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Taking the Fall By The Professor "Mr. Jerome, there's a Steve Martinez here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment." Mary's voice was tentative. I wasn't surprised. Lawyers make enemies - even young ones like me. When someone shows up without an appointment claiming to be an old friend, the secretaries always exhibit a little bit of caution. But Steve Martinez really was an old friend - or at least he had been. I hadn't seen him in several years but I knew he resided in the Bay Area. I had seen his name in the Examiner on more than one occasion and knew he was a rising young politico. I had no idea why he had popped up out of the blue to see me, but rising hairs on the back of my neck warned me that whatever the reason, it wasn't good news. We had been out of touch too long for Steve to just drop in for old time's sake. "Send him in," I told Mary as I braced myself for the worst. Steve Martinez hadn't changed much since our high school days. At twenty-eight, he still had a boyish face under a crop of casual wheat- blonde hair. Matching my own six one frame, he had obviously taken care of himself. He looked as if he could still play starting halfback for the Mendoza Warriors. His suit was the conservative gray offset with a sincere red tie favored by politicians and would-be politicians all over the Western world. As he extended his hand to me, I could see the possibilities: Representative, Senator, Governor, or... higher? "Good to see you, Dan," he said. There was sincerity in his voice but something else as well. Steve sounded worried. "How long has it been?" "About five years," I admitted, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. It had been during my first year at the Stanford Law School. We had run into each other in a bar right after the Stanford-UCLA football game. We had had a couple of beers together and parted with promises to keep in touch. So much for promises. The truth was that neither one of us wanted to rekindle the friendship. There were just enough bad memories we shared to keep us apart forever. Steve sat down formally across from my desk. Even though I could tell he was worried about something, he was very poised. And why shouldn't he be? He was the darling of the Republican Party. He was going to be running for State Assemblyman in a district the Democrats had held for years, and if the pollsters were right, he was going to win it. The district was a swing district on the fringes of the heavily Democratic districts that comprised the Bay Area. But his Spanish surname would attract the growing Hispanic population in the district, while his fair skin and blonde hair would assure middle class whites in the district that his ancestry was Spanish and not Mexican. Add to that the fact that the Democratic incumbent had died in office, to be replaced by a party hack with way too much political baggage to ever get elected on his own, and you could bet Steve Martinez would be representing the district in Sacramento next year. Steve looked around my office. "You've done well for yourself, Dan. You're with a top law firm and from the looks of this office doing well. Congratulations." "I understand you're doing well, too, Steve," I returned in acknowledgement of the compliment. Of course, my office faced south and not toward the bay like the partners' offices did, but the view from the thirtieth floor was still impressive if not quite as scenic. Then leaning forward, I cut to the chase. "What brings you here today?" He smiled. "Isn't it enough that I just wanted to see an old friend?" I returned his smile with one of my own. "Sure, but we've both been here for years and haven't looked each other up. I know you, Steve. Something's bothering you." "So it's that obvious," he sighed. "Have you checked your e-mail this morning?" I shook my head. "Maybe you should." "What am I looking for?" "You'll know it when you see it," he assured me. It didn't take me long to find the message he was referring to. It was addressed to me, Steve, and two others - Terry McBride and Lance Marshall, or as we were known as in high school, the Gang of Four. Actually, there had been five of us until... But why think on that now? The sender's email address was blocked, but the message was signed simply "Joyce H." It was enough to send a chill down my spine. "How did she..." "Just read the message, Dan." I could feel my blood pounding in my head as I read the message I had secretly dreaded for years: Hi Guys! I hear life has treated you well. I hope you've all enjoyed it, because life is about to throw you a ball of shit. Reunion is coming up. It's been ten years so this ought to be a good one for you. Or maybe not. I plan to be there to tell all your classmates about Goose Hollow. You remember that, don't you? Now I know I didn't actually graduate with you guys, but it will be fun to see everyone again. I'm sure you'll all be there, won't you? See you there! Joyce H I sank back in my chair, stunned by the message. "Jesus..." "She can ruin us," Steve nearly whined. "No she can't," I countered. "We didn't do it." "No, but we kept quiet," Steve reminded me. "It's enough to cost you and me plenty. I don't know about Terry and Lance, but think of what it would mean to you and me if she told everything. It would be the kiss of death for my political aspirations, and while it might not get you disbarred, it might be enough to keep a major firm like this one from wanting you any longer." Unfortunately he had a point. An unfortunate incident - no more than that - a criminal act we had thought had been long buried had now resurfaced. I had actually begun to believe it was dead and buried forever. The Gang of Four had been torn apart by the act. The fallout from it had been too much to sustain our friendship. Now ironically, it seemed that the very thing that had torn us apart was going to force us back together in mutual defense of the lives we had established since then. "So what do you propose we do?" I asked him. "We've got to be there for the reunion," he stated. "We have to find Joyce before she can tell everyone and ruin us." "Find her and what?" I mused. "Bribe her?" "If necessary." "Kill her?" "Don't be absurd." "Don't get so hot," I admonished him. "I certainly wasn't seriously proposing that. Ten years have gone by though, and in that time either people forget wrongs done to them or they let their anger build. I'd say Joyce had a lot to be angry about and her anger has gotten worse." "So what do you suggest we do?" Steve sighed. "I agree we need to find her and talk to her," I began. "When her family moved away, didn't they move somewhere in the Bay Area?" "I think so," Steve replied slowly. "But what if she's not here?" Yes, what if she wasn't? What if she just dropped out of the blue in the middle of the reunion before we had a chance to talk with her - to reason with her? At least I was pretty good at thinking on my feet. That was what had put me in the position to make a run at partner right now at a firm that seldom tapped an associate before his thirty-fifth birthday. "When were you planning on going back to Mendoza?" I asked at last. "Tomorrow," Steve told me. "My family still lives there. I thought I'd spend a couple of days with them before the reunion." Steve's father taught Spanish and Spanish Lit at the local college back home when we were growing up. Apparently he was still there. "Okay," I agreed. "You go on back to Mendoza and see if she's already there. I'll check around here and see what I can come up with on her. Maybe she's still right here in town. Now do Terry and Lance know?" Steve nodded. "Yeah. Terry actually called me. He saw the message first. He's going back to Mendoza on Thursday, the day after me. I called Lance. Of course he still lives there." That figured. Lance's family had owned half of Mendoza when we all lived there. Now since his parents managed to drink themselves