She spoke in a whisper. "Just to Los Angeles 'til the new passport for Marty comes through, and then they're flying to South America." Her eyes filled with tears. "I might never see him again," she said. "And we were always so close. I can't turn him in. I can't betray him, don't you see?"

"You're trying to do what's best for him, Lily. He'll understand."

"It's been awful. It's been a nightmare. When you showed up, I thought he'd die of fright. He nearly had a heart attack and that's when she came back. She thinks you took Elaine's passport and she's furious at the delay. He's afraid of her. He's always been frightened by the fits she throws…"

"Of course he has. I'm afraid of her myself. She's nuts. Do they have the bags in the car with them?"

She was breaking down now, caving in. The notion of Leonard's desertion caused too much pain and the image of packed suitcases cracked her heart. It was all too much. What difference did any of it make now that he was leaving her? "They've gone off to pack," she said. Her voice came out in a gasp and her nose had started to run. "That's were they went. The motel out by the pass and then the house. They fought about it, but she wouldn't leave it behind, because it was evidence." "Leave what?" "The… uh… you know…" "The murder weapon?"

Lily nodded and nodded again. I didn't think she could stop. It was as if the cords in her neck had come loose and her head was destined to wag indefinitely. She looked like one of those bobble-head dogs people have perched up in the back windows of their cars.

"Lily, listen to me. I want you to call the police. Go to a neighbor's house and stay there until somebody comes. Do you understand? Come on. Do you need anything? A sweater, a handbag?" I wanted to scream at her to hurry, but I didn't dare.

She was looking at me with washed-out, worried blue eyes, her gaze as trusting as a dog's. I got her to her feet and flipped the TV off, and then bundled her out the front. I scanned the street, but there was no one in sight. I couldn't believe Leonard would let Marty hurt her, but we all knew who was in charge. In some ways I felt as if I was wasting time, but I had to make sure Lily Howe was safe. We went up to the first house that showed a light, a cedar-shingle place two doors down.

I rang the bell. Some man opened the door and I pushed her forward, explaining that there was trouble and she needed some help. I urged Lily to call the cops and then I left. I wasn't sure if she'd do it or not.

I got in my car and squealed out, burning rubber as I skidded around the corner two blocks down. I drove tensely, sliding through stop signs, bypassing traffic any way I could. I had to get to the house before they did. I got stuck at a light and used the time to paw through my glove compartment, looking for the flashlight. I pulled it out and checked the batteries. They seemed fine. The signal changed to green and I took off again.

Belatedly, I realized my gun was still locked in the file cabinet at the office. I nearly slammed the brakes on and went back for it, but I didn't have time. If they went to the motel first, packed, checked out, and loaded the car up, I might have time to get to the murder weapon before they did. If they beat me to the punch, I was going to head straight for Tillie's and call the police. I had no intention of taking on Marty Grice all by myself.

I could feel a big rush of adrenaline and my neurons fired up, completing a circuit with a joyous leap. An answer to an old question popped into my head and I suddenly knew how they'd maneuvered the stomach contents. Marty had stolen Elaine's kitchen trash. It wasn't any more complicated than that. The brown grocery bag Mike had seen in the hall was Elaine Boldt's garbage, containing the empty tuna can and the soup can that comprised her supper that night. Marty had had hours to set it up and I could visualize the scenario as though I had powers of clairvoyance. Leonard went out to dinner with Lily and Marty gave Elaine a call, inviting her over on some casual pretext. Elaine stopped by and at some point was bashed in the face until dead. Marty took the keys and went over to Elaine's as soon as it was dark. She retrieved the kitchen garbage and took it back to her house, leaving it in the hall for a minute while she went down to the basement for the kerosene. That's when Mike had appeared, opening the front door and closing it again when he realized that something was desperately wrong. Marty finished dousing the place with kerosene and sat back to wait for Leonard's prearranged call at nine, reporting by phone what Elaine had eaten so he could later mention it to the police. A tuna sandwich and tomato soup. Maybe Marty stuck the leftovers on her own refrigerator shelf so it would all tally up and look legitimate. Marty set the fire and then slipped over to Elaine's where she holed up in comfort until her flight to Florida the following Monday night. My guess was that she'd dyed her hair before she left and I suspected that the fine clump of gray-brown hair I'd seen in Elaine's bathroom wastebasket during my initial search was, in fact, additional evidence that Marty Grice had been there.

I reached the Grices' house and pulled up across the street, taking a moment to study the house and yard. In the darkness, the fire damage was hidden, but the place still exuded that aura of ruin and abandonment. There was no sign of the car out front. No lights anywhere in the house. No pedestrians on the street.

I left the keys in the ignition and got out of the car, leaving the door ajar. I wanted to be able to ease back in and take off without a lot of fumbling around, if it came to that. I opened the trunk and took out the tools I thought I'd need. As soon as I determined that nobody was coming, I crossed the street and cut through the Grices' side yard.

I moved quietly along the walk, surveying windows as I passed. Most of the windows at the front of the house had been broken out by the fire and boarded back up again, but there were two near the back of the house that were still intact. I chose one and jimmied it open. It was pitch-black, and the neighborhood was quiet except for crickets chirring in the grass. I knew I should give myself an escape route, but I couldn't take the chance. If the two of them showed up, they'd spot any open windows or doors. I'd just have to work fast and hope my guess about the murder weapon was correct. I didn't have time for mistakes.

I climbed into the kitchen and pulled the window shut. The floor crackled with broken glass as I passed through. My flashlight streaked across blackened doorframes, smoke-tinged walls, into a hallway dense with shadow. I held my breath, listening. The silence was flat, one-dimensional. The electricity was turned off and I missed the soft hum of machinery. No refrigerator, no furnace, no wall clock, no water heater ticking from the other room. Some vague phrase about the silence of the tomb came to mind, but I pushed it away.

I moved forward, startled as a shard of glass popped underfoot. Was someone moving around upstairs? I swung the light across the ceiling, half expecting footsteps to appear up there like visible dents. The imagination has primitive, cartoonlike qualities, as any child can testify. I moved again. There was some illumination farther on, a pale light spilling in from the house next door. I paused at the window that looked directly into the living room across the way. Mr. Snyder was watching a television show, images flickering silently. The only other window on this side of the house was a small one just off the kitchen near the rear. I had a theory now about the banging May Snyder heard that night and I was about to test it out. I glanced toward the room where she slept, but it was already dark. I wondered if that's what old age is about-sleeping longer and longer hours until one day you simply don't bother to wake.