was gone for about five minutes, then reappeared with Matthew at the door of my father's office. "Good night, Keith," I said. He closed the door, leaving us alone.

Was Matthew pulling a solemn, caring face, or was he smirking?

I did what I should have done long before this, what I should have done on that first night I met him. When Kayko and I had dinner with Uncle and him.

I grabbed Matthew by the shirt, pulled him towards me, and hit him in his face. As hard as I could. I repeated the procedure with my fist, the hand of a doctor. Again. Several times. I felt blood on my knuckles. Very satisfying.

"You stupid son of a bitch, you infected your own sister. What kind of animal are you?"

He didn't bother to deny it. "The kind, you ugly freak, who will have it all. All your uncle's money. And everything else, including the Karl fortune." Struggling to get away from the grip I had on him, he clawed at my face. Apparently the fine art of fisticuffs wasn't what he'd learned on the links.

I pushed him away hard. He slammed into the wall near the door, and slid to the ground. I hoped I'd made a lasting impression on him. On his face. I kicked him for good measure.

"You fucking arrogant rich kid," he said. "You've got it all. Handed to you. You think you can get anything you want. Well, Kayko here," pointing "is going to die. Wither up and die. And there's nothing you can do about it. Even if you kill me."

I appreciated the suggestion, but settled for kicking him again. "No, I'm not going to kill you, but I want the antidote."

"You're not going to get it. Nothing you can do to get it. You have everything in the world, all the money in the world, but Kayko is still going to die."

We'll see about that, I thought.

No use talking to an asshole like Matthew. "Get the hell out of here. And never come back."

Matthew struggled to his feet. "Your uncle won't believe anything you tell him about me, you know. Don't even think about bad-mouthing me to him. He'll think his precious defective nephew is jealous. He'll think you're nuts . . . even more nuts if you rave about the infection."

I hated that Matthew was right.

I made a move in Matthew's direction and he cringed. He wasn't worth further bloodying my hands. "Out, get out of my sight."

"Enjoy her last few days alive," he said over his shoulder.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Goodman Lewis arrived looking very sad, very worried about Kayko. "What happened, Adam? Did she just faint from the excitement? You don't think there's something wrong with the food?"

I imagined the look of horror that would cross Lewis' face if I told him she was suffering from something inflicted upon her while she was abducted.

"Not the food. I think she just needs some rest. I've got to attend to my guests. You'll have to take over, get Kayko upstairs. Use some of the wait staff to lift her." Refocusing on the need to deal with my guests, I remembered that I didn't know the location of my grandmother. "Is Baba still here? I haven't seen her since her grand entrance."

I wondered if Lewis blanched at the mention of her name. "No, Adam, she left almost as fast as she arrived. One of her assistants told me she was staying at a nearby hotel, but the entourage was moving too fast for me to catch the name. I could call around and find out."

"You do that."

I looked at my watch. Almost midnight. I walked back into the Great Room. Some guests had already gone home, and only about half still remained. I answered questions about Kayko. She certainly had impressed my friends. I wondered if they thought she was my date for the evening.

The party was almost over. Time passes quickly when one is terrified. I said many goodbyes and Merry Christmases. Each guest wanted to thank me for a wonderful evening. A very eventful evening.

Fortunately, I'd hit Matthew with my dominant left hand, and I didn't need to explain my bandaged knuckles when I shook hands.

The room emptied quickly. Marsha said she was exhausted and would sleep well. Lewis was attending to Kayko. My mother and stepfather were nowhere to be found. The wait staff was cleaning the room.

If Kayko had not been ill, she and I would have discussed the party, all the guests and their peculiarities. We would have gossiped. And laughed. A pleasant sharing, an opportunity lost, probably forever.

I imagined Kayko in her room, nearly comatose, and I couldn't bear the thought of seeing her like that. I went to my room, hoping sleep would overwhelm me. No such luck. My mind churned, searching for a way to get the antidote.

What could I give Matthew, what could I trade for the antidote? Something valuable to him. Money wouldn't be enough. Matthew already figured he had a lock on a lot of money. Mine.

I could trade information for an antidote.

About 2 a.m. I called Keith, figuring he'd be home either with or without Becky. He answered in mid-yawn. I asked him if Becky was in his room.

"No, I took her home. But, it went well."

"Good. Have those lock-picks you ordered arrived yet."

"Yes, just this morning, or was that yesterday morning. I haven't had a chance to try them out."

"Good, tonight's the night. Right now. This could help Kayko."

"I'm with you." I felt a flood of gratitude for Keith's friendship and loyalty. I hung up and redressed in clothes darker and more appropriate for a break-in.

Keith called back. "Wait outside," he said. "I'll bring up one of the smaller, more inconspicuous cars."

A feeling of _déjà vu_ set in. The roads were again empty and no one walked the streets. All the stores we passed were closed. One thing was different. Post Christmas sales were already being advertised on storefront windows.

"Adam, what's going on?"

"I promise to explain everything when the time is right?" Keith snorted to show his disbelief.

Keith passed the time by telling me the excruciatingly intimate details of his date with Becky. Do women know that men discuss these things? She would be extremely embarrassed if she knew.

We parked behind the closed and shuttered coffee shop, again in a spot that couldn't be seen by cruising police cars. We walked together across the street, and I made short work of unlocking the front door of the office building. Our movements seemed unusually loud and clumsy, but, fortunately, no one was around to hear us. I used my keys again to open the door of our medical suite.

"I hope to heck I've got the right equipment this time. The thrill of breaking into your office is wearing out quick. I don't want to do this every Saturday night."

I sure as heck hoped he had the right equipment this time. A lot suddenly depended on finding out something that I could use to get an antidote for Kayko. I doubted I'd get a second opportunity to beat up on Matthew.

We reached the file cabinet in Dr. Bradley's office. The one with the confidential adoption files. Keith had brought even more flashlights than the last time. I used the most powerful and cast a spotlight onto the lock in question.

Keith flexed his fingers like a safe cracker. "Did you bring some sandpaper to rub on your fingers? Make them super sensitive."

