Postscript

For he shall have judgment without mercy, that hath shewed no mercy; and mercy rejoiceth against judgment.

James 2:13

Saturday 7th June: The friary nestled in a bowl shaped valley cut like a cirque into the hillside. Fields like rivers tumbled out of the valley into the foot hills and pastures in the adjoining semi-wooded lowlands. The sun beat down intermittently on this refuge.

They were in the garden on the roughly trimmed lawn. The little low gabled guest house with its picture book four windows and door marked one side of the square enclosure. A high beech hedge marked the South and East boundaries of the lawn respectively and set it apart from the cloistered friary next door. The West side of the lawn was open to the wooded hillside but for two or three yew trees brought in, no doubt, generations ago as seedlings from Europe. And from the West the blazing rays of the afternoon sun scorched in on them, making Seb squint if he looked directly at the bishop, who was seated on a kitchen chair Seb had set there, a small table at his side with coffee. Seb sat on the grass. He wore the full dark brown habit of the novice. Though not yet with the three knots in his belt that signified a Franciscan who had taken full vows.

The other friars were at prayer. Franciscans were no enclosed order, but they still did a lot of praying. The breeze rustled gently through the nearby trees, making the same sound as waves on the shore. But it was hot for all that.

"They'll let me retire gracefully," the bishop was saying. He was enjoying this visit to his young friend and one-time confessor. It gave him a sense of closure. "After all, it's not as if I was caught buggering the choirboys." He laughed at Seb's grimace. "I shouldn't joke about it. But really . . ." he paused for effect. "Consenting adults is quite a different thing." He sighed. "I shall go to New York. There is an apartment owned by the diocese. I will do a little light work for the local cardinal, who is a good friend, but generally I shall remain in the background." He chuckled. "And I shall enjoy New York."

Seb laughed in turn. "I am happy for you."

The bishop raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Yes well I'll stay with the Franciscans for the full three years of my novitiate, since you ask so pointedly."

"And then?" asked Bishop O'Mally.

"Then perhaps I'll leave the order."

The bishop opened his mouth in genuine surprise. "Forgive the sense of deja vu," he said.

"Well perhaps not the order. There are lay brothers with the Franciscans. But in its way this period is giving me time to adjust to the day when I will no longer be a priest."

The bishop smiled. "You could always stay a priest and join the Episcopalians. I'm sure they'd be grateful."

"Perhaps they might." Seb sighed. "But no that would seem too much like betrayal."

Bishop O'Malley cocked his head on one side. "You intend to go back with Angie Merill?" he asked.

"Heavens no. She has someone else now," he said, not without a hint of bitterness that embarrassed him. "I still think of her though, in ways that are inappropriate for a friar. Even a Franciscan. Quite inappropriate and far too often. Which is why I realise I am no longer fit for celibacy." Seb paused for a sip of his coffee. "I think I'd like to work with refugees back in Springfield, in a perfect world."

"Perhaps it is a perfect world. I have contacts in a Springfield charity that does that sort of work. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you bishop."

"Patrick. You're not my confessor any longer. Call me Patrick." Bishop O'Malley combed the fingers of his right hand back through his lank black hair. "But I know what you mean about celibacy." He paused but then decided to continue. This man knew all his secrets. And after all, what secrets had he? The gossip pages of the Springfield Republican had put paid to those. "I think I always knew I was homosexual. Gay seems so trivial a word for something so seminal. But I've always been gay. Consciously gay since those early embarrassing encounters at school, with other boys. Not that I couldn't appreciate women. I tried, when I was at college. There was one of those willowy, pert girls. Her name was Teresa. She was magical. She put me in mind of the Bernini sculpture of Saint Teresa in ecstasy in Rome. We had an affair, a clumsy sexual encounter but for a while I thought myself capable of being heterosexual. I think she loved me. She took me back to meet her family; but her mother was a wasp. Anglo-Saxon to the toes. She didn't approve of Teresa's pudgy Irish-Catholic boyfriend. And Teresa wasn't one to kick against the pricks. I soon got the message and we drifted apart. She married a salesman I believe." Patrick O'Malley cradled his coffee in both hands and sipped at it before continuing.

"Then in my last year at college there was a boy. Such a lovely boy. His name was David. And he looked like David as Michelangelo sculpted him. Exquisite. Gentle. We had a beautiful affair. I was truly in love for the first time in my life. Then one day, quite out of the blue, he told me he'd decided to enter the church. I was stunned. Quite devastated. But with time I decided that was what I too must do. I quit college and entered the seminary. My family took it surprisingly well. They were good catholics after all. And I genuinely felt I was not meant to be part of this world. That God was closing all the doors. That hedonism was to be denied me as was sexual love. That I was being challenged and shown the way." He sighed. "And all these years I was good. A good priest. A good bishop. And then there was Sean. Sean Hartnett turned my world upside down. Such a beautiful man. And for the second time in my life I was in love. And this time I was utterly bewildered. I was not happy but I did not want happiness. To be alive and in love was sufficient, whatever the consequences."

Seb was touched by the bishop's honesty. In many ways he felt they had both made a similar pilgrimage. "Why does God do this? Make us as we are? I mean both of us called to serve Him and both undermined by our human frailty. We were made as we are. Is it our fault? Are we weak? Or is it God's fault that we are what we are?"

"Do you think that it is our sexuality that condemns us? Do you really believe that God damns us all on that basis? If Jesus weeps it is because he watches over a world where men kill one another - a world in which abuse and selfishness is rife. A world whose very fabric is being destroyed by our lust to exploit its resources for short term gain. God yearns for some resolution to the paradox which is man's love for both creation and destruction. You think that humankind, in some shape or form, will roam the face of this earth a million years from now? Perhaps. Humanity walks a knife edge. Yes it has the potential to survive. But progress as it does at present and the human race is doomed. God weeps. But not for us. Not for you and I. Our petty sins are not that important."

"And our happiness? Does that not matter?"

The bishop smiled. His eyes twinkled. "They say that the Dalai Lama rates happiness high. For him, to be happy is essential, a key aspect of the purpose of life. For others, including most Christians, what matters is hope, redemptive hope in a better tomorrow in both this life and the next. Then there are others for whom what matters above all else is to have no regrets. Whereas for those facing the more outrageous of life's challenges, mere endurance is what matters. But Sebastian: hope, happiness, contentment, endurance; these are all important this side of the grave - and beyond. But they are not everything.

"The essence of it all, ultimately, transcends all that. The way I see it, just to have truly lived is everything. To have acknowledged life and grasped it with both hands. To have loved 'till your heart is fit to burst. That is more than happiness. And yes. More than enough."

Chapter Seventy-Eight

For the priest's lips should keep knowledge, and they should seek the law at his mouth: for he is the messenger of the LORD of hosts.

Malachi 2:7

Saturday 8th March: The kitchen of Meadowview Friary's small guest house overlooked one of the smaller lakes that dotted this border area between Maine and Eastern New Hampshire. There were still a few late winter drifts of snow in amongst the pine trees and the mist was down. In the summer the little lake would be a magnet for children and midges, the latter in infinite number. But now all was still, almost eerie.

But the kitchen was warm and they sat round the pine breakfast table, scrubbed white from weekly applications of bleach in a ritual imitated in backwoods settlements down through the generations. It was cosy here.

Seb was drinking wine. "My first glass since Christmas," he said gleefully. It was lent but he felt no obligation to set aside the alcohol. "It's always lent here," he said.

Mike Hanlin nodded. He had just had lunch with the monks. Lentil soup and home made bread. Healthy, provided you weren't prone to flatulence. Hanlin liked the soup, thought it exciting even, as a now and then thing. But wouldn't choose it for pretty much every day, which was how it was for the monks.

And these were Franciscans, the supposedly 'happy' monks.

Seb still wore the half smock of a postulant. It made him look like a nineteenth century fisherman. "I get my habit when I take my vows at Pentecost," he'd said. "Then I become a novice."

"You won't be lonely?" asked Hanlin. "Being a monk I mean." Hanlin had noticed how dysfunctional many of the monks were. Seb was an extrovert in a crowd of introverts; many of those who chose the monastic life were socially challenged.

Seb dodged the question to give himself space to think. It was an issue that troubled him, loneliness. But he wasn't going to share that particular dark night of the soul with Hanlin. "We Franciscans are friars you know. Not monks. Monks generally hang out in one spot for much of their lives, usually a monastery. Friars can live in monasteries or purpose built friaries or even in the community at large. They get posted hither and thither like soldiers to different barracks. Generally they are more involved in the world than monks." He shook his head. "But to answer your original question, "I am not as lonely as you might think," he looked down at the floor as he continued. "No for the first time in my life I have a family."

"You didn't have a family before?" asked Hanlin. Then he added a little pompously, regretting the words as soon as they were uttered, "What was your congregation if not your children?"

"No you misunderstand. A family of my own. I belong. A congregation is different. They are your flock. You care for them. But you never really belong to them. You are set apart. Here I belong. This is my family."

Mike nodded. "So you'll stick with it? This monastic life I mean?"

Seb laughted. "I think so. I have three years as a novice then I get knotted."

Hanlin raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Three knots in the rope round your cassock means you're a proper monk - or in our case friar - not a mere novice." Seb smiled. "Then another three years and you take your final vows and give away all your possessions."

"Which in your case is irrelevant because you have no possessions. But at any of those points you could leave the order?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

"Who knows. For now though, this is best for me."

Hanlin refilled his friend's wine glass. "Angie Merill and Jennie Moore are lovers now. You know that?"

The answer, when it came, was a little mechanical. "I am very happy for them."

"You don't miss her?"

"Of course I do."

"Would you go back to her?" Mike asked, pushing at the envelope. "If you could I mean."

"And take the other path through the wood - the road less travelled?"

"No," Hanlin laughed. "The well beaten path. This is the road less travelled."