to death, he was in charge of the family business. From what little I had heard from people I still knew in Mendoza, Lance was carrying on the family tradition of boozing himself into an early grave. Steve and I talked for a few more minutes, mostly about other things - mutual friends and our current careers. It was as if we were reluctant to part with only the crime as a bond between us. At last though, Steve left for an appointment, leaving me alone in my office to think back on the incident, which had affected all of our lives. It happened in the spring of our senior year, just before graduation. The four of us - Lance, Terry, Steve and I - had it all. We had all played every sport Mendoza High offered and played them well. Terry and Steve even played them well enough to earn athletic scholarships - Terry for football at Oregon and Steve for track at UCLA. I guess that made me the brains of the outfit. My scholarship was for grades and it would take me to Stanford. As for Lance, he was off to Harvard, his father's old alma mater. He didn't have a scholarship, but with the money his family had, he didn't need it. Not that he would have qualified for a scholarship if he had needed it. He was going to Harvard because of who he was, not what he had accomplished. Toward the end of our senior year, every weekend night (and a few weeknights) was party night. The parties moved around from place to place, but the most popular location was Goose Hollow. Just a couple of miles out of town, Goose Hollow sat on the sandy banks of Wild Horse Creek. The creek separated two pretty good-sized farms and an allowable amount of water was diverted from it upstream. What that meant was that the hilly little stretch of land wasn't worth farming, so it sat fallow back to about fifty yards from the west bank. An unimproved dirt road gave limited access to the area but didn't cross the creek, so it was a perfect, secluded place to hold our parties. Plus, there were enough trees and shrubs by the banks of the river to give privacy to teens who had something more than drinking in mind. The night things sort of fell apart for us was a night when there must have been thirty or forty of us partying. A fair amount of pot was available, although of the four of us, only Lance seemed to enjoy it. For everyone who wasn't toking, there was plenty of alcohol. Most of it was beer, of course, but whiskey and wine were in evidence as well. All in all, it was pretty mellow. Then about two hours after the rest of us had started, a few carloads of juniors started showing up. That was the way things usually went. The seniors would usually start things off and after a couple of hours the underclassmen would learn that there was a party going on. One of the carloads had four girls - all juniors and all seemingly ready to party. Usually the Gang of Four would have pounced on the girls, but we were already pretty high from the beer - and in Lance's case, the pot - and more interested in getting higher. The girls drifted off to find better pickings - all except for one. That one was Joyce Hamilton. Joyce was new to Mendoza. Her family had moved to town when her father had accepted a position at Mendoza College teaching Ancient History and Latin of all things. She was an odd duck from the first, reminding me a little of Winona Ryder's role in Beetlejuice. I don't mean to imply that she walked around in black clothes talking about death, but she did look a little like Winona Ryder with her dark hair, heavily shadowed eyes, and dark clothing. While not exactly Goth, she leaned that way. That doesn't mean she wasn't attractive; she was, in a very vulnerable sort of way. The dark sweatshirt she wore that night did nothing to disguise a trim figure with large, high breasts. Her hair, raven black running half way down her back, wasn't particularly stylish, but it framed an attractive face. Like the other girls, she wore denim shorts that night, and while hers were not as short and not as tight as what the other girls wore, they did nothing to hide a great pair of legs. Strangely enough, I think all the guys in our school had fantasies about Joyce. She always seemed so completely uninterested in boys that some of us found that challenging. Lance was among the worst of those guys. Lance Marshall could have probably had any girl in the school just by snapping his fingers. What girl wouldn't be interested in Lance? He was rich, or at least his family was. He was a fine athlete - one of those people who can ski double blacks his first time skiing or be first string in every sport without even trying. And he was handsome. Even men knew he was handsome. Unlike some extremely handsome men, his looks did spill over into the "pretty" category. Lance was ruggedly handsome, complete with blond hair, steely blue eyes, and a jutting chin. Needless to say, Lance was self-confident as well. No one dared say no to Lance Marshall. Glib, persuasive, and forceful, the world was certainly his to be plucked off the tree like a ripe fruit. Everything he ever wanted, he got... ...until Joyce. I don't think he wanted her because she was a diamond in the rough who might be beautiful with a little work. Oh, she was that, but that wasn't why he wanted her. He wanted her precisely because she didn't want him. Joyce was always very reserved around Lance, and that night at Goose Hollow was no exception. Lance saw her standing there in the dark, deserted by her friends who had gone off to party, and made his move. He had been drinking heavily, and he actually staggered over to her side. She seemed uncertain as to how to react, as if she had never been in such a situation before. Maybe she hadn't. The other three of us watched as it happened. We even made jokes about it, loud enough for Lance to hear. He shot us a nasty look and guided Joyce away from our boisterous - and crude - remarks. She seemed a little reluctant but didn't resist. Looking back on that from my office high above the streets of San Francisco, I realized that if we had not been making those remarks, Lance would have had no pretext for ushering Joyce to a more secluded spot. Joyce was for that moment probably more alarmed at the three of us than she was at Lance. After all, he was only protecting her - leading her away from the boorish drunks with their suggestive jokes and comments. From that perspective, the three of us bore at least part of the responsibility for what happened next. Lance and Joyce weren't gone long - or it didn't seem as if they were. To be honest, none of us were looking at our watches. We were too busy enjoying the party. It could have been ten minutes or two hours or anything in between. The next thing we saw of Joyce was when she plowed back through the bushes, her clothes barely on. There was something dark on one of her legs - a trickle of blood perhaps? She was crying and seemed frightened as she ran toward the road. None of us made any move to stop her, and we were so close to the fringes of the party that I was sure we were the only ones who had spotted her. Lance came through those same bushes moments later, a frown on his face. That wasn't all that was on his face. There were bloody scratches as well - not deep ones but three thin parallel lines drawn down one cheek. "Bitch!" he muttered. "What happened?" It was Terry who asked - or maybe Steve; I don't really remember. All I remember is that I was too shocked to say anything. I had a pretty good idea what had happened. "She wanted it," Lance bragged. "I could tell. You saw her leave with me. Was I forcing her?" We all shook our heads. Lance was our friend. There was no way we could believe he had forced her. Since when did Lance Marshall need to force any girl? "Then she gets out there with me. When I started to make my moves, she gave me some bullshit about how she can't do it. She gave me some bullshit about being a virgin. You know how some girls are." We all nodded cautiously. I for