"I knew I forgot something." He put the bag of picks on top of the file cabinet, drew out some unlikely shaped metal sticks, and started the delicate process of turning the tumblers.

" _Voila!"_ The lock opened with a click. "I deserve a raise don't you think? A mere Christmas bonus doesn't cover my extraordinary service."

I ignored that comment and pushed Keith out of the way. "Direct a flashlight on these files, will you?" I thumbed through the files in the top drawer, and went through them a second time to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I closed the top drawer and opened the middle drawer. I bent to read the file names.

There it was. I opened the file eagerly and had Keith direct the flashlight as I read down the page.

Hooray for the unexpected!

I called Matthew while we drove home. I'd brought the list of Matthew's phone numbers with me. The one that Lewis wrote from Matthew's telephone calls and messages. I didn't care if I woke him.

"What do you want, you stupid bastard?" Apparently civility was permanently lost between Matthew and me. I was glad of that. Pretending takes energy.

Matthew didn't sound like he'd been asleep yet either. I hoped his facial contusions and abrasions were many times more painful than my stinging left fist. "I've just put my hands on some information that changes everything."

He remained silent. I was sure he wanted to hang up, but couldn't take the chance that I actually had something on him. "Go on."

"I have proof. I mean documents with official notary seals and stamps that prove Kayko is not your sister." I hoped he understood the implications. "Proof that Kayko can never interfere with your plans to inherit from my uncle." He didn't say anything.

"How do I know you haven't had these made up by some engraver?"

"Look, first of all, I didn't have time to bring in a master forger. Secondly, you can send one of your more intelligent flunkies to verify their authenticity when he brings the antidote."

Long silence while the wheels in his brain turned.

I hoped his judgment was defective, weighed down with guilt. My guess was that Matthew really didn't want to kill Kayko. He wanted to eliminate a rival for Uncle's money. She was just in the way of his plans. He may even have regretted poisoning Kayko. In any case, he probably didn't want to endure the inconvenience of waiting for her to die. He wanted instant gratification. An end to this nagging claim on his attention.

"Alright," he said finally. His henchman, he called him his "associate," would arrive in about two hours with the antidote. "If the papers are genuine he'll hand over the antidote."

* * * * *

### CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

No matter what, I told myself, I wouldn't ask the henchman if he'd been henching for long, or whether he'd recommend henching as a profession.

I watched from a side window as his car approached our driveway. He was about average height, and expensively dressed, but looked a little rumpled. Which made sense, since he must have been roused from bed.

"Does he look like a lawyer or more like an assistant to a vice-president?" I asked Lewis who stood with me at the window.

"I'd say more like an assistant vice-president."

I agreed. No self-respecting lawyer would have allowed himself to be pushed into a 5 a.m. meeting. This emissary must be the low man on the totem pole, the one who couldn't object to some early morning dirty work.

I ran back to my father's office while Lewis answered the door. I sat at my father's desk. Lewis walked the henchman in. The man did not say hello or make any effort at a greeting. He sat down facing me. "Let's get on with this," he said.

Keith stirred on the couch, the leather crinkling. I'd told him just enough about the situation so he could participate if necessary. I'd explained that we needed a certain medication to help Kayko. I didn't get into the details of who was related to whom or why the papers were important. That was my business, and I was very grateful that he trusted me and didn't try to ferret out the details.

We both were foggy from the lack of sleep.

Keith and I had also discussed a plan B, physically taking the antidote from this man if he balked after looking at the papers. I was doubtful this would work. The "associate" could just pour the antidote on the ground, if he felt threatened, or smash the vial against the wall.

"I'd like to see the antidote." He withdrew a vial from his inside suit pocket and put it on the desk between us.

"How do I know this is the real stuff," I asked.

"You don't."

My turn to be dangerously trusting. Matthew was trusting that I had some information he could use. I hoped I could trust him about the authenticity of the antidote. The thin veneer of gentlemanly honor was being invoked. But Matthew was no gentleman. Was I?

"How do I know this isn't poison?"

"Try it out on yourself." An interesting thought. If what was in the vial was poison, and I injected myself, then both Kayko and I would die. I'd be dead from the poison and Kayko would die from the virus. That would be a double header for Matthew.

"Here are the papers." I handed him the file from Dr. Bradley's file cabinet.

I wondered what Matthew told him to look for, what sign of authenticity. He ran his fingers over the raised notary seal on one of the documents, and picked up another document, angling it to light to examine the official stamp. He made sure that its ink rose from the paper, a sign that it was not a copy.

I had one advantage. I didn't think Matthew would tell a flunky exactly why he wanted these documents. Matthew would be as reluctant to give out too much information. He'd fear that, somehow, the information would be used against him.

Matthew probably told the hench-guy to look for a birth certificate. One of the documents had that heading. I hoped this was enough."

"OK," he said. I resumed breathing.

He left the vial where it was. He stood and put the file underneath his arm, and, without another word, walked out of the office. Lewis trailed behind him, checking, I was sure, to make sure that the henchman did not steal any antiques. I heard the door open and shut.

I grabbed the vial and we ran up to Kayko's room. She was breathing easier, I thought, but my observation could have been colored by wishful thinking. She still hadn't regained consciousness, a contrary, bad sign. I opened my medical bag and took out a sterile syringe, drew from the vial, and gave her a shot.

That's all I could do. Besides pray that I'd injected her with the real antidote. Not poison

Very soon, Matthew would be examining the contents of the file, and would find out I had not lied.

The documents showed clearly that Kayko was not his sister, and that she could not stand in the way of his inheriting from my uncle, as my uncle's illegitimate child. Just as I said.

Because the documents showed that Matthew and Kayko were unrelated. Matthew was not the illegitimate son of my uncle. He was not Kayko's brother or half-brother.

Kayko had been right. There was more than a doctor-nurse relationship between Dr. Bradley and Nurse April. There was a love child. Matthew was that child.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FORTY

I slept into the afternoon. Marsha woke me. Unusual, because Lewis usually performed that duty if I wasn't functioning by mid-morning on a Sunday.

"Adam, dear, your mother is all packed and is leaving early. She wants to say good-bye."