"Not for me and my kind." Seb smiled in turn. "And the truth is I can't answer you. Life is filled with might have beens. I was younger back then, a few short months ago. Less able to cope. I am older now. But time has shifted. She has moved on as have I. And I am happy. And I am happy for her."

Hanlin thought 'the lady doth protest too much' but didn't say so. Instead he asked, "So no might have beens?"

Seb smiled the bitter-sweet smile that comes with memories of what had been. Then shook himself like a dog shaking off the rain. "No," he said. "No might have beens." And he meant it. He had no regrets. Though in his heart he knew that of all the friends he'd ever known over all the years of his life, there'd be one face he'd hold in his mind's eye as he went to his grave. And that one face would be that of his one and only lover, Angie Merill.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

There is one lawgiver, who is able to save and to destroy: who art thou that judgest another?

James 4:12

Saturday 22nd December: "So. If you are all sitting comfortably . . ." Hanlin and White retained their positions near the mantelpiece. Hanlin smiled.

"Bob Young was killed just a few hundred yards from here, and pretty late at night at a time when no self-respecting person would be marching the streets."

"Which means?" asked Donna. She was enjoying this.

"Which means that his killer knew he'd be there. Let's make an assumption. Let's assume that Bob had worked out whom it was that had been his wife's lover."

"Or been told," interrupted Donna.

"Yes, or been told." Hanlin's face took on an uncharacteristically grim mien. "Let's examine the possibilities."

"Bishop, you could have been the killer." Hanlin raised a hand to stop the bishop interrupting. "Had your friend Sean been the father of Mary Young's child you may have wished to protect him."

"That's nonsense. I'd have to be a psychopath."

Hanlin shook his head. "It's not nonsense Bishop. And, with respect, you could be a psychopath for all we know."

He circled round and picked out young Vicky Walters. Her pregnancy was well advanced now, and it was beginning to show. "Could equally have been you Vicky, and for similar motives, if your Baxter had been the one who'd fathered Mary's child."

He gave Vicky no chance to respond. Moving swiftly on he added, "Or I could have killed Seb."

Donna laughed. "You sure could. Being a Hummer owner. You were a prime suspect."

"Yes. Well assume for a moment that I was Mary Young's lover."

Bryer looked up. "It's a good job Jane and Marilyn are in the kitchen's all I can say."

"True," smiled Hanlin. "But assume I fathered the child and Bob found out and he'd phoned to say he was coming round here. Then I might have killed him."

"Yeh," said Bryer, "Or Sean could have been the killer," he said pointing with his finger. "Just as likely as Sean's wife Trish." He lowered his finger and relaxed his hand, "Or Baxter could have been having the affair with Mary, and he could have killed Bob. As could Angie out of some misguided sense of latent loyalty." He swung round and pointed at Angie.

Angie raised an eyebrow, "Or Mike could be wrong," she said. "This could have nothing to do with Mary Young."

Donna White felt like she was swimming in porridge. This was going nowhere. "And it could well have nothing to do with Maria."

Hanlin turned to look at his interlocutor and stabbed at her with his whisky glass. "Not so sure about that. Could have had everything to do with Maria."

"How so?"

"Maria had something on Baxter. Something she used on him when he tried it on with her."

Vicky was not amused. "He never tried it on . . ."

But Hanlin held up his hand to silence her. "We're just looking at possibilities here. So let's assume for a moment that Baxter had an affair with Mary Young. Let's assume that Maria knew this and was using the information. Then Baxter might have killed her."

"Which lets me off the hook," said Sean. "Maria was never our housemaid."

Hanlin smiled. "And there was me thinking you wanted to be a suspect. Or what was the point of that dramatic confession from the witness box?"

"The point was that the Assistant D.A. wouldn't listen. But I wanted to help Trish."

"And perhaps you still can." Hanlin smiled. "Let's go back to the beginning."

Someone groaned but it didn't stop Hanlin. Jane and Marilyn had come into the room carrying little trays with Jane's usual display of exotic hors d'ourves. It eased the tension. Though not by much.

But Angie had the bit between her teeth. She wasn't about to let him off that easily. "And all that evidence against Trish?"

"Think about it. You could have borrowed her credit card. Hired a woman that vaguely resembled her. A hooker perhaps. You could have hired that Hummer in her name. It's an easy matter then to place a few pieces of hers in the vehicle to be discovered later."

"You'd need her driver's license."

"Perhaps," Hanlin grimaced. "Remember that business of the blood test?"

Everyone watched him now. "In the eighties Illinois used to have a compulsory blood test for aids for couples who wanted to marry."

"So?"

"Just a curiosity really. Mary Young underwent a blood test for aids shortly before her suicide."

"What?" Angie spoke for them all.

"The results were negative. She didn't have aids." Hanlin drew himself up. Like most tall men he had a tendency to stoop. Not now. "But she thought she might." He looked around at the company. He had their complete attention. "It is my belief that Baxter and Mary had an affair many years ago, the consequence of which was that Mary became pregnant. However, I believe that in the past year Mary took another lover. Hanlin looked squarely at Sean Hartnett. "You, Sean, were her lover. You implicated your own wife. It was you that killed Bob Young. What I don't understand is why you killed Maria."

Sean, to do him credit, remained calm. "You reach that conclusion on the assumption that she must have a gay lover if she was worrying about aides. What are you? Homophobic? Why didn't you voice your suspicions earlier?"

Hanlin smiled. "It needed talking through to make it clear. But why did you kill Maria?"

Sean Hartnett scanned the room. For a moment the fight seemed to go out of him, overwhelmed by the combined weight of their suspicions. Then he pulled himself together. "Like you said, I wasn't Mary's only lover. Maria didn't just see Baxter with Mary. The next day she overheard Baxter and I arguing over Mary. Mary had discovered that I was bisexual and had told Baxter she was afraid she might have aids."

Donna White stepped forward. "Sean Hartnett, I arrest you on suspicion . . ." But that was as far as she got.

Sean had reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. The gun he now held was one of the new polymer framed Smith and Wesson pistols. The ten rounds in the weapon sufficient. He held the weapon like he too was pointing a finger. At arms length, the stainless steel of the slide glistening hypnotically.

Sean was far from sure what he intended to do. He didn't see Hanlin's dog Bart until he stumbled over it. He only lost his bearings for a moment. He retained his grip on the pistol. Like all firearms of this type it was designed to be held and fired with one hand.

But that moment of disorientation had been more than enough time for Angie. She used Sean Hartnett for the focal point for all the missandrist anger she had nursed since Father Seb's betrayal.

Angie snatched one of the heavy Arab coffee pots from the display shelf on the wall behind her. The thing was solid brass. The thud was sickening as she brought it down on Sean Hartnett's handsome head. He twisted as he fell and she gasped as she heard the crack of the pistol and felt the hot searing pain as the bullet grazed the flesh of her forearm. But she was OK. Sean Hartnett was not. He was flat on the floor. The blow had been harsh and hard.

Chapter Seventy-Six

These are the things that ye shall do; Speak ye every man the truth to his neighbour; execute the judgment of truth and peace in your gates:

Zechariah 8:16

Saturday 22nd December: The tension in Hanlin's living room was of that acute depressive kind that you get amongst the losing camp at a political recount. The mood was dour, subdued and electric.

Most of them were there.

Donna White stood alongside Michael Hanlin in front of the fireplace. Ranged before them clutching an assortment of drinks, slumped in chairs and armchairs, were, in an arc from the window to the door: Rick Bryer, Father Seb, Angie Merill, Vicky Walters, Sean Hartnett and the Bishop. The wives, Jane and Marilyn, were in the kitchen with Anna, the Hanlin's new maid.

Most of the people in the room were still reeling from the grim events of the past twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours in which Baxter Merill had been arrested on suspicion of murder with regard to the death of Maria Gonzalez; and in which a jury of her peers had found Trish Hartnett guilty on a count of murder one in the Bob Young case.

Vicky Walters was tearful. Sean Hartnett morose. They sat alongside one another. Vicky started to talk about Baxter.

"He didn't do it. He couldn't have."

Hanlin stepped across to her, reaching his hand out, but she leaned back and flinched, looking him in the eyes. "He didn't do it," she said again.

Hanlin seemed to tower above the young woman. He shook his head to indicate his agreement. "Bothered me that an anonymous letter led to the recovery of the knife."

"Bothers me too." This from Donna White. "The way we were tipped off by that anonymous note. No saliva on the envelope. So no DNA sample. So carefully done."

"The same letters. By which I mean the same author, for the correspondence in both murder cases?" Hanlin observed. It was more of a comment than a question.

Donna nodded her agreement.

Sean Hartnett looked up. "Could have been anyone who hid that knife in the woodpile at the Merrill home." He looked at Vicky. "Even you," he said.

Vicky jerked her head back as if she'd been slapped. "What did you say?"

"I said it could have been you." Sean replied,

Hanlin thought he'd best try and calm the atmosphere. "Let's not fight amongst ourselves," he started to say.

Sean's response was sharp, edged with anger. "No let's. Time we all faced a few home truths. Vicky could have murdered Maria. That's at least as likely as Baxter doing it."

Hanlin was genuinely perplexed. "Why?"

"Lots of reasons. Could be Maria was giving Baxter a hard time what with Baxter having hit on her. Maybe she was threatening to go to the police."

"Then Baxter would be implicated."

"Maybe." Sean's face was grim. "Or just maybe Vicky decided to defend her man."

Curiously it was left to Angie Merill to defend her ex-husband's lover. Her golden hair bobbed as she startled the room by jumping to her feet. Her mouth pursed in defiance, her slate blue eyes scanning the others present as if daring anyone to gainsay her as she marched over to Vicky Walters' side and placed a firm hand, almost possessively, on the shoulders of the now weeping woman. Then she spoke, her words calm but confident and measured.

