Scotty had never fainted before, not even in the very worst moments of her life, but she was so frightened that very little acting was required. She simply placed a hand on her forehead, then crumpled in sections at Bo’s feet, falling across his path like an elongated sack of oranges.

Bo’s inexperience with fainting apparently matched Scotty’s, because he reacted as if she had taken an arrow in the chest. He shouted for help from Mike and Sally, swept her onto the sofa in his office, loosened a lot of her clothing, demanded a wet towel for her face, and generally dithered about like a white, male Butterfly McQueen. Scotty half expected him to call for boiling water.

She had time to reflect that she enjoyed the loosening of the clothing; then she stirred, moaned, and went into her routine. “What happened?” she asked, weakly.

“You passed out, sugar,” Bo replied, sponging at her face and ruining her eye makeup. He looked whiter than she did, she was sure.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Bo. I’ve been fasting for a couple of days to lose some weight. I guess I overdid it.” She cast an eye about for the mail. Somebody had put it on Bo’s desk.

“Well, Jesus Christ, Scotty, you’ve gotta eat something, you know. No wonder you’re so weak. Mike, run over to Bubba’s and get a cheeseburger with everything on it and a glass of milk.”

Scotty sat up. “What I really need is to go to the bathroom,” she said. There was a toilet at the back of Bo’s office. She aimed so as to pass as closely as possible to his desk.

“Are you sure you can make it?” Bo was still terribly concerned.

“Oh yeah, I think that was just temporary.” She turned her back to him to squeeze between him and the desk, pinched the letter, and held in in front of her as she walked toward the toilet. She closed the door, sat down on the John lid, and tore open the letter. It was there, a clear photocopy of enough to get her killed. She tore it into the smallest possible pieces and flushed it down the John, doing it twice and checking for pieces that didn’t make it.

When she came out of the toilet, Mike was waiting with the food, and Bo forced her to eat half of it on the spot.

“Come on,” he said, when he reckoned she had eaten all she would. “I’m going to take you home. You need some rest.”

Scotty went meekly with him. Her landlady was at work. The room looked odd to her, she had spent so little time there since meeting John Howell. Bo walked her up the stairs as if she were in the last stages of a difficult pregnancy.

“Really, Bo, I’m feeling great, now,” she said, showing him into her room. “The food is working. That was all it was, just too much fasting.”

“You ought to take better care of yourself,” Bo said, softly. He raised a hand and brushed at her hair. The hand stayed, resting on her cheek. He suddenly bent and kissed her, and Scotty met him halfway. They kissed again, then again. In moments, the action had escalated.

It was wild. There was much heavy breathing and tearing at clothes, then they were on the bed, locked together, moving, moaning, coming together. The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than three minutes, Scotty reflected, but she liked it, and so, apparently, did he. They had had this carnal curiosity about each other, and they had both enjoyed satisfying it.

“Christ, I want a cigarette,” Bo said. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t. I mean I haven’t for damn near ten years, but suddenly, I want a cigarette.”

“Some old reflex, I expect,” Scotty laughed.

Bo laughed, too. “Yeah, maybe.” He fingered the framed photograph on the bedside table. “Your folks?”

“Yes. My mother’s dead.”

“You don’t look like either one of them. Who do you look like? Grandparents?”

“Who knows? I was adopted.”

“Yeah? How old?”

“Brand new, I gather. A regular foundling.”

Bo was quiet for a moment. His face seemed filled with pity. “You mean you were left on their doorstep?”

“On the doorstep of the Georgia Baptist Children’s Home in Hapeville, in a cardboard box. My folks were already on the waiting list. I was theirs in a day or two.”

Bo started to get dressed. “Well, I gotta get back,” he said. “Lot to do.”

“Sure. Thanks for the day off.”

Bo stopped at the door but did not turn. “Scotty…” He seemed to be having trouble speaking.

“Yeah?”

“You think we could just… forget about this? Try and believe it never happened?”

“You’re worried about John.”

He waited a moment, then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Sure. It never happened.”

“Promise me you won’t ever tell anybody. Not John, not anybody. Not ever.”

Jesus, Scotty thought, he sounds like the girl. “Okay,” she said, “I promise.” And I sound like the guy.

“Thanks,” he said, and left.

Scotty got up and went to the window. She watched as he went down the walk. Before he got into the car, he put his elbows on top and rested his face in his hands. When he lifted his head again, she thought he looked crushed, shattered.

Bo and she were different generations, she thought, in more ways than one. She had never placed a whole lot of importance on sex; apparently he did. It was rather sweet, she thought, as he drove away.

Well, it finally happened, she thought, as she stretched out on the bed, though, from Bo’s reaction, it wouldn’t happen again. It had been nice, if a little rushed. She certainly felt no guilt about it; it was simply not in her nature to take sex that seriously. Then she remembered that Bo was not just a passing man, but the subject of her investigation, that she hoped to put him in jail. Now she felt not a moral guilt, but a professional one. She had always thought of herself as a pro, and now she had crossed a line that was supposed to separate her professional judgment from her personal feelings. She wondered if cops ever liked or pitied the criminals they tried to convict.

She would just damn well have to steel herself and do her job. She was tough enough to do that, she knew it. Some secret part of her, though, began to hope that her information about Bo was wrong.

22

Enda McCauliffe stood over Eric Sutherland and pointed. “Sign here, Mr. Sutherland, and then initial every page, please.” Sutherland signed, then McCauliffe and the two men from the bank witnessed the document.

“Stay a minute, Enda,” Sutherland said, waving the other two men out.

McCauliffe took a chair next to the desk. He felt odd being called “Enda”; everyone had called him “Mac” since he was a kid in the valley. Only Sutherland used his Christian name, and that was a recent event, since he had become McCauliffe’s client.

Sutherland looked a bit uncomfortable. “I just wanted to tell you how pleased I am with the way things have been going since you signed on,” he said.

“Well, thank you very much, Mr. Sutherland,” the lawyer said.

“Why don’t you call me ‘Eric,' “ Sutherland said. ”All my friends do.“

McCauliffe was taken aback. “I… well, you have to understand, you’ve always been Mr. Sutherland to me, all my life, and I don’t think I’d feel comfortable this late in the game…”

“All right, all right,” Sutherland said, resignedly. “I understand. In fact, the only person in town who calls me ‘Eric’ is Bo Scully, and I think he does it only because I insist.”

McCauliffe felt sorry for the man, something he had never thought would be possible. He had spent so much of his life feeling nothing but contempt for Sutherland that, even now, when he knew more about the man’s life and felt some real sympathy for him, he still had trouble pushing his old feelings aside.

“Enda,” said Sutherland, “tell me what you think of this John Howell fellow.”

“Well,” McCauliffe replied, “I like him. We’ve had a few lunches down at Bubba Brown’s. I think he’s bright; he certainly was a solid newspaper reporter in his day, although I thought his column wasn’t all that good the last few months he was doing it. To tell you the truth, he strikes me as being sort of unhappy in his personal life.”