"Wasn't she scheduled to leave tomorrow?"

"Yes, dear, but your grandmother's visit seems to have upset her." Putting it mildly. Of course, Mother wanted to escape her former mother-in-law as soon as humanly possible.

Marsha handed me my bathrobe and turned away until I was decent. "Where's Lewis?"

"I don't know. He was here a while ago. Maybe he went back to our cottage for something."

"Are you recovered from the party?" I asked "I thought it went well. You outdid yourself."

She must have smiled with satisfaction. "Why, thank you, Adam. I did do a great job, even if I'm patting myself on the back. Everyone seemed to have a good time, didn't they? The food was excellent; the serving staff did very well. The tree was the hit of the evening."

"Yes, everything went well and the room looked very Christmassy."

"Adam, I do hope Kayko is better today. I checked on her, and she's still asleep." Mention of Kayko brought last night's fears and frustrations back to mind.

"She's just got a virus. I'll look in on her after I get dressed." That was as much as I could tell Marsha.

I went to Kayko's room. Did she looked a little less pale? Was her breathing less labored? Maybe.

I didn't know how fast the antidote would work. After all, she didn't get immediately sick right after I'd rescued her from the research facility. Whatever she had gestated for some period. Perhaps recovery would take just as long.

If I'd actually given her an antidote. I hoped Matthew had acted in good faith. I had. I hadn't lied exactly. I just hadn't told him the full truth about the information. In any case, lying to a murderer wasn't much of an infraction of the gentlemanly code.

How angry would Matthew be? I'd really ruined his plans. I'd kept copies of the proof of Matthew's birth and could always show them to my uncle. No inheritance for Matthew.

Would Matthew try to exact some revenge? I hoped not, but there wasn't anything I could do until he signaled his next move.

I ran downstairs to find a mountainous number of suitcases, of various kinds, shapes, and colors, all ready for Keith to carry them out to the car. Mother flittered about, trying to put name tags on some of the new suitcases she'd purchased as Christmas presents for herself.

She paused to give me a short hug and to kiss my cheek. "Oh, Adam, I'm so glad we didn't miss you. Your stepfather decided we should leave early for Aspen." Sure, he did. As if he'd ever made an independent decision during their marriage. "I wanted to ask, Adam. Was there anyone special you met last night, anyone you'd care to see again soon, take out, cultivate a friendship?"

"Yes, mother. Many. I made up a list before I went to bed and I'll call each one and go out."

Mother must have looked at me skeptically, then decided she didn't have time to find out if I was serious. "Oh, here's Keith." He must have looked as bedraggled as I felt. "Adam, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas and a wonderful New Year's Eve. I'll call you as soon as my plane lands in Colorado." She often made these kinds of promises when she travelled, but she was always too flustered and aggravated from the trip to call me when she arrived anywhere.

She'd said nothing about Kayko. I didn't know if she was even aware that Kayko had collapsed. I wondered if she disapproved of Kayko. She certainly hadn't hidden her dislike of Jessica.

Jessica was not an issue anymore.

"I've got to direct the placement of these suitcases. I don't think Keith is taking sufficient care. Good bye. Don't let Baba frighten you into anything." She was out the door.

With Mother and Stepfather gone, I had no one to share my breakfast. I grabbed a pastry from last night out of the refrigerator and ate it as I walked back to my room.

Back in my room, the only correspondence from Saturday's mail was about an upcoming lecture on hip replacements and nerve damage.

Berringer called. "Just calling to check. I hope your friend Kayko is alright."

"Just a virus, I'm sure. Probably be up and running in no time."

"That's good to hear. I thought the party was great. Brittany had a great time."

"Yes, the consensus was that everyone had a good time. Any security problems?"

"No. I escorted a few women to their cars who were afraid of the dark, that's all. Your friends aren't big drinkers. I was worried I'd have to put a drunk or two into my unmarked."

It took a fraction of a second to realize he meant his unmarked police car. "Maybe I'll make this an annual event."

"A great idea. Did you have a chance yet to look at that book by your friend Dunne?"

"I only gave it a glance, but I'm going to talk to him at length sometime about my father's murder. I'm sure he's never stopped thinking about it or kicking himself for not catching the murderer."

More small talk followed. Berringer said he'd be taking Brittany out again soon and wanted to know if Kayko and I would be interested in hanging out. I told him I'd get back to him as soon as she felt better.

Interesting that Berrringer saw Kayko and me as a couple. Interesting, but impossible.

I still had not seen Lewis. I was curious if he'd found out where Baba was staying. He didn't answer his cell phone. I wondered if was napping, still not quite recovered from the party, and had switched his cell phone off.

When Lewis still hadn't appeared an hour later, I began to worry. He was not acting according to his usual habits, his set patterns. Maybe he was ill. I decided to visit him at his cottage.

I put on my heaviest boots and trudged through the snow. The cottage was actually quite a distance in the cold, maybe two city blocks. The stony path to the cottage was snow-packed and slippery. The sky was dark, even if it was only 4:30. The winter solstice had passed the previous day, or was it on the 20th?

I knocked on the wooden cottage door. I hadn't visited the cottage since I'd returned from my residency. During my teenage years, I often had dinner in the cozy cottage with Marsha and Lewis. Marsha was the soul of hospitality.

My second knock caused the door to swing open. I called out. "Lewis, it's Adam." No response. I kicked off my boots onto the rubberized mat. I walked barefoot forward down the hall to the cottage's combined living room and dining room. "Lewis?" I hoped I wouldn't wake him. If I found his bedroom door close, I decided, I would just put my boots back on and go back to the Estate.

Near the souvenirs of trips abroad and the china cabinet filed with Marsha's treasures and keepsakes, I saw an inert figure on the ground.

Lewis was in a pool of blood. He'd been shot in the stomach. I felt for a pulse. He was dead.

Matthew had made his next move.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Marsha was inconsolable. "Such a good, kind man," was all she said. She sat at the three-windowed dinette table, her head down, and wept. It broke my heart. I wondered what would become of her. I doubted she'd stay. She was old enough to retire, at least from the perspective of a 25 year old. She could move to Los Angeles and live with Jessica, and I'd never see her again. That's what happens when people die, you lose your connection with their loved ones and friends too.