"You can all stop that now," she said, looking first at the others in the room and then down at Vicky. "There's no way Vicky could have been involved in Maria's death."

Hanlin smiled gratefully. "Well for one thing no woman would kill anyone like that."

Sean wasn't going to let that go. "Perhaps not but still, women have committed brutal crimes in the past."

But Angie hadn't finished. "She couldn't have done it. She was with me."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because though Baxter and I have split up, I still care for him, regardless of how he treated me." She again stared around the room. "And I've taken enough interest in this case to have asked the time the coroner has for Maria's death. It is my ex-husband we are talking about here."

"So."

"So I may not be able to provide an alibi for Baxter - though as sure as hell I know he didn't do it. But I can provide Vicky with an alibi. She was taking school when Maria died. And straight after school that day she met me at Pazzo's bar."

"She met you?"

"Sure. You think I wasn't going to take an interest in the other woman in my Baxter's life?" Angie smiled her best smile, "We had a good long heart to heart. Vicky didn't do it. She couldn't have."

Hanlin smiled in turn. "Well that seems to settle that." Then he scanned the room. "But that still leaves us nowhere. Let's try and nail this business. We are gathered here to see if there is anything we can do to help our friends, Trish and Baxter. The first thing we should do is establish that none of us could have committed these crimes. We are, or at least were, all potential suspects. Isn't that right Donna?"

Donna nodded. "I guess that's definitely right. We have considered most of you suspects," Donna paused. "Even you Mr Hanlin."

"Moi?" Hanlin smiled. "Yes I suppose I was right in the frame for the Bob Young killing, as the owner of a Hummer. At least until the D.A. came to my rescue."

Bryer spoke up. "You have your own wife to vouch for you anyway. Jane will confirm you were home in bed."

Again Hanlin smiled. "Very loyal of you dear friend. And your glass is empty. Let me deal with that." He reached for another beer. "But a wife's testimony is scarcely impartial." He took Bryer's glass and topped it up for him. "So I am in the frame again."

"You have no motive."

"Perhaps. Let's leave that on the table for a moment. Who else could be a suspect in any of these killings?"

There was silence. Hanlin looked around the room. "You for instance Sean."

Sean turned his head to look up at Hanlin. "I tried to say I killed Bob Young. The Assistant D.A. wouldn't have it."

"No he wouldn't would he? The circumstantial evidence against Trish was too strong." Hanlin paused. "But what about you being in the frame for the Maria killing?"

"Maria?" Sean looked genuinely stunned. "Why would I have killed Maria?"

"Let's leave the why aside for a moment. Could you have done it?"

Now Bishop O'Malley intervened. "He didn't."

"How come?" This from Bryer.

"Because he was with me."

Hanlin almost winced. "The alibis are flowing thick and fast," he thought. Aloud he said, "Very loyal. And you'd swear to that?"

The bishop seemed to hesitate but nodded. "Yes I'd swear to that."

Hanlin smiled again. "Excuse me for this bishop but given the nature of this case, we are all aware that your friendship with Sean was more than merely platonic. You were very close. Which puts your evidence for Sean in the same class as Jane's for me . . . slightly partial."

Donna broke in. "When was he with you?"

"When Maria was killed."

"When was that?"

The bishop looked confused. "I can't exactly remember but I remember being told and I remember working out that he was with me."

Donna gave the bishop a withering glance. "Noble but misguided bishop. When you can't even rely on the church to tell the truth you are truly up a creek without a paddle."

Bishop O'Malley blushed red but said nothing.

Bryer eyed O'Malley then Hanlin. "You expect to solve this case today?"

Hanlin smiled pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. "I don't see why not," he said. "I work on the premise that when violence impacts the lives of a small group of friends: a) the violent incidents are related and, b) the probability is that a member of that group is the culprit." He paused.

"The problem is that we fail to acknowledge where this all started."

"Which is?" asked Donna.

"With Mary Young's suicide." Hanlin took a lingering sip of his Balvenie whisky, savoring the complex, spicy flavor of his favorite single malt. "There is something that can remain unsaid no longer." Hanlin hesitated. Every eye in the room was watching him now. "Bob Young was not the father of Mary's eldest child."

There was an embarrassed silence.

"But does that alter anything?" asked Vicky Walters.

"I believe so. Take things in chronological order. After Mary's suicide, Bob Young attacked Father Seb, thinking perhaps that Seb could have prevented Mary's death. Thinking he knew what strain Mary was under but had done nothing rather than betray the confidence of the confessional. Perhaps even, in some twisted way, thinking Seb was having an affair with Mary. Right Seb?"

Seb nodded. "He thought I'd met Mary in secret. Whereas the meeting I'd had was with Angie."

Hanlin nodded like a schoolmaster with a clever pupil. "Then you were attacked again. More violently on this occasion. The natural conclusion is that your attacker this second time was Bob Young. But what if you were attacked by the person who was subsequently to kill Bob."

"Why?" asked Dona.

Hanlin turned to look at the young police officer. "The same reason as that which motivated the attack by Bob. The killer thought that Seb was the only person that knew the true identity of the father of Mary's child." Hanlin switched his attention to Seb. "Did you know the name of the father? You could save us all a lot of time."

Seb shook his head. "No."

"No. Exactly. But the killer didn't know that. And about that time we had the first of the poison pen letters implicating Trish Hartnett." Hanlin ran his fingers back through his lank black hair. "Those letters could have been sent by the real killer, to distract us."

Donna nodded. "A fact that didn't escape us but they could equally well have been telling the truth. Trish Hartnett could have been the killer. Especially if Sean had been Mary's secret lover."

Sean flinched. "Ridiculous," he muttered. Then louder. "Ridiculous. She was old enough to be my mother."

"That hasn't stopped people before. Books have been written in praise of cougars." Hanlin smiled. "And as many a pubescent boy has discovered, 'Old chickens make the best soup'".

"That's enough Mr Hanlin," Donna White winced. "But what I don't get is what triggered all this in the first place. Why did Mary think her lover's identity was about to be exposed?"

"I'm not sure but I have a theory about that."

"Which is?"

"Well her eldest girl got engaged to be married."

"So?"

"So Massachusetts was one of the last states in the union to abolish blood tests before marriage."

"But they've been abolished. And they were only for STDs and Rubella anyway, not blood type."

"Yup. But Mary Young may not have realised that."

"Doesn't seem very likely."

"Perhaps," Hanlin nodded. "Let's come back to that," he said. "After Anna's refilled your glasses."

Chapter Seventy-Five

Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.

James 5:16

Thursday 20th December: Jennie Moore was a pianist.  Jennie played for the annual Springfield Festival, when the glitterati of the New York Opera headed North to do their stuff in the provinces.

A small troupe from the New York Metropolitan Opera House were in town for their annual performance at Springfield's Symphony Hall. This event was Angie Merill's contribution to the festival.

"He's a rat dear." Jennie's comment was vis-a-vis Father Seb.

"Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Angie said, not looking as if she meant it.

Jennie smiled her sympathy. "They are all the same." She sipped her coffee. "Men I mean."

The physical contrast between the two women could not have been greater. Whereas almost any man would find Angie attractive, Jennie was no beauty. She was short, plump, pale, with a nose to large for her face and dark brown untidy shoulder length hair. But they were close, Angie and Jennie. As close as two friends could be without being lovers. Which was what they would have been had Jennie had her way. Jennie was gay.

"They say you should forgive everyone everything." Angie brushed aside another tear. "He's joining a monastery now."

"I thought you said a seminary?"

Angie shook her head. "That was the idea but he's changed his mind. He's going to be a postulant."

"What's that?"

"The trial period when you think about being a novice."

"And what's a novice?"

"A sort of trainee monk. You're a postulant for three months or thereabouts. Then a novice for three years. Then you take your final vows."

"What's the point of that?"

Angie looked up red eyed. "No point. No point at all. He's just running away from me." And the tears came unbidden. "What did I do wrong?"

Jennie moved to put down her coffee. "All that truly matters in the end is that you loved." She hesitated a moment as Angie looked up at her. Angie knew what was coming. Jennie had tried this before. In the past Angie had rejected her kindly, and she would do so now.

But she was so very tired.

"It's all right dear," Jennie was saying. "The best is yet to come. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up, and show up. You always have me. Friends are the family we choose for ourselves."

It wasn't that Jennie was calculating. Her heart bled for her friend. But Angie was so very lovely and Jennie knew she'd never have a better chance. The girl was on the rebound and vulnerable. Jennie was completely aware of that and completely capable of taking advantage of the fact. She steeled herself for the inevitable rejection. She reached an arm round her friend's shoulders and stroked her cheek to still her crying.

She felt Angie stiffen, momentarily. "Life is too short to waste time hating anyone," she said gently.

Then it was as if for Jennie all her Christmases had come at once in one glorious epiphany as Angie Merill softened and let her friend kiss the tears away from her cheeks, their mutual vulnerability so acute that they were both trembling as Angie turned her face to allow Jennie's lips to brush hers in the first of many gentle kisses.

Chapter Seventy-Four

But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.

Matthew 5:22

Wednesday 19th December: Trish Hartnett was on the stand. She looked every inch the girl who was once the Springfield Classical High beauty queen. The black, figure-hugging dress had been replaced by a red, figure-hugging dress. She'd cut her auburn hair shorter, bobbed back around her head. She looked good.

Assistant D.A. Mark Johnson was a stocky, Perry Mason type man. He had short legs, a barrel chest and a craggy face. Think Perry Mason but shorter with the low gravelly voice of a Henry Kissinger and you'd be close.

"I have never had much time for Bob Young. That doesn't mean I killed him," Trish was saying. She was standing akimbo, her hands clenching her hips in exasperation. The pose confrontational.

"You may sit down Mrs Hartnett."

She did.