one didn't like where the conversation was going, and Terry and Steve seemed a little unsure as well. "You didn't... force her, did you?" Terry ventured. Steve and I looked at him in shock for asking the unaskable question. Lance snorted, "Of course I didn't force her. She gave in. Like I said, guys, she wanted it. I can always tell. Then after we really get going hot and heavy, she starts having second thoughts. Damned bitch even tried to stop me, but you know how it is. A girl gets you to that point and there's no stopping it." The argument seemed so puerile in my mind after a decade. Of course, during that decade, a good legal education had taught me what I probably already suspected at eighteen - namely that there was nothing in Lance's argument that would make what happened any less of a rape. But we were pretty drunk that night, and Lance was our friend. We had all known him since childhood. We had grown up together. He was like a brother to us. We had already lost one of our gang, and the collective mind we seemed to sometimes share wouldn't allow for the loss of another. Joyce managed to walk back to the main road and get a ride into town. She was devastated from all accounts. Her parents sought justice, but this was Mendoza. Like many small towns, the powerful define what is just as often as not. The police investigation was at best slipshod. The Chief of Police was, of course, a good friend of Lance's father and owed his job to him. The County Attorney played golf in a regular foursome with the Lance's father and assured him that nothing would come of the accusations. And of course, there were no witnesses - or at least none who would back up Joyce's story. As far as the statements Terry, Steve and I gave the police went, Lance was with us most of the evening. That was true, of course. What wasn't true was when all of us stated that Lance had been alone with Joyce for only a few minutes, and not really out of our sight. And, of course, none of us remembered to tell the police Lance's story about Joyce getting cold feet. That might have hurt his case. Needless to say, no charges were brought. Joyce Hamilton's accusations were written off as an overreaction from an immature girl with a vivid imagination. No examinations were made. No DNA testing was authorized. No sperm samples were demanded. The whole story was kept quiet so that Lance's reputation was intact. Of course, stories did arise regarding Joyce. She was a slut - a girl who led guys on. The mothers of good girls advised their daughters to stay away from the little oddball. Girls like her weren't suitable friends. Her family was questionable as well. The Tenure Committee (headed, of course, by a good friend of Lance's father) voted later that summer to deny tenure to Dr. Hamilton. Shortly thereafter, the Hamilton family moved away. Dr. Hamilton had managed to secure a teaching position at a small school in the Bay Area. There was some fallout for the Gang of Four, but not from the authorities or even the good citizens of Mendoza. We were from good families and above that sort of censure. No, in our case, the fallout was self-imposed. I think it was because as time went on, Terry, Steve and I came to the realization that Lance wasn't the person we thought he was. What we had thought was confidence was, in fact, arrogance. Lance Marshall could do not wrong - at least in his own mind. We weren't his friends any more; we had become his sycophants. None of us discussed what had happened - with or without Lance. We were at our respective cores good guys, or at least that's how we thought of ourselves. Rape was abhorrent to us, and yet we had managed to convince ourselves that what had happened between Joyce and Lance wasn't really rape. After all, Lance had just had a little too much to drink (a common occurrence for him) and Joyce had just overreacted. That wasn't rape, was it? Besides, she had led him on. It couldn't have been rape. Of course it was, and by the time graduation rolled around, the Gang of Four was history. We barely spoke to each other, and never again were the four of us together. I think we were ashamed to face each other. After all, only the four of us knew we had lied. As far as everyone else in town was concerned, we had done nothing wrong. But we knew differently. Now the chickens were coming home to roost, I realized as I turned in a last-minute request for a couple of days off to attend my reunion. Oh, whatever Joyce planned to say at our reunion wouldn't be enough to send any of us off to jail, but it might be enough to damage our flowering careers. We had to find her and reason with her. Somehow, that made me feel dirty all over again, and I could tell from the way Steve had acted in my office that he felt the same way. I called Steve the next morning but just got his answering service. According to the service, he had left for Mendoza to visit his family and would be checking in for messages. The service gave me a number where he could be reached in Mendoza. I recognized it as his parents' number. I had wanted to tell him that I had found a private detective who was going to try to find Joyce Hamilton. His name was Frank Emerson and he owned a small agency down on Market. He promised me he'd do what he could. Since our firm used him to gather information for us, he had a vested interest in finding her if she was anywhere in the Bay Area. "What case should I charge this to?" Frank wanted to know. "None," I replied. "This is private. I'm the only one you should contact on this matter." I could almost imagine his eyebrows rising. But Frank was a pro. He didn't ask any personal questions. That was another reason I used him. "I'll send your bill to your home then. And I'll put one of my best guys on it." I agreed and gave him the address. I was more than willing to pay his rather high hourly rate. Frank was good, and I had learned in my years in law that finding a woman is far harder than one might think. It's the married names that make it confusing. A man keeps his last name for life, but a woman's last name changes with her marital status and might change back again after a divorce. Still, if Joyce Hamilton was anywhere in the Bay Area, I knew Frank would find her. The results came quicker than I had imagined. I was on my way home when the agency caught me on my cell phone with the information I needed. I missed the detective's name but I couldn't miss the contempt in his voice. "Your girl sounds like a real nut case," he began. "How so?" I was fighting rush hour traffic heading for my West San Francisco apartment and was in no mood to comment on his opinion. I found myself wishing I could have talked Frank into handling the investigation personally. "Just tell me if you found her." "Sort of," he replied drolly. "She's dead." They say you feel a chill when someone walks over the plot that will someday be your grave. That was the feeling I had, and it wasn't just from the air conditioning in the car. No, I hadn't started believing in messages from beyond the grave, but if Joyce Hamilton was really dead, matters were complicated. That would mean that someone else knew of the events at Goose Hollow. "You're sure?" I asked. "Sure as I can be." He went on to tell me the strange details of the life of Joyce Hamilton. After she had moved with her family from Mendoza, she had finished high school right here in the city while her father taught at San Francisco State. Her parents died a few years back and she had no brothers and sisters, so she settled into an innocuous life working at a strange little store in the Haight Ashbury district that sold feminist and Wiccan paraphernalia - probably through a haze of pot smoke. I tried to imagine the semi-Goth girl behind an aging wooden counter selling dusty talismans and books by Gloria Steinem. It wasn't much of a reach. "So how did she die?" I asked the detective at last. He had convinced me that Joyce Hamilton was, in fact, dead. "That's