The Estate was so different without Lewis. Everything changed. I hated change.

Of all the people in my life, Lewis was the most dependable, the one who would always be there when I needed him. Without him, the calm, familiar center of my universe crumbled. In my imagination, the Estate went into immediate disarray and disorder. I dreaded the thought of strangers in every room, asking questions. Our privacy violated. The peacefulness I'd come to expect was lost forever. All the stability in my life escaped like air from a burst balloon.

Even the acts of life that console, the funeral and the gathering of friends, were in disarray. Lewis would have been appalled. His body was being held for the autopsy. No one knew when his body would be released for burial. Christmas complicated everything. People were already off for the holiday. The funeral would have been postponed, in any case, until the week between Christmas and New Years, spoiling both.

I sat in Kayko's darkened room, listening to the slow in and out of her breathing. Was she better? I could only hope so. Certainly there was nothing dramatic going on, no instant recovery. Her deep sleep continued.

I felt very alone and missed her company terribly. Kayko would have known how to console me, calm me down. I so wished she'd be with me when I answered questions about Lewis' death. Her insights into people, her good humor, would have made all the difference.

I was lucky that Berringer was the one asking questions.

We sat in my father's office. He asked questions, but so mildly, it was like I was just telling a story. "I know you are upset. But I've got to ask some questions. Take your time."

"Alright."

"Did you see anyone around the cottage?"

"No. It would have been very unusual to see any strangers. I would have noticed immediately."

"You do have some security, some guards?" he asked.

"Yes, but we're talking early evening. About 4:45 p.m. Dark because it's winter. No one worries that a trespasser will come onto the Estate in the late afternoon."

"You've got some security cameras?"

"Yes, but none specifically around the cottage, just around, and now in the Mansion. I suppose some of the cameras around the main entryways might have shown something. But every possible entry point isn't, couldn't be covered. Have you checked the recordings?"

"Yes, but we didn't see anything unusual," he said. "You're right about the difficulty of watching every possible point of entry. Some of the Estate is tree covered. Someone could have gotten off the main road and found a place where no camera would see him. After this is all over, we should have a discussion about how to make the Estate more secure." I was grateful for the suggestion. "And you saw no tracks on the path to the cottage.

"No, and I wouldn't. We haven't had a thaw for weeks. The path was packed down with dirty snow, more ice than snow. An elephant could probably have walked that path without leaving prints."

"Did anyone have a grudge against Lewis?"

"Not really. I supposed he irritated some workmen over the years. Perhaps he fired some incompetent help. I don't know."

"Can you think of anyone who had a motive to kill him?"

Yes, I thought to myself, Matthew killed Lewis in revenge after I ruined his plans to inherit from my uncle. But I wasn't going that to tell Berringer. For one thing, I didn't think he'd believe me. For another, the whole story made me look less than heroic. I'd risked the lives of my friends at every turn.

Besides, I didn't want the law to punish Matthew. I wanted to be the one who dealt out his punishment for Lewis's death.

Death. Death had followed me from the time I'd gotten off the airplane just three weeks ago. I thought of calling my friend Haney the coroner and asking him to take a look at Lewis, but what would that accomplish? I'd only find out that there were similarities between his death and the others in the past three weeks. Stomach wounds. Esmeralda, Mantay, and now Lewis. And before them, Hutchings. What did it mean? Was Matthew behind all of these deaths?

I decided to get out of the Estate and go talk to Dunne downtown. I thought the change of scenery would do me some good. I'd already cancelled all my appointments for Monday. Keith drove and occupied himself at a restaurant while I went inside the police station.

Dunne was not glad to see me. I sat down in the chair near his desk, without being invited. "Oh no, my day is complete. Here comes the man who has death chasing him everywhere."

You nasty bastard, I thought. "Hello, detective, I'm glad to see you too."

"So this time, it was your damn butler. What is it with your family? Don't you have a pension plan? When they've served you long enough, you just have them knocked off?"

Dunne was purposely baiting me. For once, I was glad my voice was flat and unemotional. His turn to be insulted. "You're just angry at me because you could never solve my father's murder."

"What do you know about it?"

"I found a copy of that book you and some hack wrote about your famous cases. You couldn't solve the murder of a man in his own office with an undisturbed crime scene and other people in the house."

He drew himself to his full sitting height, and took a breath. I was about to be blasted. "You dumb piece of shit, I couldn't solve that case because the eyewitness, you, wouldn't talk to me or even look me in the eye."

The true reason for his animosity. A seven year old who wouldn't come clean. "I was a kid with mental limitations who'd just seen his father murdered. What did you expect?"

"You would rock back and forth, and if I kept the questioning up, you would scream and shake."

I could only imagine the sophisticated methods of interrogation Dunne had applied. "I don't even remember you asking me questions. I probably blocked the whole thing from my memory. The murder, the investigation. I was a kid."

Dunne knew he'd gone too far. The bullying tactics he'd tried when I was a child weren't working too well even when applied to me as an adult. He was silent for a while, containing his temper. "So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I found you as an adult at the airport, almost shot and as uncooperative as ever."

Yes, I could imagine it and his bulldog efforts afterward to involve me in another case where an autistic child was the sole witness. Still trying to solve my father's murder. "I've grown up. I've done the best I could with myself and my limitations. You're more interested in your reputation as a detective, still pissed off that my father's murderer outsmarted you."

He ignored that. "And I suppose you know who killed your butler?" Yes, but you're the last one I'll tell. "Don't be so sure Mr. Amateur Detective. My instincts tell me you've overlooked a lot more than you realize. Your father's murderer is still out there somewhere, you know."

Not much else to say. I stood up. "I'm going now to talk to Esmeralda's son, Elyet. I'll call you if I get anything out of him."

No good byes or other salutations from the unrepentant Detective Dunne.

Keith drove me to Elyet's foster home on the South Side of the city. I rang the doorbell of the two story brick bungalow and was greeted by a large woman. "Oh, you're here to see Elyet. I can't stop you. That's part of the foster care rules, being cooperative in police investigations. He's around here somewhere. I've got three other foster care children. They all have some physical or mental limitations." Thank God, my parents were rich, I thought, or here, but for the grace, I would have been.