"Witnesses say a woman answering your description hired a Hummer shortly before the murder." The Assistant D.A. was referring to a sheath of papers in his hand. "Any idea how the killer could have acquired your credit card to use for the transaction?"

Trish lifted her eyes heavenward, her exasperation complete. "I don't know. I use my credit cards a lot. Maybe she just got lucky."

"Maybe. The vehicle used to kill Bob Young was of course identical to the one hired with your credit card by a person answering your description."

Trish Hartnett dropped her jaw in apparent frustration. "Oh come on, I can't believe this. Can't you see that this is a frame?"

"Miss Hartnett I'm afraid we see it more like an airtight case."

"Objection!"

"Sustained." The judge frowned a you-should-know-better frown at the Assistant D.A.

"I apologise Your Honor." Assistant D. A. Johnston turned back to Trish. "You are, no doubt, aware that the late Mrs Mary Young had been involved with another man?"

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"Possibly everything. Can you explain, Mrs Hartnett, where you were on the late evening of 26th October at the time of the murder?"

"I was at home in bed."

"But there is no one who can vouch for that. You were alone?"

"Yes. Alone."

"I call your attention to State's exhibit B. This is your powder compact?"

"Yes."

The Assistant D. A. growled his next question. "You are aware it was found in the trunk of the Hummer discovered in the parking lot of the Westfield Health Center?"

"Yes."

"The same Hummer allegedly hired by a woman answering your description?"

"Your witnesses say the woman who hired the Hummer in my name wore a headscarf and dark glasses. It could have been an escort service girl pretending to be me."

"Yes Mrs Hartnett. It could have been. But even at the time of the vehicle hire, you have an alibi which can't be corroborated."

"I was at the movies."

"Or perhaps you were twenty miles away, hiring the vehicle used to kill Mr Young. Is that what you were doing?"

"No. I wasn't hiring a vehicle. I was at the movies. Anyone could have stolen my credit card and driver's license and used them to hire the Hummer."

"We have heard Mr Hartnett's close relationship with Bishop O'Malley alluded to in this context. You have been under a great deal of strain, have you not?"

"Yes I have."

"You loved your husband?"

"I still love him."

"And your husband was elsewhere at the time of the murder - or you'd have the alibi you need."

"I have said that."

Lawyer Fieldson had had enough. He rose to his feet to interrupt.

"Your Honor, I fail to see the point of this line of questioning. This has been discussed already. The Assistant District Attorney is wasting the court's time."

But the Assistant D.A. had made his point. "No further questions."

"No questions. Your honor I reserve the right to recall Mrs Hartnett and now the defense calls Police Detective Muse."

Trish stood down and Muse took the stand, the usual formalities dispensed with.

"Did you examine the Hummer identified as the one hired by a person using a credit card in the name of Mrs Hartnett?"

"We examined it for fingerprints."

"And you discovered?"

"We took only the full and partial prints that could be found on the vehicle and the contents of the vehicle. All of which had been wiped clean except for a set of prints on an empty Diet Coke can that appeared to have been overlooked in the well behind the driver's seat."

"Were you able to identify those prints?"

"The matched prints belonged to Mrs Patricia Hartnett."

David Fieldson smoothed back his hair. It was thinning prematurely and that depressed him. He'd have to get something done about it. It was the one thing he had in common with Detective Muse. Pretty much the only thing. But the lawyer and the cop had business. Fieldson was talking.

"My client is concerned that you may not be investigating other suspects as you should. What, she would like to know, have you done to investigate Ambassador Hanlin?"

The Assistant D.A. looked outraged. "Objection!"

The judge frowned. "This is not the summation Mr Fieldson. Can you justify the line you are taking?"

"I wish to show the jury that any number of people could have committed this crime, Your Honor."

"Proceed then, but with caution Mr Fieldson."

"Thank you, Your Honor," and he continued in the same breath as he turned to Muse, "Have you investigated Ambassador Hanlin?"

"What motive could he possibly have?"

"Perhaps he was Mary Young's secret lover. It is possible. These are murky waters and no one can be sure of anything, least of all that my client, Mrs Patricia Hartnett, has any motive to have conducted this killing. However, the point is that Ambassador Hanlin had the opportunity. He owns a Hummer does he not? He could be the killer."

"He could," acknowledged Muse, "I'm not denying that."

"So have you checked his whereabouts on the night in question?"

"He says he was in New York."

"But?"

"But we are unable to find any record of his having travelled on the train he said he was on from JFK to town. Plus no one can remember him in the bar where he says he ate supper. Plus he no longer has the parking stub for the car park he says he used."

Fieldson beamed from ear to ear. He actually rubbed his hands together in his excitement. "Excellent," he said. "That's just excellent. No further questions."

The Assistant D.A. decided to keep his powder dry and see if Fieldson dug his own grave. "No questions."

Lawyer Fieldson drew himself up to his full height. "Your Honor, the defense calls Ambassador Michael Hanlin to the stand."

Hanlin had been expecting this. He brushed his black hair away from his blue-gray eyes and stepped forward, taking the book in his right hand and going through the customary ritual.

David Fieldson contemplated his victim. He relished moments like this. They were what he lived for.

"Ambassador Hanlin, is it true that you were having an illicit relationship with Mrs Mary Young prior to her death? To be precise you were having an affair?"

Hanlin was astounded and would have said so but Assistant D.A. Johnston intervened. "Your Honor I object. This is pure conjecture on the Defense Attorney's part."

The judge looked down on Fieldson. "I trust you are going somewhere constructive with this?"

Fieldson nodded. "Yes Your Honor."

"Then objection overruled. Answer the question please Ambassador Hanlin."

Hanlin drew himself up and tilted his head back slightly. He was a full head taller than Fieldson and he lifted himself off the chair, his hands grasping the edge of the witness box in something approaching white-knuckled anger, but his voice remained calm and measured. "No. Most certainly not."

Fieldson was unfazed. His pale blue eyes locked with Hanlin's. The atmosphere in the court was electric.

"But you had been lovers had you not?" He paused. "Consider your answer most carefully Ambassador Hanlin."

"Sure, we dated at college, but that was more than forty years ago."

"And it was because of Mary Young that you moved to Springfield in the first place?"

"That's nonsense."

"Whom did you know in Springfield, apart from Mrs Mary Young, when you decided to settle in this city?"

"No one, but that's beside the point. It was convenient."

"Convenient for what Ambassador? For Washington? For New York? Or for Mrs Young?"

Hanlin, a normally phlegmatic man, almost failed to suppress his anger. "This is ridiculous."

"Ridiculous Ambassador? Please tell the court. Do you own an H3 Hummer?"

"Yes I do. But so do many people?"

Lawyer Fieldson's lank form seemed almost to preen like a budgerigar. "Not within Springfield City limits Ambassador. Yours is the only vehicle of that kind registered within the metropolis."

"There's three I've noticed in the greater Springfield area. But anyway. Are you seriously suggesting that I killed Bob Young that night?"

Lawyer Fieldson's normally stooped shoulders unfurled like a peacock protruding its chest, about to display. "You have to admit, Ambassador," he said, "That it is a possibility." Then he turned to the judge. "The defense rests, Your Honor."

Assistant D.A. Mark Johnston almost leapt to his feet. "Your vehicle was where exactly that night, between 2:30 and 3:30 a.m. on 27th October, when Mr Young was killed?"

"On the road from La Guardia to Springfield."

"With whom?"

"I was alone. I'd been with my wife and my sister in Florida. I flew back that afternoon. I met some people in New York then later I had supper alone in town before driving back - but I was alone in a bar and I paid cash."

"So you cannot prove what time you left New York and consequently you cannot prove what time you arrived in Springfield?"

"No," said Hanlin.

The judge smiled indulgently at the young D.A. "Are you prosecuting or defending sir?"

"Forgive me Your Honor but when the Defense Attorney informed me he'd be calling Ambassador Hanlin as a witness, I realised the direction his case might be taking. I asked the N.Y.P.D. to assist. The Springfield Police Department has just handed me this videotape which I enter as people's exhibit G. It is the CCTV camera tape from a parking lot at the Holiday Inn on West 57th. It shows Ambassador Hanlin removing his vehicle at 1:30 a.m. later that evening. It is technically possible for him to have reached Springfield in time to murder Bob Young. But it is extremely unlikely."

Trish Hartnett's sigh was the only sound audible in the silence that followed. The defense case had just crumbled.

Chapter Seventy-Three

Seek ye the LORD, all ye meek of the earth, which have wrought his judgment; seek righteousness, seek meekness: it may be ye shall be hid in the day of the LORD's anger.

Zephaniah 2:3

Tuesday 18th December: There was a sort of inevitability about the chain of events that led to Lisa, the well bosomed, well adorned, twenty-four year old barmaid from Pazzo's moving into the carriage house at 195 Longhill.

Point one. Vicky Walters was her friend.

Point two. Michael Hanlin had met Lisa and knew Vicky well.

Point three. The Hanlin's carriage house was empty and Lisa needed somewhere to sleep because her landlord had discovered she was an illegal and had decided to up the rent. She'd stormed out on him before she'd thought about where she was heading.

She'd come to Vicky for help and hence to Jane Hanlin. She could have gone to Michael for the same favor but it's always best to go to the top in any chain of command and when it came to matters of the home, Jane ruled. America is a conservative place, possibly one of the most matriarchal societies in the Western World.

What was less predictable was what happened next. Sure the Hanlins had known Maria. As did Vicky. But neither the Hanlins nor Lisa, nor for that matter Vicky, were on anything beyond nodding terms with Maria's boyfriend Mikhail.

But Lisa had got to talking to Mikhail after church. Given the fact that they shared a language and shared a lost friend, it was far from surprising that they shared friendship in view of the commonality of their grief.