the funny part of it," he replied. "One day, she just chucks the whole Morticia Addams routine and starts walking the streets." "She was homeless?" I asked. Traffic was getting worse and I guess I just didn't realize the implications of what he had just said. "No, pal, that isn't what I said. She was a streetwalker - a whore. You got me?" "Wait a minute," I interjected. "You mean to tell me one day she's selling charms in some little magic store and the next day she's a prostitute? That doesn't seem very likely." "Now you see why I called her a nut case," the detective said triumphantly. He went on to explain how she plied her new trade for about six months before an angry john slit her throat late one night. It seems he found out she was HIV positive and decided to punish her for infecting him. I shuddered involuntarily. I had read somewhere that rape victims often suffered from low self esteem after they had been violated. It varied from case to case. Some women became sexually frigid after they were attacked while others became promiscuous. Of course, many went on to live normal lives, but the exceptions were notable for their extremism. "Do you have anymore details?" I asked. I was, of course, looking for a clue as to who was writing to us in her name. The detective didn't realize this, though. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was convinced I was just being voyeuristic. "I e-mailed the details to your home mailbox," he explained. "Those were my instructions." "That's fine," I assured him and was rewarded with a grunt before he hung up on me. I hurried home and popped a frozen meal in the microwave and brought up my e-mail while it warmed. The file was nothing if not detailed. A birth certificate, driver's license, and even mug shots from an arrest for prostitution more than a month before her death were all there for the viewing. Even after ten years, I recognized her face in the pictures, her dark eyes almost flashing in defiance in the DMV photos. Only the last photo - the mug shot - showed something different. Her eyes were tired and nearly frightened, as if she were an animal with her eyes frozen in the headlights of an approaching car. Had she anticipated her own death? Who could say? The strange thing, I realized as I reread the file, was that Joyce had seemingly bounced from one extreme to the other. According to the detective, there were no boyfriends, ex-husbands, or anyone else in Joyce's life as she worked in the store. She seemed to have developed no relationships at all, emulating the very model of frigidity. Then suddenly and apparently without any known reason, she had become the most obvious example of promiscuity - the prostitute. Were there other examples like that? Maybe there were. Maybe she had gotten into drugs and needed the money to support her habit. There was nothing in the file to indicate a dependence on drugs, but then again there was nothing that indicated she didn't use drugs either. The other question was that if Joyce Hamilton was dead, who was sending us e-mails in her name? There were two possibilities, which came immediately to mind, if you discounted the supernatural. I did exactly that since although she might have been working in a magic store, returning from the dead to haunt us didn't seem likely. The first possibility was that Joyce had told someone close to her who had decided to avenge her death with our exposure. The problem with that theory was that my detective had assured me that Joyce had no such close relations with anyone. Her known family was dead and there were no known lovers or friends who would have been close enough to avenge an assault that happened a decade before. The second possibility was more likely to my thinking. I began to wonder if Joyce was really dead. Sure, a prostitute had been found dead with Joyce's identification, but how closely did the police check such things? She was a person of no importance, plying a dangerous trade. Prostitutes turned up dead for any number of reasons. The combination of sex and drugs was often lethal, and the police had too many crimes involving solid citizens to worry too much about the death of a whore. Could Joyce have somehow staged her own death and still be out there, ready to expose us? There were no morgue shots in the package. What if someone who looked like Joyce had been killed and incorrectly identified? What if she bribed someone to falsify the fingerprint records? It was a strange possibility but the most likely one to my way of thinking. I tried to call Steve and tell him what I had learned, but wasn't able to reach him. He called me at my office the next day. He was already in Mendoza. He was in a hurry and prefaced his remarks by telling me he could only talk for a moment. "Terry's already here, too," he told me. "We're meeting at Lance's tonight. Any way you can be here?" "Afraid not," I told him. "I have a court appearance this afternoon. I plan to fly up tomorrow morning, see Pete and get settled." "Great," Steve replied. "There's going to be a cocktail party at Lance's tomorrow night for early arrivals. We'll meet there." When I hung up, I realized I had forgotten to tell him about Joyce Hamilton's death. It was probably just as well, I thought. If there was a chance that she had faked her death, maybe Steve or one of the other guys would get a lead on her. If I had told Steve she was dead, they would stop looking. I went through the motions of trying to act as if nothing was wrong for the rest of the day. Fortunately most of what I had to do was pretty lightweight. Even the court appearance was perfunctory, so nothing slowed me down. I got an early start the next morning for Mendoza. There are frequent commuter flights from SFO to Fresno, the closest commercial airport, and I caught a nine-thirty flight that had me in well before lunch. I checked my messages when I got in. The detective - Don Wells was his name - wanted me to call. I did so and was surprised to learn that my theory about Joyce Hamilton being alive was doomed to go up in smoke. Fingerprints and dental records had confirmed that she had, indeed, been the murdered prostitute, and Wells had seen a morgue shot of the body that he had considered too gruesome to e-mail to me. According to the detective, there was no doubt that Joyce Hamilton was the murdered prostitute. Putting the mystery of the email threats aside, I called Pete from the airport and agreed to join him for lunch. Pete was glad to hear from me, as we hadn't really talked in about six months. Pete Collins was originally the fifth member of the Gang of Four. The only reason it wasn't the Gang of Five was that Pete spent most of our senior year of high school in a hospital, following a car accident, which had nearly taken his life. It was one of those freak accidents. We had all been drinking, celebrating the end of our last high school football game. Pete had been a starting halfback and had been the hero of the game that day, scoring two touchdowns. Pete was easily the best football player of all of us. He had decided to play for Colorado the next year on a full scholarship. We dropped him off at his car and let him drive home on his own since he lived on a farm outside town. He never made it home that night. He said he never saw the semi that tore his car in two. He was just pulling onto the highway to head out of town when he got broad sided. Probably the only thing that saved his life was that the semi hadn't built up to full speed as it roared out of town. Pete's car was torn completely in half, and the half that he was still in careened into a telephone pole folding what was left of the car around him. It took the rescue team over an hour just to get him out of the twisted metal that had once been a Honda. They managed to pry him out with all of his parts still attached, but some of them didn't work anymore. Pete was paralyzed from the waist down. He'd be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, and