I found Elyet, a tiny, skinny child, sitting in the corner on the floor, leaning over a piece of paper on the hardwood floor. I didn't know if he looked like Esmeralda because I didn't know what Esmeralda looked like, or him either.

He drew with a crayon. Cobalt blue. No pattern emerged from his random doodling. I knew how he felt.

"Elyet, I have a few questions to ask you." Elyet didn't like me, a stranger, and he didn't like being disturbed from his drawing. He looked at me with complete incomprehension, and began to scream.

A taste of my own medicine. Was that what Dunne wanted for me? Was that the real reason he involved me in this case?

Elyet didn't like strangers. Elyet responded to strangers with hysteria. So how could he have been in the same room when his mother, Esmeralda, had a conversation with her future murderer? The little boy would have been hysterical unless he knew who the murderer was, had met him before, knew him from past experience.

I understood. I'd had the same experience. I was very much like Elyet. I'd sat in my father's office, drawing on a piece of paper, when he was murdered. I must also have known the person who killed my father.

I remembered who killed my father.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I told our security guard to leave early. "I think even the criminals must take some time off for the holidays," I said. He laughed courteously. He thanked me for the time off and wished me a Merry Christmas.

Usually I would have asked Lewis to talk to the security man. But nothing would be usual again.

I walked slowly away from the security office, hearing my feet crunching on the new snow. The office had once been a shed. I'd played there with Keith and Jessica long ago. The Estate was filled with memories.

I could have asked Marsha to speak to the guard, but I knew she was still distraught. When I found her in the kitchen, her eyes looked red from crying. Dark circles under her eyes. She looked older. I asked her plans for the evening. She wanted to stay that night with Grace. She didn't want to be alone. Better not to be alone so close to the holidays, I thought.

Grace's cottage was quite a distance, probably several city blocks from the Mansion.

I found Keith in his loft apartment above the garage. Keith told me he would not be home. He and Becky were going to a Christmas party at the home of one of her relatives. They needed to travel quite far, and he'd need to sleep over, a prospect he found to his liking.

I gave the rest of the staff the evening off. Finish up on their holiday shopping, I told them.

When I was sure the security guard was gone, I went back to the shed and turned off all the recording equipment for all the security cameras on the property and in the Mansion.

The Mansion was quiet. The sky darkened. A few hours passed. I stood at the front window near the door and watched for the dual headlights of a car. When they swung into view, I watched the car make a silent approach, its sounds muffled by the snow.

I greeted Baba at the door. She gave me a quick hug. Her lips were cold against my cheek.

"Hello, Baba, I'm glad you could come. We didn't get to talk at the party." When I'd called her, I asked her to come alone, without her entourage, so we could speak without interruption.

She took a step back to look at me. "Of course, Adam, my darling. This talk of ours is a long time coming. I'm delighted to finally reach this time with you."

I attributed her odd phrasing to her European heritage. Perhaps she was translating some idiom literally from her native language, whatever that was. I knew so little about my grandmother. Maybe I'd finally get an opportunity to find out some of her secrets.

"Let's go sit in the office, Baba." She followed me down the corridor. To my father's office. Where he died.

I sat behind my father's desk, and Baba sat on a chair directly in front of me. "What was it, my darling, you wanted to ask me?" Baba sat up very straight. She cradled her purse on her lap.

"Baba, I'm sure you know that I had a recent discussion with our lawyer, Millwell, about inheriting the Karl properties when I reach 30."

"Yes, of course, this was done as it should be done. As it is always done. And now, I'm guessing you want to know more about our family."

Was she trying to make this easier? "Baba, I know nothing of our family."

"What would you like to know? I see you are disturbed by this thought, that you know so little about our family. Just ask your Baba, and she will tell you."

"Baba, who was my grandfather?"

She made a dismissive gesture. "Just someone, my darling. He was not important. We had a marriage of convenience. Don't trouble yourself about him."

"Baba, this was a man I came from, a forebear, as yourself. Part of me. His name?"

"His name was Michael Samuelson. He died young."

"I've never heard about his death. Was it cancer or an accident?"

"An accident, my darling."

"Was he shot in a hunting accident?"

I wondered if she had a surprised look on her face. "Ah, you know more than you have said. Yes, a hunting accident. Poor man."

"Baba, did you kill my grandfather?"

She was silent for a while. "Yes, my darling. He was weak. He had outlived his usefulness to the Karls."

"I see. Baba, my father, was he weak?"

"Oh, yes, my darling. Very weak. He could not . . .what's the phrase? Keep it in his pants."

Please God, if you exist, do not make me discuss my father's sex life with my grandmother.

She went on. "He was not discreet. He did not understand that above all, the Karls must be discreet. We must protect our ancient heritage, our place in the world, our nobility."

My grandmother, the last aristocrat. "He was about to inherit the Karl fortune. He was turning 30," I said.

"Yes, that is correct. But he did not pass his test to be a real Karl."

I was becoming breathless and took some time to gather my thoughts. "He did not pass his test, and what happened, Baba?"

"I killed him, of course. It was my duty to our family."

"And me, Baba. Have you been testing me?"

"Of course. It is the way of the Karls. To see if you are too weak to be a Karl. You have strengths, but you also have a great weakness, my darling. I had to see if you could overcome it."

"What is my weakness?"

"Your need for order, for stability. You want to believe the world makes sense. You cannot live in a world without structure, routine, certainty. Perhaps it is your unfortunate disability, the problem in your brain."

I was without words. The mention of my limitations stunned me. But she had me figured correctly. I felt like a child being told by his teacher at a parent conference that I was not a leader, and I was stupid, besides. "I need an orderly world. You are correct. How did you test me?"

"In many ways. In all ways. I sent a man to the airport to greet you with a bullet. And more. The orderliness of the Mansion was disrupted by thievery. I had you threatened by anonymous letters. I had someone tinker with your limo. I ordered your car to be rammed."

"What else, Baba?"