It was obvious the way it happened in the end. Almost predictable. He had offered to walk Lisa home from church. It wasn't so far from O.L.P.H. but Lisa accepted, being the big hearted girl she was. She could see Mikhail wanted company and was at a loose end without Maria.

And she felt sorry for him. Which was why she invited him in for coffee. It was out of pity that she gave him lunch just as it was out of pity that she had later surrendered her bed and her body.

Their conversation on the way back from church ran as follows.

"Amazing Mr Hartnett confessing to the Robert Young murder. Would you do that Mikhail? Confess to something you didn't do to save someone you loved?"

Mickhail grimaced. "Who says he didn't do it?"

"Well they're still going on with the murder trial - of Mrs Hartnett I mean."

"That doesn't mean he's innocent."

"Maybe not but would you? Confess to save a lover I mean? If it meant you'd be executed?"

Mikhail pondered for little more than a moment. But his Latin blood was as ever to the fore. Mikhail knew there was no death sentance in Masachusetts but that was scarcely the point. "Of course. I would be shamed not to."

Lisa pursed her lips approvingly and nodded her head. "Yes of course, indeed of course. So would I." She broke step and looked squarely at Mikhail, forcing him to break stride in turn. "But she couldn't have killed Maria." Then she flushed, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Sorry Mickhail."

He shrugged. "No problem. No, she had no reason to. That was Baxter Merill."

"You so sure of that?"

Mikhail snarled his response, contorting his face to do so. "Sure I'm sure. And he'll pay."

"Seems he's paying already."

"No," bit out Mickhail. "Not enough," he said. "Not nearly enough."

Chapter Seventy-Two

If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man's religion is vain.

James 1:26

Monday 17th December: "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth . . ."

Sean Hartnett was nervous. That much was clear. Beads of sweat pricked his forehead. Lawyer Fieldson could almost smell the fear and it delighted him. This was his kind of case. Empowering.

"You are the husband of the defendant - Mrs Patricia Hartnett?"

"Trish is my wife. Yes."

"You and Mrs Hartnett were having difficulties in your marriage?"

"Objection!" The Assistant District Attorney got to his feet. "Relevancy. Mr Hartnett is not on trial here."

"Your Honor, the state contends that my client is guilty, in large part, because she had a motive for killing Bob Young and no alibi. I intend to show that she is not the only person that meets those criteria."

The judge nodded his aquiescence. "Overruled. The witness is instructed to answer the question."

"We had been."

"But not anymore?"

"No, we are reconciled. We're back together."

Lawyer Fieldson pushed his advantage. "Is it even remotely conceivable that Mrs Hartnett could have travelled to Bradley International Airport in Hartford and hired a Hummer and kept and stored the vehicle without your knowledge?"

The Assistant D.A. wasn't having that. "Objection. Calls for an opinion from the witness."

"Sustained."

"Have you on any occasion seen your wife in possession of a Hummer?"

"No."

"What was your wife's relationship with Mr Robert Young?"

"She had none."

"And with the late Mrs Mary Young?"

"She knew her slightly. They had no relationship."

"Indeed there is nothing particular to connect you and your wife with the Youngs. On the other hand there were those who would have been glad to implicate your wife in this murder."

"Objection. That's conjecture."

The judge frowned. "Keep your opinions for the summation Mr Fieldson. Objection sustained."

"Thank you, Your Honor. No further questions."

The Assistant D.A. was taking a leaf out of Fieldson's book. He was in no hurry. He got slowly to his feet.

"You and your wife were reconciled after Mr Young's murder?"

"Well yes, but . . ."

"But at the time of Mr Young's death you were absent from the house and could not provide your wife with an alibi."

"That's true but . . ."

The Assistant D.A. allowed himself the slightest of smiles. "Indeed your wife did have a motive to kill Mr Robert Young, did she not?"

"Objection."

"Sustained."

"Though your wife may have had no relationship with Mrs Young, you were once the late Mrs Mary Young's lover, were you not?"

The hush in the court was total. Sean Hartnett looked confused. "I don't know what you mean . . ."

"Careful Mr Hartnett. We can produce evidence to support this allegation. Don't be tempted to perjure yourself."

"We were friends."

"That may be so. But you were Mrs Mary Young's lover?"

Sean Hartnett said something but he was too soft spoken to be heard in the near silent courtroom.

"Speak up please."

"Yes."

"Yes, you were Mrs Mary Young's lover?"

"Yes. But that wouldn't mean Trish had a reason to kill Mr Young."

"Really? Not even if Mr Young had discovered the nature of this relationship of yours and was about to cause trouble over his wife's death?"

"Objection."

"Overruled. I want to see where this is going."

"No it's impossible." Sean Hartnett was clearly distressed.

"Why, Mr Hartnett? It seems more than possible to me."

"No it wasn't her."

"There is no one else who could have committed this crime is there Mr Hartnett?"

"Objection."

"Overruled. Go on."

"There is no one else."

"There is."

"Really. Whom, precisely do you suggest?"

"I must object Your Honor."

"Overruled. Please continue Mr. Fieldson."

Which Fieldson did, almost snarling his repeated question. "Whom?"

Sean Hartnett's face was in his hands. He looked up, his eyes red, not with tears but with anger. "Trish had nothing to do with it," he said. "I killed him."

Chapter Seventy-One

Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

James 4:7

Friday 14th December: Donna sipped her coffee. It was mid afternoon. Partners Diner in Agawam was quiet. She looked across at Father Seb. She felt easier with him now. He wore the half-smock of a postulant Franciscan. He'd atoned she thought. He deserved her compassion. Judge not, the bible said. And what did she do all day every day but judge people. It was her job after all. Being a cop.

She watched as he talked. She always found she made more progress if she let people talk. He was speaking of Mary Young.

"Why did she marry him in the first place?"

"She loved him," she answered easily.

"Bob Young was not the most charismatic of men."

Donna laughed. "Shame on you Father Seb. I was just thinking we shouldn't judge one another."

Seb grimaced bravely with grim resignation. "Seems I'm not perfect."

Donna raised her eyes from her coffee. "No. You aren't are you?" she said, and watched the hurt in him and immediately regretted her words. "But let's go with your theory. What if she had to get married because she was pregnant?"

"You're serious?"

"Why not? She had lovers later. Why not then? Her eldest boy, Jenny's brother Michael, was premature."

Father Seb was astonished. "You have been busy," he said.

"Just thorough. Beats me though."

Seb raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Why not an abortion rather than marry someone you don't love?" She sipped her coffee again, then put down her cup and frowned. "Though abortions aren't so easy today with groups like the Army of God around."

"How can you be sure she didn't love him?" Seb asked. Then he frowned, "The Army of God: Who are they?"

"The people who kill doctors. They advocate 'waging war' as the only way to end abortion in the U.S. - Doctors they've killed appear on their website with a line through their names."

"Sick." Seb frowned at his own emotive reaction. "Sad I mean."

"Yes but back then it was easier perhaps. As easy anyway." Donna paused, momentarily confused. It was her turn to frown. "Oh perhaps not. I don't know really."

Seb smiled gently. "I don't imagine it was ever easy to have an abortion."

"On the other hand, if she'd not wanted an abortion, she could have been an unmarried Mom."

Seb bit his tongue, responding moderately, and wanting to mean it. "Not so easy either. People find that very tough. Bringing up a child on their own I mean."

"But they do it. The U.S. is full of single parent families."

Seb smiled again. "I'm not arguing with you," he said. Then more incautiously, "Being a single parent is infinitely preferable to killing your unborn child."

Donna looked at him in silence for a moment, then something in her snapped. She slammed her coffee cup down and slapped the table with the flat of her hand. "I'll not take that from you." Her anger was a raw thing, unbidden. And she was very angry. "Those sentiments are what drive the killers in the Army of God." She was furious and felt like hurting him. "How dare you say anything. You are in no position to judge anyone given your recent behaviour."

Seb sighed. "Of course. I apologise." He felt profoundly sad, as if he were drowning; he was that alone.

Donna hadn't noticed, the anger washed away from her; like emerging from a river, she felt cleansed. She spoke calmly once more. "Anyway it works as an hypothesis. A woman bound by convention. Outwardly prim and proper. Driven by an unhappy marriage entered knowingly into a series of secret affairs. A sham and vapid life which she ended of her own volition, triggering the sequence of events that has culminated in the Trish Hartnett murder trial."

Seb thought that a bit harsh. But he didn't say so. Instead he nodded three or four times, his eyes focused on the table. Then, to cover his discomfort, he called for the check.

Chapter Seventy

For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.

Ecclesiastes 9:12

Thursday 13th December: Hanlin and Bryer sat in the glassed in porch, bathed in the pale warmth of the late morning, early winter sun like toads on a mudbank. Bryer nursing a beer and Hanlin a whisky. He was experimenting with a new Glenmorangie, matured in port casks, that pleased him. The women were in the kitchen fixing soup for lunch. As with most of modern America, this was no politically correct home. When it comes to 21st century female emancipation, the USA lags far behind Western Europe.

Having said which, the boys felt they deserved the drinks. They'd just finished chasing the deer away from Jane Hanlin's rose bushes. She'd tried everything, right down to putting bars of Irish Spring soap on ribbons and hanging them from the bushes on the premise that the creatures disliked the smell. In the end, good old fashioned standing guard and hollering had proved the only truly effective defense.

Bryer stretched, flexing his arms without letting go his beer. He broke the silence. "Assistant D.A. seems to have been wrongfooted by David Fieldson."

"Fieldson's a smarmy lawyer. Can't say I like him."

"Springfield's best though. Trish Hartnett's lucky to have him."

Hanlin wrinkled his nose. "He's lucky to have Trish Hartnett. She'll be a rich woman no longer by the time he's finished with her."

"Innocent you reckon?"