given the condition some of his internal organs had been left in, that life might not be very long. Of the renamed Gang of Four, I was the only one who visited Pete much. Oh, the others did at first, but when it became obvious that Pete was in for a long recovery and would never be part of our group again, the visits stopped. Even I didn't see him as often as I probably should have, and by the time our current crisis had erupted, my contacts with Pete had been reduced to an occasional phone call and a lengthy note at Christmas. Perhaps I could be forgiven for not seeing much of Pete. For one thing, my family no longer lived in Mendoza. My father had sold out his lucrative law practice (and yes, he was the Marshall's attorney) and had moved with my mother to Sun City. My younger brother had gone to school back east and decided to stay there, so Mendoza was now just a place I had originally been from. The other reason I didn't see much of Pete was a happy one. In spite of his doctors' pessimistic predictions, Pete had managed to regain enough of his health that he finished high school, went on to college, and eventually got a doctorate in history. He was now a history instructor at Mendoza College, and while he'd never be able to walk again or have a normal family life, he seemed to be content with the cards he had been dealt. I had to admire him for his courage. But it meant that while he had plenty to keep himself busy he seldom traveled. He had often told me he longed to visit the historical sites he had studied so often, but his health would not permit it. "Good to see you, Dan." Pete met me at his office door. I was a little shocked with how much weight Pete had put on as his wheelchair scooted over to be with a soft electronic whir. I suppose when you're confined to a wheelchair, it's all that much harder to get proper exercise. Besides, like many former football players, Pete had a natural tendency to be a little on the beefy side. The chair just made a bad problem worse. I took his hand, relieved to find his grip was strong. Like many who lost the use of their legs, Pete had compensated by developing strong arms. "Good to see you, too, Pete." "Back for the reunion, eh?" he asked as he gathered up his cell phone and made for the door with me at his side. "Partially," I allowed. Then I shut up until we were in Pete's van. I didn't want to tell him what was up until we were alone. I did want to tell him, though. Pete knew a lot of people in the Mendoza area. If the Gang of Four couldn't locate whoever was trying to frighten us, Pete might be of some help. Once in Pete's specially equipped van on the way to the restaurant, I told him of the messages the Gang of Four had received. We were just pulling into the parking lot when he asked, "Okay, so why is she after you guys?" None of us had ever mentioned to anyone - even Pete - what had happened that night at Goose Hollow. Reluctantly, I told him everything that had happened as we sat there in the van. I admit I was fearful of what Pete would think of me after he heard my story. He was silent at first, as if trying to think of what to say. At last he said softly, "Dan, tell me the truth. If you had that evening to live over again, what would you do?" "I'd blow the whistle on Lance," I said after a moment's thought. I meant it, too. Sure, Lance had been a good friend, but maturity had taught me that rape was nothing to defend. I would have given anything to relive the incident at Goose Hollow and make things right. "What if the other guys tried to talk you out of it?" "I don't think they would," I replied honestly. "I think they've had second thoughts as well." Pete frowned skeptically. "Why do you say that? Have they mentioned that to you?" "Not in so many words," I admitted uneasily. "But notice none of us have gotten married." "What does that have to do with it?" Pete wanted to know. "Look, I can't speak absolutely for the others, but think about it. None of us have married. Hell, none of us have even had serious relationships," I pointed out. "And you're saying that's because of remorse?" Pete scoffed. I pressed on. "That's exactly what I'm saying. Look, Pete, it seems as if whenever I'm starting to get serious about a girl, I remember that night. I remember the look on Joyce's face - the fear and the pain. I start thinking I'm no better than Lance for not turning him in. Hell, Pete, I haven't even had a drink since that night. I keep thinking if my head had been on straight, I would have never given an initial statement to the police that exonerated Lance." "Exonerated, eh?" Pete chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you're a lawyer all right." "I just wish I'd had the chance to apologize to Joyce," I added. "You know, I'm not sure I even remember this Joyce Hamilton," Pete said when I finished. "I'm not surprised," I told him. "She started school here the beginning of our senior year. She had only been here a couple of months when you had your accident. Her father taught over at the college." "Not Chester Hamilton?" Pete asked. I shook my head. "I don't know what her father's name was." "I'll bet that's who he was." "So who is Chester Hamilton?" "I'll tell you at lunch," Pete said. "I'm starving." Chester Hamilton, it turned out, went on to teach Ancient History at San Francisco State until his death nearly a year ago. He was one of the foremost authorities on Roman history and had written several books on various aspects of ancient Rome. I, of course, had never heard of any of them, but Pete was quite excited to know that the famous man had once lived in his town and taught for a forgettably short time at his college. Apparently his short stint at Mendoza was not normally included in his biography. Considering the circumstances, I could understand why. "He wrote a fantastic book on the Roman military cults," Pete told me. "Military cults?" I was never much of a history fan, but the phrase caught my interest. After all, Joyce was associated with magic, and weren't magical practitioners often gathered in cults? "Yeah. Rome was famous for its cults, and the military was particularly big on them. They were particularly popular once Rome started losing its grip on its empire. A Roman legion would start casting about for a god who they believed could help them regain their past glories." "You mean like Jupiter or Mars?" I prompted. Pete nodded. "Yeah, sometimes it was the traditional gods, but usually it was some minor deity - one most of us have never heard of. It might even be a regional god, say one worshiped by the very people who had just trounced the legion's ass." "I thought the Romans had plenty of gods without looking for someone else's," I commented as I took a bite of my burger. Pete smiled. "That was the problem. Romans were always co-opting someone else's gods. If you think about it, their own pantheon consisted of gods who were more Greek than Italian. The Etruscans had plenty of gods of their own, as did all the other Italian tribes. At one time or another, all were worshiped in Rome or the Empire. It was even in style for them to worship Egyptian gods in some places. Most of the regional gods we don't know anything about - except maybe their names." "Maybe that explains his daughter's interest in magic," I said. I told him about Joyce's job selling feminist and magic trinkets. "Could be," Pete agreed. Then he grinned. "So you think these e-mails are magical messages from the dead?" "I don't know what to think," I admitted. And I didn't. But someone had written the messages to us, and if it wasn't Joyce, it had to be someone who knew what had happened a decade ago. My personal money would have been that Joyce had confided in one of her friends and that friend was now out to profit from her story. I half expected one or all of us would shortly receive a blackmail note. "I'll check around and see if there's anyone at the college who maintained contacts