"I disrupted your precious privacy by informing the paparazzi that Jessica was staying at the Mansion. I also used that opportunity to have the troublesome reporter, Mantay, killed. He was straying too close to the truth. I knew you would feel guilty about his death."

"I see. What else? Were you involved in the development of the virus?"

"Of course. A brilliant innovation. We had some trouble with the delivery system, but we are almost ready to field test. The Karl family will make a great deal of money from it."

"Who's we, Baba? Is Uncle involved?" I held my breath, waiting for an answer that could forever shatter my world.

"No, something went wrong with my other son. He is incapable of acting with courage, as I must. He handles only our legal business dealings. Great care is taken to hide our principal activities from him. Fortunately, he was not in the direct line to inherit the Karl fortunes. Otherwise I would have killed him too."

I began to breathe again. Uncle was just the person he seemed to be. Honorable, normal, not perfect but solid and true. I could take some comfort in that, even if everything else about my life was a lie.

I wanted to hear more. I prompted her. "I'm not sure I'm following. Who is your agent here, the one carrying out your orders?"

"Matthew Leininger of course. He was so easy to manipulate because he believed himself to be a Karl. Now he's a liability and will soon be replaced."

Making odd sense. Baba let Matthew attack Kayko to eliminate her as another possible Karl heir, the illegitimate daughter of my uncle. But if Kayko died, and, I . . .what? Was to be die, who then would inherit?

"I still don't understand. If I don't survive, who gets the Karl fortune?"

"Your son, my darling. You are going to be a father. Jessica is pregnant with your child. Are you pleased, my darling?"

As if hit by a hammer, without mercy. Jessica had said she was on birth control when we slept together in Paris. Where I'd gone to give the woman who said she loved me the support and encouragement she needed during her first fashion showing.

"So Jessica knows about all this?"

"No, just enough. She doesn't know everything, but she is quite happy to help me. She possesses many fine qualities. She is not weak. She will pass on only strength to your son, my heir."

I put my hands to my face to check on my expression. If I could ever express shock, this was the moment.

Baba unobtrusively unsnapped the clasp on her purse. I watched her hand. I pushed forward on the wheels of my chair so my legs were beneath the middle drawer of the desk. Baba reached further into her purse.

"One final question, Baba."

"Of course, my darling. I have much enjoyed our conversation."

I raised my knees to the middle drawer, and pushing my chair back, opened the drawer. "Did you also kill Lewis?"

"Yes, of course, he knew too much. He was beginning to understand. Besides, he would have been quite upset to find out his daughter's complicity. I did him a favor by ending his life."

She dug deeper into her purse. I grabbed the gun, my father's gun, from the drawer.

And shot, Baba, and shot her, and shot her and shot her.

I sat for a long time doing nothing. Just staring at all the blood.

I placed a telephone call to a private number. "Hello," a familiar voice answered

"Millwell?"

"Yes."

"My grandmother and I have had a very interesting conversation."

"Is it over now?"

"Yes. Are you surprised that I am the one calling you?"

"No, Mr. B, I knew you could do it." I doubted that. "This is the way of the Karls, as it has always been. You have my loyalty. The loyalty of my family, as it has served yours for many generations."

"I understand, Millwell, and I appreciate that loyalty." Enough of this flowery verbiage. I wanted some down to earth, practical help. "I'll need to have some clean-up performed here."

"Of course, Mr. B. Someone will be there very soon. They are in the area. This was anticipated."

What was this Mr. B crap? I didn't have time now to get an explanation. I needed act like I was in control. A detail man, in charge.

"You'll make the other necessary arrangements regarding the Karl holdings." An order, not a question.

"Of course. The Karl properties and businesses will be held in sacred trust by a board of your closest allies until you reach age 30. In the meantime, you will be groomed for your new position."

"I understand."

"What day would you prefer her funeral?"

Good old Millwell. Practical as always.

* * * * *

### CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

By the way Uncle, I wanted to say, I slaughtered your evil monster of a mother.

We sat contentedly in our easy chairs in front of the huge, brilliantly bright and warm fireplace in the Great Room on Christmas day. Our stomachs were full from a wonderful holiday meal.

But what I really said was "Uncle, I'm sorry Baba passed away so close to the holiday. Her heart probably couldn't stand the excitement of the season."

"Yes, it is sad, thank you for saying. She wasn't around much, even when I was growing up, but she was like a force of nature, like a rushing waterfall, that I thought would go on forever."

"Uncle, if you don't mind discussing the family a little bit more, I'm really curious about your father, my grandfather. I don't remember you ever mentioning him."

"I'm sorry to tell you this but your grandfather abandoned the family while your father, Adam, senior, and I were away at private school. Baba decreed that the name of my grandfather would never again be mentioned by a Karl."

"I see. Very sad. Do you know if he's still alive?"

"Baba announced one day that grandfather had passed away."

"Too bad I never got to meet him."

Uncle nodded. "Here we are, sitting comfortably in our wonderful home, content and well, and I haven't even asked you how Kayko is."

I'd checked her again that morning. She seemed no better, but also no worse. I could detect no signs of deterioration, no premature aging or bunching of her muscles. No loss of range of motion. Still comatose.

What I could have said was, she's been poisoned by your associate Matthew and will probably wither away and die. But what I said was "She seems better."

"I'm glad."

"What's Matthew doing for the holidays?" I asked.

"I suppose he's with his family. He didn't stop in to wish me a Merry Christmas, which I thought was odd. Perhaps he's pre-occupied with family business."

Well, Uncle, I was tempted to say, if Grandmother didn't kill him off before her death, I'm sure that one word to Millwell will get him dispatched to the hereafter. Oh, and by the way, Uncle, I'm the heir apparent to an ancient world-wide criminal organization. But that's not so good, because I'm also its prisoner.

I could have told him that, but I held back. I was still trying to understand the events of the last few weeks. I knew one thing for sure. I didn't want to be a Karl.

"Uncle, one more question, if you don't mind."

"Anything Adam."

"I was curious, and I hope this isn't an upsetting question, why was it you never married and had children?"