Hanlin shuddered as he reached towards his Glenmorangie. "God knows. But it just doesn't fit does it? I mean all that hands on violence. Knifing Father Seb. Running down Bob Young. Killing poor Maria. None of it's very feminine."

"She sure has you on her side," Bryer laughed. "Women are as capable of calculated violence as men ever were. There's more to this world than the testosterone thing. And remember how inexpert that attack on Seb was. Could easily have been a woman."

Hanlin refused to be diverted. Like a dog with a bone he was determined to hold to his course. "So the incident with the bullet, when she and Baxter were shot at the other day. She did that to herself did she?"

Bryer smiled with genuine amusement. "No. I confess that would be something. But maybe that's not directly related. A third party. Maria's boyfriend perhaps. If he thought that Baxter had been forcing his way into Maria's affections - he could have done that."

Hanlin conceded the point, albeit grudgingly, with a shrug that would have done credit to a cowboy. But he wasn't done. "Could've been the boyfriend that killed Maria wouldn't you think?" he drawled.

Bryer sighed and put his glass down. "I still reckon Trish Hartnett is guilty of the Bob Young murder. At least it seems likely."

Hanlin stared out of the window. "Anything's possible," he answered. "But don't hold your breath if you expect me to subscribe to the theory you're now expounding."

"You have something better to offer?"

Hanlin raised an eyebrow. He was thinking, "Give me time. I'm getting there." But aloud he was more equivocal. "Not really," he said. Then again in acquiescence, "Not really. No."

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.

Galatians 5:1

Wednesday 12th December: "Remain standing. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God? . . ."

Bishop Patrick O'Malley looked around the faces in the packed courthouse. He recognised a number of church members but few friends. Seb was there, he noted.

He answered the clerk to the court in the anticipated fashion. "I do."

Then he sat.

Bishop Patrick had thought long and hard about this moment and had dreaded it. Wide eyed with worry and trembling just a little, he felt like a bullock in the slaughter pen. The bishop glanced at Trish Hartnett in the dock. She wore a plain black dress. No jewelry. No accessories. Just the dress. The lawyers had probably told her to dress down. There were the women on the jury to consider.

But the lawyers had been sorely deluded if they for one moment thought Trish would cut a more sympathetic figure in a little black dress. Trish's mane of auburn hair, her green-grey eyes, her ice cool expression, all in stark contrast to the black dress. Black looked good on any woman. But, "With Trish in her fiery mood," thought the bishop, "I could be looking at Lucretia Borgia or Matahari in the flesh."

Lawyer Fieldson got to his feet. Trish Hartnett bit the flesh of her lip. The bishop tore his gaze from the mesmeric figure of the accused. The lawyer was saying something.

"Bishop, I am right in supposing that you know the defendant?"

The bishop nodded. "Yes. I do indeed know Mrs Hartnett."

"You also know, or rather knew, the deceased, Mr Robert Young?"

Again the bishop nodded. "Yes. I did."

"And would you, Bishop, have reason to implicate the accused, Mrs Hartnett, in the murder of Mr Young?"

The lawyer's slight unprepossessing frame made him appear benign, his tone almost diffident. But his pale eyes told another tale. His eyes were ice cold with distant foreboding.

The Assistant District Attorney climbed to his feet almost casually, as if there were all the time in the world. "Objection Your Honor."

Bishop Patrick shifted his head slightly to look at the judge. Flanked by the stars and stripes, the judge was a scrawny man, lanky and reflective, like some latterday Abe Lincoln. "Sustained," the man said.

Lawyer Fieldson wrung his hands in contrition like Uriah Heap reborn, and bowed his head before snapping his gaze back to the bishop like a pointer on the scent.

"Of course. I beg your pardon Your Honor. Bishop O'Malley, do you also know the husband of the accused, Mr Sean Hartnett."

"I do," The bishop nodded, his calm demeanor masking a cacophony of emotion.

"Of course you do Bishop. How well precisely?"

The bishop grew pale and wiped small beads of perspiration from his forehead. "Very well."

"Very well indeed perhaps. You were lovers?"

If there was anyone in the crowded courthouse who hadn't been paying attention, they were now. You could have heard a pin drop. The bishop knew well enough that he could lie or remain silent. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Sean.

The bishop fought the instinct to hold his head between his hands. "We were good friends," he said dejectedly.

The judge leaned forward, his deep blue eyes sympathetic. "You may plead the fifth amendment, Bishop O'Malley. But if you do not you must answer the question."

Lawyer Fieldson interrupted. "It's all right Your Honor. I withdraw the question."

The judge looked startled. But not for long. He understood full well what was going on. Fieldson was no fool. Fieldson had established that the bishop was gay without hounding him more than absolutely necessary which might have alienated the jury.

"Be careful Mr Fieldson. You try the patience of this court."

Fieldson stroked his fingers back through his hair, his manner absentminded, almost distracted. "I apologise, Your Honor," he said. Then his questions came in sharp staccato bursts.

"Bishop O'Malley. Would you describe your relationship with the defendant, Trish Hartnett, as cordial?"

"No, I can't say I would," the bishop answered in a weak voice.

"You were enemies?"

"I didn't say that."

"Friends?"

"No, I didn't say that either."

"Had Mrs Hartnett asked you to stop meeting her husband, Sean Hartnett?"

"Yes but I don't see. . ."

"Don't you?" Lawyer Fieldson preened himself, his head up and his breast full, like a cock robin. "I have no further questions at this time, Your Honor."

Chapter Sixty-Eight

For [there is] not a just man upon earth, that doeth good, and sinneth not.

Ecclesiastes 7:20

Tuesday 11th December: Trish shivered. Not because she was cold. The Hanlin's house was like an oven, the fire roaring in the grate kept the Springfield winter well and truly at bay. In the corner there was a Christmas tree, decked in so many tiny white lights that it dazzled.

Trish shivered because she was nervous. One of those a-goose-walked-over-my-grave type shivers. She was nervous because lawyer Fieldson fully intended to go for Hanlin's jugular and Hanlin didn't know and Hanlin had called her over to help her. She felt a mix of emotions in which shame vied with hope, fear with excitement. So she shivered.

But no one noticed. They were seated in the living room, Trish and Hanlin with Briar, Seb and Baxter. And they were talking about the bishop.

"What does your defense team expect to gain by questioning the bishop?"

Trish's sharp eyes focused on Hanlin. "Nothing much as far as I can see. I've told them not to do it. Not that is unless it's a last resort."

"And will they call on him?"

Trish gave one of those helpless little girl shrugs.

"So what can they possibly gain?"

Trish's mouth set in a grim smile. "Do I have to spell it out?"

Baxter reached out a reassuring arm. "No Trish, you don't." He looked squarely at Hanlin. "In theory, however unlikely it may seem, the bishop could well have had a motive to get Trish out of the way. A reason to implicate Trish."

"Ah, Sean you mean," muttered Mike Hanlin, looking anxiously at Trish.

Trish's pretty face contorted into a grimace. "Yes, my Sean. I hope that won't have to be thrashed over in open court." She stood up, pushing her chair away behind her. "Not that I wouldn't like to see that fucking faggot, Bishop bloody O'Malley, squirm."

Trish walked out of the room, embarrassed by her own outburst. Baxter got up to follow her. Which left Hanlin, Seb and Bryer.

The three men glanced at one another, exasperated.

"Doesn't make much sense though."

"How so?"

"If the Bish wanted Trish out of the way so he could mess about with Sean, why not kill her? Bob Young makes no sense as a victim."

Seb looked up then. "Maybe killing her was too obvious."

"Why?"

Seb hesitated so Hanlin provided the answer. "She was blackmailing him. If he'd killed her he'd be suspect number one."

Bryer was too astonished to speak. Hanlin continued. "Mind you, having a motive doesn't prove a thing. You don't have to be a murderer to have a motive, just like you don't have to be a virgin to go to the virgin islands. The number of people I've got good reason to kill is nobody's business."

Bryer laughed. Hanlin got to his feet to fix the drinks.

"How well do you know Sean Hartnett?" asked Seb, his eyes on Baxter, who'd just re-entered the room having left Trish in the kitchen where she was being ministered to by Hanlin's wife Jane.

"Well enough. We sometimes play a round or two of golf. He's good."

Seb sighed. "Golf. Not a game I'm much enamoured with."

Baxter laughed. "Golf is like the Catholic Church."

"How's that?"

"Full of rules that can't be obeyed and a firm belief that it will deteriorate if women are admitted to full membership."

Chapter Sixty-Seven

But if ye bite and devour one another, take heed that ye be not consumed one of another.

Galatians 5:15

Monday 10th December: "What?"

"It makes perfect sense."

Trish stared at her lawyer in silence for the longest time, her mind turning like the tumblers of a slot machine searching for an elusive jackpot. Then it connected.

"You think it could be true?" said Trish with a slight trembling in her voice.

"It's not a question of what's true, Mrs Hartnett. It's possible and we need to explore possibilities."

Trish tried to disguise the growing sense of exhilaration she was feeling. It just was so possible. Not likely but possible. And if it were possible, however improbable, it meant that there was reasonable doubt as to her guilt.

"Think about it Mrs Hartnett. He has been with you through this. This seems to speak to me really loudly. He could, indeed would, have a copy of your signature. Could have borrowed your driver's license. Could steal your card and other personal items."

"But the woman they say was me who hired the vehicle."

Lawyer Fieldson pulled his glasses to the end of his nose, peered over them at Trish, raising his eyebrows in the process. "Easy," he said. "Hire any good call girl. Pay her a few thousand dollars. Don't tell her what this is about or who you are. Just school her in this, some girl that vaguely resembles you and has no scruples."

"You seriously think this could have happened?"

"No but it may have happened and I hate to use such a cliche but it's reasonable doubt that matters." His pale blue eyes narrowed and lawyer Fieldson almost purred. He took the glasses off his nose and prodded the air with them for emphasis. "Michael Hanlin is a Hummer freak. He's in on everything in this. Too good a chance to miss. The world has changed."