with the Hamiltons," Pete offered once we were back in the parking lot outside his office. "I'll let you know at the reunion if I find out anything." I nodded. "Good, I'm glad you'll be there." Pete had technically not graduated with us. He had finished his high school work from a hospital room while undergoing physical therapy. Still, his picture was in our yearbook as a graduating senior, and as popular as Pete had been in school, there wasn't one of our classmates who wasn't happy to see him considered part of the Class of '92. "I'll just be there for the final banquet on Saturday," he clarified. "I'll have to miss the other parties this week." He didn't tell me why but I could imagine the reason. Pete looked tired just from our lunch excursion. His crippled body was starting to fail him even more. I hoped Pete enjoyed our tenth reunion, because I had serious doubts that he would be around for the twentieth. Still, he managed a hardy waive as his wheelchair whirred away. I found myself wondering not for the first time what would have happened if Pete had never been in the accident and had been with us that night in Goose Hollow. Pete was a real straight arrow, and I think he would have convinced all of us to do the right thing on the spot, no matter how much we had had to drink. For a moment, I almost found myself blaming Pete for not being there that night to help us. But that was stupid, I realized. Any of us could have made the difference and persuaded the others to tell the truth. We had allowed an egotistical bastard to get away with rape. Then we had gone on to prosper while Joyce Hamilton had to leave town in disgrace, eventually falling into prostitution and death. Hadn't I read somewhere that rape victims sometimes had their self-esteem damaged so badly that they turned to prostitution? Had we been responsible for that with Joyce? When I got back to my motel, there was a message in my voice mail. It was Lance, inviting me to a meeting before his party that evening. "I've invited Steve and Terry as well," Lance's recorded voice calmly reported. "Be here at six and we'll figure out what to do about Joyce Hamilton." The message was short and to the point. That was Lance all right. He had always been forceful. His message left no doubt that I would be there at the appointed time. Lance expected everyone to do exactly what he told them to do. The hell of it was, we generally did it. I guess that made us weak, but every group has a leader. After Pete was injured, Lance was our leader. I knew I'd be at his house at six even if there hadn't been a crisis because Lance told me to be there. And Lance knew it, too. I looked at my watch. It was already two, but I had still had time to check in with Steve and take a little look around town. I called the Martinez residence; Mrs. Martinez answered the phone with the correct tones of the English teacher she had once been. "Hi," I said brightly. "This is Dan Jerome." "Dan?" she replied as if she was having trouble remembering me. "Oh sure, Dan. I remember you. You played football with our son and dated Lucia for a while." Well, at least she had the part about playing football with her son right, but who the hell was Lucia? "Mrs. Martinez, is Steve there?" She then uttered the three words that would be forever burned in my mind. "Who is Steve?" I could have replied, "Why your son - Steve," but something made me clam up. She had said something about playing football with her son - as if there was only one. Steve had a younger brother who played football with us as well. I suppose it was just the way she asked me who Steve was that made me stop. It was obvious she had no idea who Steve was. Frantically I thought to recover. "I'm sorry, I meant Manny," I said, recalling the name of Steve's younger brother. "Manny?" she laughed. "Oh no, he lives in Fresno now with his wife." This was getting me nowhere fast. What was the other name she had mentioned? Lucy? No - Lucia. "Uh, how about Lucia? Is she there?" "Oh I thought you knew," Mrs. Martinez replied uneasily. "Lucia is married. She married Ricardo Alvarez. In fact, weren't you at the wedding?" I remembered Ricardo Alvarez, and yes, I had been at his wedding. But Ricardo had married Peggy Munoz, another classmate of ours. As I remembered, they had gotten a divorce maybe five years ago. I didn't recall that he had remarried at all. I thanked her after an uncomfortable moment of stunned silence and hung up. Had I gotten the wrong Martinez residence? No, I knew Steve's home number as well as I knew my own. We had been friends for so long that I was unlikely to ever forget the number. Besides, she knew who I was talking about when I mentioned Manny. So why didn't she remember Steve? Alzheimer's perhaps? Yes, that was probably it. Steve hadn't mentioned it, but we didn't see each other anymore and he had probably forgotten to tell me about his mother's condition. See, I told myself, there's a logical explanation for everything. Besides, I'd see Steve in a few hours at Lance's house. Lance Marshall's home was as opulent as I remembered it. As I recall, his parents had brought in an architect and a design firm from San Francisco who were directed to build a home that would not have been out of place in the more expensive sections of Marin County. Since I had been to my boss's home across the Golden Gate in Marin County on a couple of occasions, I would have to admit that the Marshalls got their money's worth. The home was a large sprawling ranch complete with artistic stucco and red Spanish roof tile. In the late afternoon sun, the golden glow off the white stucco coupled with the sparkling water from the two fountains near the entryway made the house look like the hacienda of some old-time Spanish nobleman. There were several panel trucks parked near the entrance, and white- coated employees of a catering firm rushed platters of succulent appetizers and tempting pastries into the house. Rather than knock, I just followed them in and back out to the pool where Lance was busily directing them as to where to set up their tables. "Dan!" a voice called out from one side. I looked over and saw Terry standing there, a snifter of brandy in his hand. He hadn't changed much. He was still sporting a toned body that showed he was continuing to work out. His blond hair was carefully styled, and in his chinos and polo shirt, he looked more like a young Hollywood actor than a businessman. Of course, since his business in Los Angeles involved creating financing packages for movies through limited partnerships, looking like a young actor was probably not a handicap. Besides, he had actually gotten his start performing in a soap opera for a year or so. Terry had always been vain about his appearance when I had known him. Obviously, he still was. "Good to see you, Dan," Terry said, shifting his brandy to his left hand so he could shake hands with me. The smile on his face looked genuine, and I could see from the way he carried himself that the air of confidence he exuded probably went a long ways toward separating Hollywood investors from their investment capital. "Good to see you, too," I replied, shaking Terry's hand. Under other circumstances, I might have meant it. Terry was an easy person to like, and even with our shared secrets at Goose Hollow, it was hard to resist his charm. It's just that we had gone in such different directions that I had little in common with him now. "So where is Steve?" another voice called out. "I thought he'd be coming over with you." Lance Marshall strode into the room like royalty, a bevy of caterers and decorators in his regal wake. The ten years since high school had done nothing to erode his appearance. Dressed in a polo shirt and dark trousers with a razor-sharp crease, his blond hair and blue eyes would have been enough to set some girls into a swoon. He, too, was smiling, but his smile was no more genuine than it had been the night he told the police