"Some aren't meant for marriage. Maybe it was the impact of having my father abandon us and his marriage. Besides, well, can I rely on your discretion as a physician?"

"Of course."

"I'm sterile. Must have been the mumps. I couldn't father any children."

"I'm sorry, Uncle, to bring this up," I said. "I hope I haven't disturbed you."

"Not at all. You've got the right to know, I suppose."

"Silly me, I wondered if Kayko was your child."

"I can't believe you thought that. Kayko is the child of one of my executives and his secretary. It was a good deed to place her in a wonderful home."

"I'm sure it was." So Kayko isn't my first cousin after all.

We both fell silent, watching the fire. Just as I fell into a turkey induced sleep, I realized I had missed a great opportunity. While Grandmother was being brutally honest with me, I could have asked her about my looks. Surely, she would have told me if I was really ugly, since I couldn't tell by looking in a mirror.

A familiar hand cupped my ear. "You look very handsome," Kayko said.

I jumped up amazed. "You're okay!" I gave her a non-brotherly hug.

"Yes, I'm feeling much better all of a sudden. It's like the lights went back on. Was I asleep for long? The last thing I remember is feeling dizzy at the party."

"I'll have to fill you in on the last few days." Actually, I wanted to tell her a much longer story. I hoped she'd believe me.

I desperately needed in an ally in the coming fight. I'd finally remembered something. Millwell hadn't called my grandmother Baba Yaga, which I thought was a nickname for Barbara. He'd called her " _The_ " Baba Yaga. It was her title.

And now Millwell was calling me Mr. B.

Kayko needed to help me.

I had five years to avoid becoming "The Bogeyman."

The End

*****

The End

Other books by Leon Shure:

Vanek Mysteries

Screams and Bleeds

Think Fast, Detective Vanek

See Here, Detective Vanek

Collected in:

The Vanek Trilogy _The Cal Hodges Mysteries_

The Cal Hodges Mysteries

The Search for Hanson Sted

Deathbed Confession

River Cruise Murders

Collected in:

The Cal Hodges Mystery Trilogy

The Brunswik Mysteries

Audition for Murder

Littlemayor

Panic Parade

Collected in:

The Brunswik Mystery Trilogy

I.S. Blut Mysteries

Crone's Bones

Wilberforce Mysteries

Wedding Party Murders

#Conversationstoppers: Puns, _Non Sequiturs_ , and Impossible Scenarios

#Conversationstoppers 2: More Puns, _Non Sequiturs_ , and Impossible Scenarios

#Conversationstoppers 3: Even More Puns, _Non-Sequiturs_ , and Impossible Scenerios

The Search for Hanson Sted,

a Cal Hodges Mystery

by

Leon Shure

Copyright (C) 2017, 2018 by Leon Shure

Chapter One

"What we're talking about, Mr. Hodges," Trisha said, "is money and lots of it."

Cal Hodges, chief investigator for the law firm of Benson, Benson and Farley, smiled. He got the joke. Usually clients claimed the most praise-worthy of motives, but underneath it all was money and the pursuit thereof.

Refreshing to hear such honesty. But he wondered if, behind the cynicism, she was hiding something. His job was to find out the hidden.

He had about 5 heartbeats to react with a spoken reply. He'd been told often that his slow, deliberative style of conversation bothered clients. But he needed a moment to get a fuller impression of his new client.

Stalling, he shifted in his upholstered chair, jiggling the assignment sheet provided by the firm for each new case, hearing the paper crinkle. He gave Trisha a longer look. She sat in the chair in front of his desk, with her back very straight. An orderly woman, each hair in place, a contrast to the chaos of his office with its thrown about papers and files that would never be filed.

A question in his mind. Trisha Sted, by reputation, already had a lot of money. Her family had been clients for three generations, according to the assignment sheet Cal held between his finger and his thumb. That meant, what the sheet was implying was, be nice to this woman, her family had enriched the partners.

No need to warn me to be nice, he thought, I'm nice to everyone. Maybe not everyone. Actually, not nice to anyone. Just civil. Usually civil. Not exactly known for my civility, but civil underneath, secretly civil.

Silence stretched as long as he could without, hopefully, being openly rude, he said "I understand." Which was what he said to all new clients, whether he understood what they wanted or not. He would eventually understand, which was enough. By the time he was done, he'd understand way too much.

"Do you really? I'm glad." She smiled back at him. But beneath the smile, her expression and narrowed eyes said, if make-up could talk, don't even try to fool me. The woman knew when she was being trifled with. Cal readjusted his evaluation of Ms. Sted to also include intelligence.

Contrary to her reputation. A bubble-head, so far as the media was concerned. Famous for being famous, everything she did was duly noted and reported to a breathless transfixed public. Researching her public image would be easy, but what about her real self?

Because he suspected she had a real self. Cal wrote on the assignment sheet "Real?" with a question mark in case he was proven wrong. Unlikely, but the possibility always existed. He could be very wrong. The investigation isn't over until the opposite conclusion is examined was his motto.

"I've written it all down so I don't forget anything," Trisha said. She drew a sheet of paper from her purse. When she tipped the top of the letter forward to move her fingers down the edges, Cal could see that the page was typed.

Did Trisha do her own typing? Had she dictated to a secretary or to a computer program? If she did her own work, it meant whatever she really wanted from him was important to her.

"Are you going to leave that with me?"

She looked at him with some surprise. "If you want. Is that your standard practice?"

A woman who does not suffer salesclerks gladly. "Yes." Cal didn't offer an explanation. Sometimes what people wrote, and how they wrote it, gave him some real insights, even clues. He was afraid if he explained too much, she wouldn't give him the page.

A twinkly, friendlier smile, from Ms. Trisha. A reaction to his short reply, he thought. Was she afraid that he wasn't entranced with her, not coming under her spell? She was a very beautiful woman, although he didn't know yet how much was artifice, how much from nature.

"My brother, Hanson," she read, "disappeared on" she gave the date. Winter almost four years before. "His car was found at Mallard Park Lake in unincorporated Barringame Township, Illinois."