Chapter Sixty-Six

Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thine heart be hasty to utter any thing before God: for God is in heaven, and thou upon earth: therefore let thy words be few.

Ecclesiastes 5:2

Sunday 9th December: "You're joking."

"I'm not. It's right here."

Jane Hanlin was sitting at a breakfast of bacon, pancakes and maple syrup. Mike Hanlin was confined to toast and grapefruit. They both drank coffee like true Americans. It was the Springfield Republican that Jane Hanlin was reading, the "Cries and Whispers" column.

Mike Hanlin set aside his toast and finished his mouthful. "Read it out," he demanded before picking up his coffee.

Jane folded the paper down to the article. Then obeyed.

"Which potentate of the Springfield Church will be called as a witness for the prosecution in the Bob Young murder case? As readers will know, one-time Springfield Classical High beauty queen, Trish Hartnett, stands accused of the murder of water commissioner Bob Young. The case is due to go to trial next month.

"And the whisper is that a Springfield Church leader will be called as a hostile defense witness. And we are not talking of any mere Parish priest but rather one who wears the purple so they say.

"Why hostile? Well, the nature of this high cleric's testimony is unclear except and in so much as it will, we understand, expose in the process the sexual shenanigans of said pillar of the church. Remember: You heard it first in 'Crys and Whispers'."

Jane Hanlin set the newspaper aside and picked up a trim rasher of crisp bacon and held it delicately between thumb and forefinger. She looked at her husband, the bacon poised in mid air like a conductress' baton. She pointed the rasher at her husband. "So dear, what do you think?"

Hanlin put down his coffee cup. He saw the funny side of the whole business, despite which, or maybe because of which, his face was grim. "What I think is that I'll be calling on Bishop Patrick this morning." He shook his head in exasperation. "The poor man needs every friend he can muster."

Chapter Sixty-Five

Prove all things; hold fast that which is good.

1 Thessalonians 5:21

Saturday 8th December: "Yes, I guess. You have to confide in someone. But why me?"

"Men find friends where they can. Christ's friends were sinners."

Baxter Merill threw back his head and laughed. "I've got to hand it to you Bish. You sure know how to charm." Baxter took a generous slug of his bourbon on ice. They sat in the den at 185 Longhill. Both men were relaxed. "So you play Christ and I play the sinner?"

The bishop raised an eyebrow. "Is that what I implied? Could be vice-versa of course."

"Somehow I doubt that. Haven't you guys got confessors for this sort of thing?"

"My confessor is Father Sebastian."

Baxter laughed again. This time if anything louder. "The priest that's screwing my Angie?"

The bishop smiled in turn. "The priest that had a relationship with your wife. To the best of my knowledge he doesn't any longer."

"Really?" Baxter Merill sat up in his chair. "Poor Angie. She sure can pick 'em."

"Huh?"

"Well first me, then a priest. And we both treat her bad."

"Did you? Treat her bad I mean."

"Used to knock her about. Does that offend you Bishop?"

"Nothing offends me."

Baxter raised an incredulous eyebrow but didn't pursue it. Instead he asked, "Want to know why I used to knock her about?"

"Why?"

"She was too bloody perfect. Too long suffering. No real fight in her."

"And Vicky?"

"Vicky's carrying my child. Angie and I never had children."

"That makes a difference?"

"Maybe." Baxter hesitated. "No, I don't s'pose it does."

The Bishop smiled his concern. "Perhaps you should have counselling."

Baxter shrugged. "Perhaps. But we're not here to talk about me are we?"

"No."

"So?"

"So. The lawyer in the Trish Hartnett case has notified me that he'll call me as a witness for the defense."

"That's neat. I always wanted to go on the witness stand," he mused. Then more seriously, "She's got that prick, David Fieldson, as her lawyer." He took another generous slug of bourbon. "I don't like the man."

"I have considered suicide," said the Bishop.

"That bad eh?"

The bishop nodded. "Not that I contemplate suicide as an option for my own benefit. Not for myself you understand. But it would save others embarrassment. The church. My friends."

"And what of your immortal soul?"

The bishop smiled. "I've lost that already."

"Well," reflected Baxter with a twinkle in his eye. "It would be kind of neat. This thing began with a suicide. It could end the same way."

"So you subscribe to the idea that all these killings are linked to Mary Young's death?"

"Seems a reasonable hypothesis, don't you think?"

"Perhaps. You haven't asked what my problem is."

"Don't want to pry, Bishop. You'll tell me if you wish to."

"It's Patrick, and yes I'll tell you."

"Go on."

Bishop O'Malley gazed at the floor, nursing his drink as he spoke. "Sean Hartnett was my lover."

"You're gay?"

The bishop smiled. "Evidently."

Baxter was unfazed. "You got aids then?"

"You don't understand?" The bishop raised an eyebrow. "All this stuff about Sean will come out in open court."

Baxter wasn't that easily deflected. He went on like a dog with a bone. "You got aids then?"

"I don't know. Does that matter?"

It was Baxter's turn to raise an eyebrow. "It matters. Get it checked out."

"What about being exposed in the courtroom?"

"Exposed? That's an insubstantial here today, gone tomorrow thing. What if you exposed me to the world as a wife beater? It'd be a storm I could weather with gravitas and endurance, plus display a smidgen of repentance. These are mere phantoms. Now talk to me of aids or bankruptcy and you mention real demons." Baxter stirred his drink with his finger in an absentminded way. Then setting it aside he looked at the bishop with his soulful, languid brown eyes. "The substantial - that frightens me," he said. "Not mere title-tattle and gossip. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words . . ."

And the Bishop looked again at his new friend. "You genuinely believe that?"

"Sure I do. Take the fifth. The Martin Luther King option. Remain silent and imitate Christ for once."

"The Luther King option? What's that?"

"They say he screwed around. He would never defend himself though. He gave his life to defend others. Not himself. Never himself. So go figure."

And Bishop Patrick O'Malley felt easier, for the first time in days. "Thank you Baxter," he said. "Really thank you very much."

Chapter Sixty-Four

For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.

Ecclesiastes 1:18

Friday 7th December: "Even my husband believes I did it."

"I'm sure that's not true Mrs Hartnett."

Trish tossed her head like a petulant child and grunted her amusement with a "Huh" that was more a sneer than laugh. "Why don't you save that silver tongued bullshit for the jury," she said. "How much am I paying you?" she added.

Lawyer Fieldson winced. This was going to be a good five figure case. "A great deal Mrs Hartnett, and I assure you it is money well spent."

David Fieldson was a class act and he knew it. Slightly built with a square face and blond hair, he was far from intimidating at first glance. Combine the above with a taste for the effete in dress, expressed in a particular penchant for breast pocket handkerchiefs to match his shirts, and bright bow ties for contrast. Plus a lightness of tone in his conversation; people generally underestimated him.

But give him a hostile prosecution witness and he was in his element. Add a brief so hopeless it would tax the patience of Job, and you were getting somewhere. He'd always been amused by the fact that the Springfield Police Department had Jude as its patron saint; Jude who was renowned as having a predisposition for hopeless causes. Fieldson prided himself on making sure they didn't take the defence forgranted. And not for the first time he was about to go head to head with the State's attorney in a case that was going to be front page news.

Lawyer Fieldson cut to the chase, "This business started with Mary Young's suicide, did it not?"

"So?"

"Mr. Young's murder could be unrelated but I doubt it. The likelihood is that we are dealing with one killer."

"And is the Pope a Catholic? You sure know how to state the obvious." Then she paused, confused. "But Mary Young killed herself."

"That's a maybe Mrs Hartnett. Are you so sure we can be certain that Mary Young's death was suicide?"

"You can't be serious?"

"Oh but I am. We must dispense with all our past thinking if we are to prove you innocent."

"And you believe I am innocent?"

He managed not to look offended by her audacity. "That is scarcely the point at issue."

"It is very much the point at issue, Lawyer Fieldson."

"It matters to you what I believe? I am not the jury Mrs Hartnett."

Trish Hartnett narrowed her green-grey eyes, the effect both intimidating and charming, like a poodle at bay. "Yes Mr Fieldson, it matters."

David Fieldson didn't hesitate. This was ground he had travelled before with many a client. He had learnt long ago it was best to tell them what they wanted to hear.

"Very well Mrs Hartnett. Since it matters. Yes of course I believe you are innocent." The lie slid easily off his tongue. He was a good lawyer after all.

Chapter Sixty-Three

For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.

Hebrews 12:6

Friday 7th December: Muse felt guilty in his way about hauling the boy straight into the precinct house. They'd come to Mrs Hartnett to question her, not brought her to them, not hauled her in - not at least until she'd been arrested. Same with Merill. Was this racism then? Now that they were hauling in the Chicano.

More expediency than racism he mused. The Chicano boy was less likely to kick up a fuss, haul in a lawyer and the rest of the whole nine yards.

So Mikhail stood there like a lemon.

"Your full name is Mikhail Sanchez?" Moynahan asked, pronouncing Michael in the English way.

"Michael Ernesto Sanchez," he replied pronouncing the name 'Mikhail'.

"Michael, Mikhail, whatever. We are here to discuss the death of Maria Gonzalez." This was Donna White talking. She recognised her own bad mood and put it down to PMT.

Like the rest of them, Muse was tired. He wanted to get to the point. "Did you kill her?"

Mikhail was stunned, or at least looked the part. He unslumped his shoulders and looked up. "Santa Maria, Madre de Dios," he said.

Muse smiled. "I take it from that the answer is no?"

Mikhail shook his head vigorously. "She was my geerlfriend man, my geerlfriend. You understand?"

Muse nodded his head to indicate that he understood. "You own a gun Mikhail?"