that he had done nothing untoward with Joyce Hamilton. "Good to see you, Dan," he said smoothly, but no hand was offered. It was just as well; I would have hated to have to kiss his ring. "How about a drink? The brandy is excellent." "Thanks, but no," I declined. I didn't want to tell him I no longer drank thanks in large part to the events at Goose Hollow. It would have probably pleased him to think that he had such an influence over my life, and he would find it humorous to think that I had to discipline myself so severely. Lance would never have denied himself any pleasure. "So where is Steve?" Terry asked as we allowed ourselves to be ushered into a large, open study where we seated ourselves in comfortable leather chairs, which probably cost as much as I made in a month. "I don't know," I replied. "I called his house earlier, but his mother acted as if she had never heard of him." "She's been that way since her stroke," Lance sighed, seating himself in another of the leather chairs. I nodded, a little relieved. "I thought it must be something like that." "I talked to Steve earlier today," Lance explained. "He assured me he'd be here this evening. I had hoped he be here early enough to discuss what to do about Joyce." "Joyce is dead," I said bluntly. Terry nearly dropped his snifter, but Lance merely looked at me with narrowed eyes. "How can you be so sure?" Briefly I explained the report the detective had given me, leaving out nothing. When I finished, Terry was the first to speak. "But if she's dead, who sent us the e-mails?" "And why?" Lance added. I shook my head. "I don't know. I've been trying to come up with some reasonable motive, but I admit I have no idea. According to the detective, she had no close friends and her parents are dead." "Brothers? Sisters?" Lance prodded. "No, she was an only child. The only thing I can think of is that she told someone - maybe a rape counselor or a doctor - and that individual is blackmailing us." "But there's no note, is there?" Terry asked. "I just checked my e-mail before I came over here and there was nothing to indicate a blackmailer." "I checked mine, too," Lance told us. "There was nothing there. I would think, given my wealth, that I would be the first one a blackmailer would contact." Also the one responsible for our situation, I thought, but I didn't say so. "I checked mine, too. There was nothing." "Then we may be exposed this very evening," Terry suggested nervously. "That shouldn't bother you," Lance snorted. "In Hollywood, a scandal would probably enhance your reputation." "Maybe if I was an actor," Terry allowed, taking a belt rather than a sip of the brandy. "I'm on the money side of the business now. Money runs at the hint of scandal. Especially these days, even in Hollywood." "I doubt if we'll be exposed this evening," I told them. Both gave me a curious look, so I continued, "Most of our classmates won't be in town until later in the week. Some, like Pete, only plan to attend the final banquet on Saturday. Whoever is doing this will want the biggest audience possible. I think we're safe until then." Lance considered what I had said while tapping his long fingers on the arm of the chair. "I think perhaps you're right, Dan. Besides, the longer this person takes to expose us, the longer we have to sweat. He or she will probably like that." The doorbell rang suddenly and Lance glanced at his watch and rose from his chair. "It seems the first of our guests have arrived. We'll have to continue this conversation later." It should have been an entertaining evening. Old classmates and their significant others made their entrances - some apprehensively and others with the feigned grandeur of royalty at a grand ball. Lance had specified casual, but a few of the women had dolled themselves up to try to make the guys in the class wish they hadn't ignored them in school. Of course, the guys were no better. If all the sucked-in paunches had been relaxed at the same moment, there would have been enough wind to blow over the punch bowl. Some of the men - and even a couple of the women - tried to impress upon their classmates that they had enjoyed great financial success since school, confidently declaring why they had chosen to buy a Lexus or a BMW instead of an inferior American car. Of course, their bragging quieted down whenever Lance was near. It was obvious from the house Lance had and the party he had sprung for that Lance could have bought and sold any ten of them without disturbing anything beyond petty cash. Still, I had to admit Lance was a gracious host. It was hard to imagine that he was the same man who had raped a classmate ten years before. In spite of everything, I couldn't really relax. As the party swung on, there was no sign of Steve. I was beginning to have a bad feeling about that. It wasn't like Steve to be so late, and I couldn't think of anything that might cause his tardiness. But what if he had discovered our would-be extortionist? What if he or she had... No, surely not. It wasn't worth killing anyone, was it? Besides, you can't blackmail a dead man. But where was he? "Ricardo!" Half a dozen yelled out his name at once. I knew at once who they were yelling at. Ricardo Alvarez was one of the most popular guys in our class. A third-generation Latino, his grandfather had come up from Mexico in the fifties as an agricultural worker. Unlike most of his compadres, he managed to start a small grocery market where Mexican immigrants could buy foodstuffs they had grown up with. His wife made tortillas - flour and corn - in the store for sale, and according to the old-timers in Mendoza, they were incredible. His son had parlayed that sideline into a tortilla factory, shipping a mass-produced version of his mother's recipe all over the West Coast. I hadn't seen Ricardo since high school, but I knew he had been sent to study business back east as a prelude to joining his father in the business. But it wasn't Ricardo who caught my eye; it was the woman he was with. She was beautiful in an exotic sort of way. While Ricardo's features were a reflection of his Hispanic heritage, the woman he escorted was even more an example of Latino features. Her hair was long and straight and as black as a moonless night. Her skin was dark - obviously from a strong Indian heritage - but it was smooth and unblemished, from her slim arms and long legs to the swell of her breasts confined in a very, very tight mini dress of sparkling deep red. However, it was her eyes that were the most striking feature of her alluring face. They were, or course, a deep brown, and as they shifted nervously back and forth through the crowd, they seemed almost frightened. Where had Ricardo found such a prize? I wondered as he made his way slowly across the room where I stood mesmerized by his stunning escort. I took a sip of my punch (nonalcoholic, naturally) and casually made my way to the small group that had gathered around Ricardo and his girl. Ricardo turned toward me and recognized me at once. A wide smile crossed his face as he playfully punched me on the shoulder. "Dan! It's good to see you, my man." "You too, Ricardo," I replied, returning the punch, but my punch just bounced harmlessly off the muscle of his shoulder. His playful punch at me was probably going to leave a bruise. "Hey, you remember my wife..." "Uh..." I stammered as he pulled the attractive Latino around to face me. She gasped as she saw me, and her eyes fell suddenly to the floor as if in embarrassment. "Oh come on... you remember Lucia - Lucia Martinez? Of course it's Lucia Alvarez now. Manny's parents adopted her after her parents were killed in Central America. Come on, Lucia; don't be so shy. You remember Dan Jerome." So this was the girl I had supposedly known in high school and, according to Steve's mother, even dated. Yet I knew I had never seen her before in my life. "Hello... Lucia," I managed. Her head came up suddenly, as if she had been slapped. I