Was such beauty a drawback, a limitation, a hardship? Did it dominate her every conversation with others? Such women, Cal thought, must never develop the conversation skills of a normal or average looking woman. A beautiful person probably doesn't know how to focus on someone else. There must also be other drawbacks, problems of the very attractive, but for the moment, he couldn't think of any.

She continued. "Hanson was never found, just blood that proved to be his."

"By DNA?"

"Yes. Hanson was never heard of again. No reports of sightings. No use of credit cards. Nothing." She looked up, waiting for a question.

"I presume the police investigated and found nothing."

"Correct. My mother also hired several professional investigators who were unable to find out anything about his whereabouts."

"You were working under the presumption that he was alive?"

Surprised, a bit confused by his question. "Yes, of course. We hoped he had only been injured, attacked but still alive, and was in hiding."

On these bare facts, Cal was doubtful. Injured people usually find their way to hospitals. The dead can't be healed. Also, investigations go cold very quickly. Her brother hadn't been found soon after the discovery of the abandoned car, so the chances were good he'd never be found. "I don't understand then, what you want from me," Cal said. "Sounds like you've investigated his disappearance in every possible way."

She took a breath, made an involuntary shake of her head. A warding off gesture. Some guilt here, some real unhappiness here? Or some realistic acting, he thought. "Now we need to prove he's dead."

"Why?"

"It's all down on the paper here, but the reason is that my grandmother died. She left her entire estate to Hanson and me. Hanson has not been missing so long that he can be declared legally dead. We need that money, all of it, now. Business reversals, that kind of thing."

Why did the inheritance skip a generation? Trisha had only mentioned her mother as the one hiring investigators. Did that mean her father was deceased or just out of the picture, perhaps divorced or estranged? Also, why didn't Trisha's mother inherit Sted Industries when her husband died? The estate must have reverted to the paternal grandmother for some reason. Was it marital discord between the parents, or bad blood between Trisha's mother and the grandmother, or estate planning to prevent an ill-equipped widow from ruining the family business?

Cal stopped his speculations. A lot of guesswork based on nothing, Cal thought.

He leaned back in his chair. If this lady wanted him to launch another fruitless search, he was fine with it. He would check with Stuart Benson, the managing partner and his mentor. What were the legal reasons for this investigation? What kind of definitive findings would allow a court to make a declaration of death short of the statutory time, seven years missing?

"I've given this some thought," Trisha said. Cal was sure she had. "And an investigation would be a problem, given my . . . fame." The word she was looking for was notoriety, Cal thought. But she was right. Any mention of her name would bring out the paparazzi in people. Calls to the radio news lines, pictures snapped by cell phones, videos downloaded to the internet receiving a million hits in the first hour. "I'm just saying that we'd have to come up with a cover story."

"I'm listening," he said. Cal slouched forward, his own defensive gesture. A problem of being in the presence of such beauty, he thought, is the feeling, that, in comparison, one's own charms must be very feeble, even diminished by comparison. Cal didn't spend a great deal of time worrying about his looks, but now he felt his nose was too big, his tall frame kind of stooped. He was the opposite of a pretty boy. Usually a good thing.

She pursed her beautiful lips. "I've discussed this with Stuart. His suggestion was to create an agency, draw up the papers, which he said would not be difficult, to create an agency that searched for missing persons."

Cal looked doubtful. Where was she going with this?

She continued. "An agency that sought out people who have disappeared, representing families of lost souls after the police had given up. An agency that never stops looking. My brother could just be one of many still being investigated. You could make up some business cards, appear to be searching for generic missing persons, contact the local police with a good story. And have someone, like Stuart, vouch for you."

Actually, not a bad idea. Cal wondered how much of this proposed agency was suggested by Stuart and how much came from Trisha.

"Here are the reports from the investigators we hired." She handed Cal a large file, probably supplied to her after her meeting with Stuart.

Was the meeting over? Trisha gathered herself together, leaned forward, and fished below Cal's line of sight to find her purse.

But she hadn't told him anything about her brother yet. "Could you answer a few more questions before you go?"

She sat back, but tentatively, ready to begin her ascent again as soon as possible. "I'm sorry, I thought we were done. I have to run now. Another appointment, you know?"

"Fine, if you must go. Maybe that would be for the best. I'll do the basic research, read the reports you've given me, then come to see you at your home, if that's alright. "

A little hesitant. Was there something about her home that she didn't want him to see? Had they fired the butler because of the business reversals couldn't be covered by half an inheritance?

"I wonder," she said, "if it wouldn't just be easier if you came to the house this weekend? We're having some people, mostly friends, over for a brainstorming session about a new product I want to introduce. You would just be another of the overnight guests. You could meet my family and friends in a less pressured, more informal, way. Use our cover story." She must have sensed that Cal was less than enthusiastic. Cal didn't think of himself as a social animal. "You could bring whoever you want, your wife or significant other."

He could bring Merle. That put a whole new face on the prospect. "I think that would be helpful. I accept your invitation."

What should he say next? Cal realized he didn't know the first thing about arranging a weekend stay. "If you don't mind, I'll give your number to my fiancé. She's an attorney for the firm. Merle Grayson. She can make the arrangements." A moment of doubt. What if Merle didn't want to join him for a weekend on the job? "I'll be there for sure, but I'll have to find out if she's available. I know she's free on Saturday night."

They always were together on Saturday nights, their permanent date night for the last year. His concern was that Merle had specifically asked him to set aside time this weekend to revise plans for their upcoming wedding. She might even consider this weekend invitation to be a deliberate distraction. But no need to share these concerns with Trisha, he decided. He was uncomfortable talking about himself.

When Trisha was gone, he sat motionless for a long time, thinking, tapping his pen on his desk to some random cadence. Trisha had surprised him in a number of ways.

He let all she'd said float up into his consciousness, not trying to sort the information out. He often did this. The most important facts would come to mind first, of their own volition.

What was it she'd said about the missing? She'd called them "lost souls." Her brother was a lost soul. That was the "realist" thing she'd said.

Somewhere her brother was. Perhaps so changed he was unrecognizable. Either alive or in the grave amouldering.

Would Trisha wish someday she'd never asked him to find her brother?

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