"No. Why sh'd I?"

Donna White interjected. "To shoot Baxter Merill."

"That Baxter killed my Maria."

"You can prove that?"

"He gave her trouble."

"That doesn't mean he killed her," Donna mused. "But you tried to kill him, didn't you?"

"Naw." Mikhail's tone was sullen. He thought his answer didn't matter. They'd believe what they wanted to believe.

"Naw?" Moynahan doubted this Chicano had it in him. But maybe that assumption was itself racist, he found himself thinking. "Yes or naw - from now on you keep your hands clean, understand me?"

And Mikhail nodded and rubbed his hands together. "Sure thing," he said. "Sure thing."

Chapter Sixty-Two

The king's heart is in the hand of the LORD, as the rivers of water: he turneth it whithersoever he will.

Proverbs 21:1

Thursday 6th December: Trish had told him to come round for coffee when he'd phoned. Seemed the right thing to do. Sean would be at work and it needed ending.

So he came. Baxter Merill wore a loose shirt and sports jacket with white, out-of-style slacks and black penny loafers.

"Those are summer clothes Baxter," were her fist words when he had sat down. Actually Trish subscribed to the Paris Hilton maxim, 'Dress cute wherever you go, life is too short to blend in.' But at the end of the day there had to be limits - and in any case, that applied to girls, not boys. Trish liked her men conventional.

Baxter shrugged. "Suits me anyhow."

"That's as maybe but still they're wrong. Want some coffee?"

"Thanks."

She brought a cake from the pantry and she cut him a slice without asking whether he wanted any. It was her way.

They talked a while, the conversation coy, almost childlike. They didn't ever mention the murder charge against Trish. The one thing of substance that was said between them was that their affair was over almost before it had started.

"You sure you're OK Baxter?"

"What, with this?" He pulled his shirt button open to show his bandaged chest.

"Yes, that," she said, though that wasn't what she'd meant.

Baxter smiled. "It hurts some. But they don't want you hanging about in hospital these days."

He hesitated. "You OK Trish?"

She smiled. "Yes. OK with Sean anyway." Then she laughed. "And I've been away from my work which has given me time to develop my website. Want to see?"

Baxter didn't, but he nodded that yes, he did.

She led him over to the computer and sat him in the chair, kneeling at his side and manipulating the mouse. As she did so her breast brushed against his forearm.

Baxter felt the old hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Had she done that deliberately? He looked down at her, reaching for her with his hand. She held back. "It's over Baxter. I'm back with Sean."

"And I'm back with Vicky. Of course it's over." He caressed her hair as he spoke. "But what the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve," she heard him say as he stooped to kiss her. And she found herself thinking, "Oh hell, one more time for the road," as she let him.

She made one lame attempt to forestall the inevitable as she felt his hand move up under the baby doll dress she was wearing. "Baxter, what about your wound?"

She saw him wince then and realised it was hurting him. But he just growled, "What wound?" as he pushed her towards the bedroom and threw her onto the bed. Then he undressed mechanically as he stood there and she followed suit, surrendering to the moment.

It was an hour before he finally moved to leave her, then he dressed swiftly as she did her best to keep up with him. Her lips felt bruised in the aftermath of his onslaught and she had an irrational fear Sean might notice. Her thirst for vengeance was long slaked. This was a sort of closure. Both she and Baxter knew that this was the last time. She led him to the door.

The house was dressed for the Thanksgiving - Christmas season, a wreath on the glass fronted door. Baxter kissed her briefly and perfunctorily.

Then the glass in the part open door was shattered as the bullet slammed between them.

Chapter Sixty-One

Doth a fountain send forth at the same place sweet water and bitter?

James 3:11

Wednesday 5th December: "Well now. An assignation with not one but two ladies. A truly unexpected pleasure. You will have?"

"A glass of white wine. Anything as long as it's cold."

"I'll have a gin and tonic."

Hanlin waved the order at the girl behind the bar before focusing his attention on his interlocutors. The contrast between the two women could not have been more complete.

Vicky Walters carried her long brown hair like a badge of honor. She had been thinking about cutting it short like Trish Hartnett had suggested but so far had failed to screw up the courage. Still, she had shed much of her latter day hippy persona. There was just the faintest sign of her pregnancy, that early slightest of the slight rounding of the belly and thickening of the ankles that is only noticeable to the practiced eye. She was power dressing in a figure-hugging black number that was more the badge of the femme fatale than the mother-to-be. Her dark hazel eyes glistened wide as they focused their attention on Hanlin in the comfortable seats of Pazzo's spacious bar at the Basketball Hall of Fame.

Contrast the other girl, Lisa, the sometime barmaid at Pazzo's. Off duty now, she had two years on her friend Vicky. Two years and another world. From the wrong side of the tracks, Lisa, bejewelled and well bossomed, her hair pulled back in a pony-tail, was every bit the rough diamond. But the two girls were friends.

The drinks were delivered.

"So ladies, what can I do for you?" Hanlin sipped his Bombay Sapphire dirty martini.

They were silent a moment and exchanged a glance.

"Tell him Lisa."

"No V. You tell him. I don't want us to argue."

"Tell me what?"

Vicky Walters tossed and swung her head so that her long brown hair fell neatly behind her shoulders, like a filly readying herself for a race. "OK," she said. "It's about Michael." She pronounced the name Mikhail in the Latino fashion.

"Who's Mikhail?"

"Maria's boyfriend."

Hanlin nodded and sipped his martini. "Go on."

"He told Lisa that his Maria told him that my Baxter tried to rape her." The words tumbled out breathlessly, all in a run. "Which is nonsense of course. My Baxter is a man and if that slut Maria tried to seduce him, he might have weakened. I can believe that men are like that." She dropped her gaze, flushing, embarrassed. "But my Baxter would never rape anyone. He doesn't need to. He can have any woman he wants. Just has to snap his fingers." She looked up defiantly, daring either Hanlin or Lisa to gainsay her.

"So what you are saying, in so many words, is that Mikhail, or Michael whatever his name is, had a reason to try and kill Baxter and you want him stopped."

"Something like that."

"So why," Hanlin turned his attention to the other woman. "Why didn't you just go to the police Lisa?"

Chapter Sixty

Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.

Proverbs 15:17

Tuesday 4th December: The private room at Bay State Medical Center was filled with flowers. Vicky Walters had seen to that. It was also filled with people and Baxter Merill had seen to that. When Vicky had said he had too many visitors he'd browbeaten her, as well as the head duty nurse. Which of itself was an achievement for a man who had come as close as a man could to death.

But Baxter liked being the center of attention and he wasn't going to lose his moment in the sun. Vicky was there of course, her pregnancy too early to show. Though everyone knew. She had told them. She was proud now that Baxter was standing by her. But her eyes were red-rimmed. This was too much. Hanlin was bringing in a chair for her. He'd brought the two wives, Marilyn Bryer and his own wife Jane, both of whom had insisted on visiting when they'd heard the news.

The family physician, Dr Paolo, was there as well, making suitably concerned noises and explaining that Baxter would need to rest for a month. Which was when Father Seb and Alicia White came in. They had arrived at the same time. Seb had brought grapes, which was useful if unoriginal. Alicia had brought more flowers, which was kind but unnecessary.

They were both about to beat a hasty retreat given the number of people in the room but the convalescent waved them in. "The more the merrier," said Baxter.

"How did you manage this then Baxter?" Hanlin's comment was made when the room had readjusted itself to accommodate the newcomers.

"Some'n to do with the death of that frigging Chicano bitch."

"Baxter!" Vicky's outrage was genuine.

"Sorry, shouldn't swear. But you haven't been shot and run down all in one day."

"Baxter Merill you can swear as much as you like. But don't say that. It's racist."

"What, Chicano?"

"Precisely. And while we're at it, you don't call a woman - any woman - a bitch."

"Sorry V." Baxter paused, reflected and bit back, "What's wrong with saying 'Chicano' anyway? That's what she is after all."

"And that's why people always jump to the conclusion that they're culpable of every serious crime."

"Well they are aren't they? Mostly? Nine times out of ten. And anyhow, Chicanos aren't indigenous. Redskins are."

Vicky's response was affable with an edge born of her new found confidence. She was unabashed by the presence of the others in the room and she was not going to drop the point. "Native American - not Redskins - not Red Indians either for that matter. Be respectful Baxter. I don't care how badly wounded you are. Respect costs nothing."

Baxter looked shamefaced. Seb and Hanlin exchanged a smile. "What would you call this Father Seb? The reverse of the Taming of the Shrew?"

Seb laughed. "The Subjugation of the Redneck," he replied. But the words were spoken with such affable good humour and affection that Baxter didn't take offence. He did respond though.

"My manners apart. This could well have something to do with Maria's killing. Your daughter questioned me Alicia. Along with that detective guy, Muse. And they weren't as friendly as a man has a right to expect."

Alicia looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yeh, you'd better believe it. And I wouldn't put it past that Chicano boyfriend of hers . . ."

Vicky winced and was about to say something but Baxter continued, "Sorry, Mexican boyfriend - He could have got it into his head that I'd killed Maria and come after me."

Hanlin scratched his neck, "Why would he think that you'd killed Maria?"

"God only knows," Baxter lied, his languid brown eyes as innocent as the day was long. He wasn't gioing to confess to having harrassed her.

"Well there's one good thing about this from your point of view," announced Hanlin.

"Which is?"

"Which is that it puts you way into left field as a suspect in the Bob Young killing."

Baxter's eyes widened. "I didn't think I ever was a suspect. They've nailed pretty little Trish Hartnett for that."

Alicia White was shaking her head. "She's not convicted yet. And I for one view her as innocent."

Seb interrupted, "That's great news Alicia. But does that really mean that Baxter is a suspect?"

Hanlin smiled. "We all are Seb. We all sure are."