could see tears glistening in her eyes. "Well, say hello, Lucia," Ricardo demanded, harshly to my ears. The girl flinched. "Say hello to my friend, Dan." "H... hello, Dan," she managed softly. She bit her lip, her dark skin around her mouth whitening with the self-inflicted pressure. "I... I am glad to be seeing you." Ricardo grinned. "You see, her English still isn't that good. But she can talk up a storm in Spanish with my old granny." He gave her a tight squeeze with a beefy arm, his hand coming all the way around her slender waist to playfully pinch a barely covered nipple. Then another member of our old football team came up to Ricardo and his attention was turned away for just a moment. Lucia mouthed something silently as her husband was distracted. "What?" I asked too softly for Ricardo to hear. "Help me..." she managed softly. "I'm... I'm..." I thought she was going to tell me that she was going to be ill. She seemed almost faint. Chivalrously, I went to her side, but she managed to remain standing. She even raised herself unsteadily on her high heels, and I could smell the flowery scent of her perfume and feel her warm breath at my ear. "I'm Steve," she whispered to me. "Hey, compadre, what are you doing with my wife?" Ricardo boomed cheerfully, pulling her away. He turned to introduce Lucia to our old teammate leaving me without a chance to answer him. It was just as well. There was no way I could have overcome my surprise enough to have uttered a single syllable. Her last glimpse of me before she was pulled away must have been one of a man in utter shock and disbelief. What was she saying to me? Was she trying to make me believe that Lucia Martinez - or rather Lucia Alvarez - was somehow Steve Martinez? No disguise could be that good. Lucia Alvarez was a woman through and through. What sort of a prank was she trying to pull? And why? I felt the touch of a hand on my arm. When I turned, I saw it was Lance. "Any sign of Steve?" he asked. I couldn't speak. I just shook my head. "Terry hasn't seen him either," Lance sighed. "You don't suppose someone was crazy enough to do something to him, do you?" "Lance," I began trying to quiet the quaver in my voice, "have you ever heard of Lucia Martinez - or Alvarez?" "No to both questions," Lance replied firmly, punctuating it with a belt of what appeared to be scotch. "Why?" "Steve's mother was trying to tell me something about her today." Lance shrugged. "I told you, ever since she had a stroke, Mrs. Martinez hasn't been quite right." I nodded in the direction of Ricardo and his wife. "She's Lucia." "What? Ricardo's date?" Lance scoffed. "Not his date, Lance," I clarified. "She's his wife." "You're crazy," he told me with a shake of his head. "Ricardo isn't married. He's divorced and never remarried. I'd know if he did." "Well he thinks he is. And he thinks that little enchilada on his arm is Lucia nee Martinez Alvarez." Lance just stared at me. "And to make it more interesting," I continued, "Lucia claims to be Steve." "What!" It was my turn to put a hand on Lance's arm. "Jeez, not so loud. That's what she just told me." Lance gave an appreciative stare at Ricardo's wife. "Well if that's Steve, he should give up politics and become a female impersonator." I didn't contradict Lance. "I'm going over there and talk to her," Lance told me. Without waiting for a reply, he strode over to where Ricardo and his mysterious wife were standing. I watched from a distance as he spoke with the couple. I assumed he was trying to get a word with Lucia alone, but when a man like Lance Marshall homes in on a woman, I realized her husband would be wise to stay at her side. That was just what Ricardo did. "Who's the mujer?" Terry asked me, using the Spanish word for woman as he stepped up to my side. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." "Try me." So as we continued to observe Lance's futile attempt to cut Lucia away from Ricardo, I explained what I knew. "If that's Steve Martinez, I'm Anna Nicole Smith," Terry scoffed. As we watched, it became obvious that Lance had struck out. Ricardo wrapped a large arm around his wife and loudly protested that he had to be at work early in the morning. With that, he whisked her out of the room with a cheery waive to his remaining classmates. Lance joined us again and the three of us retreated to his study wordlessly. "She wouldn't say anything with Ricardo there," Lance told us in private. "But something is bothering her. I could see it in her eyes. She wanted to talk to me, but there just wasn't an opportunity." "You don't really think she's Steve in drag, do you, Lance" Terry wanted to know as he sank into one of the leather chairs. Lance sat on the desk and shook his head, laughing, "Obviously not. I said I didn't get a chance to talk to her, but I had a good enough look down the front of her dress to know those puppies weren't plastic." I sat in one of the other chairs, facing my two classmates. "But there's still the question of where Steve is," I pointed out. Terry looked at me with surprise. "You don't really think that little Latin number is Steve, do you?" "Of course not," I was quick to reply. "But I'll ask again: where is Steve?" "He probably had something come up in Sacramento or San Francisco," Lance theorized. "You know how politicians are." "Steve wouldn't do that without leaving word," I pointed out. "Besides, I keep thinking about what his mother said." Lance shook his head. "I told you to discount anything she said. Ever since her stroke, she hasn't been quite right in the head." "Okay," I agreed, "but she mentioned Lucia as if she was a daughter or something." "She couldn't be Steve's sister," Terry argued. "The Martinez family is pure Spanish. Ricardo's wife looks more Indian than anything else." I shook my head. "She's adopted, according to Ricardo." I turned to Lance. "And as for your comments about Mrs. Martinez and her stroke, I don't believe Ricardo has had a stroke and he thinks his wife is the adopted daughter of the Martinez family. Also, I didn't see anyone else at the reunion who thought there was anything odd about his wife." Lance's eyes narrowed, "Just what are you trying to say, buddy? Are you trying to make us believe that Steve has been magically transformed into Little Latin Lupe Lou?" Terry snickered at Lance's joke, but I wasn't laughing. "I don't know how to explain it," I admitted. "But in less someone is playing an elaborate joke on us, I do know Steve has disappeared and a woman only the three of us don't seem to remember claims to be him." "Maybe you're right," Lance said slowly. "Maybe this is a joke." "If it is, it isn't funny," Terry observed. Lance put a hand on Terry's arm. "No, listen, pal. If anybody could pull off a stunt like this it's Steve. He and Ricardo were good friends, and it was his mother who told you about Lucia." "That's right!" Terry agreed, his face brightening. "That must be it." I saw no purpose in arguing with them. They were determined to come up with some reasonable explanation for what we had seen. I couldn't blame them, I thought. But it just didn't seem plausible to me. Steve wasn't a prankster, even though I had to admit he was smart enough to pull off a major stunt just as Lance had suggested. And what else made sense? Magic? Divine retribution? Vengeance from beyond the grave? All I knew as I drove back to my motel was that Joyce Hamilton was dead and buried. That made her the only person in the entire sordid mess who couldn't be involved in whatever was happening. Everyone else was a suspect. But who could it be and what was their game? And where was Steve? I certainly wasn't ready to believe that Ricardo's lovely wife was really Steve. But who was she and why was she claiming to be my friend? Exhausted I threw open the door to my motel room ready to fall completely clothed onto the bed, but then I spied my laptop. I should at least check my e-mails, I thought. I don't think I imagined there would