“Well, what do you know?” she whispered.

“It’s working.”

“Working very well, so far.”

“I was worried about this, Katy.”

“I was, too. Guess what?”

“I give up.”

“We had that wild little LSD thingy on the fourteenth? Well, I was supposed to start on the twenty-first, the day you left for Mexico. I waited a few days ’cause of all the worry but snuck off to Doc Blair yesterday. He put a hurry-up on it for us. Nurse called while you were at Roger’s.”

“Kate, really?”

“Really, Nick. Another bellowing, wailing, screaming, deafening, beautiful little person.”

34

THAT EVENING ANDY STOOD off Laguna Canyon Road snapping pictures of the convertible and the huge tree. Convertible crushed like a stepped-on beer can. Tree trunk with just a gouge where the little car had accordioned into it, then sloughed off.

Based on early measurements and a witness who said that the Triumph driver never used his brakes, a CHP officer estimated the impact speed at almost one hundred miles an hour.

Andy had been less than five miles away, headed for the family home in Tustin, when the call came over the police band radio in his Corvair.

It wasn’t until he brandished his press pass and eased closer to the body that he recognized the driver. Two sheriff’s deputies were lowering him from the car to the stretcher. It looked to Andy as if every bone in Howard Langton’s once magnificent body had been mashed to dust. Langton was flimsy and doll-like, only his clothes seeming to hold him together. He wore the same varsity jacket he’d worn to the jail the day before and in Andy’s picture on the front page of the Journal that morning. Yellow leather arms drenched red now. An almost empty quart of vodka clinked into the dirt after him.

“I caused this,” said Andy.

“Out of the way, Becker.”

“I caused this.”

“Right. Out of the way.”

Andy watched them carry Langton past him and slide him into the coroner’s van. Wind howling in the eucalyptus. A big red branch ripped away and crashed through the flashing silver leaves. Police radios crackled with news of fresh disaster elsewhere and scores of cars idled in the traffic jam. All eyes bolted to the catastrophe.

Andy found a place down by the lagoon. Sat down on the trunk of a fallen willow and cried.

35

ON SUNDAY two of the major county dailies intimated that Howard Langton had killed Adrian Stalling in a lovers’ quarrel, then driven his car with suicidal intent as the law closed in around him.

David read them at sunrise with an outraged sadness for his friend and disgust for the papers. Howard now a fag and a killer and a suicide.

Only Andy’s Journal gave him half a chance. His article suggested that, based on an exclusive interview with Langton, he hadn’t killed Stalling. Andy said that the Boom Boom witness could have been mistaken because witnesses faced with lineups often were. Or that Langton could in fact have been seen “running” from the Boom Boom that night for reasons unrelated to the killing. After all, no one had seen the murder. Andy suggested that Langton was suicidal because he was homosexual and was about to be exposed.

David sat at his kitchen table. Wendy beside him, with her usual observant quiet. She was an early riser like David, fond of silence and sunrise. The windows faced east and the morning sun spangled the walls with light. He closed his eyes and said another long prayer. Not for a miracle this time. Only for the proper words.

Two and a half hours later David took the pulpit looking gaunt but somehow vigorous. Thin and durable as a whip.

He talked about his friendship with Howard, beginning way back in high school. Talked about Howard’s ferocious drive to win. His good sportsmanship. Remembered Howard sticking up for a new kid being picked on. Talked about going their separate ways after high school. Then renewing their friendship when Howard began attending the Grove Drive-In Church. David told of the youth group volunteer work Howard did. Told of the help Howard and Linda Langton had offered to Janelle Vonn. How Howard never had to be asked. He just saw what was needed and did it.

David stepped back from his pulpit. Bowed his head. Whitbrend’s move. He saw that many of the congregation bowed their heads, too, but David didn’t pray. Instead he stepped back up and sighed very loudly. The microphone picked up the alien sound. The speakers amplified it throughout the chapel. When David spoke again his voice was soft but clear.

“I will not let you remember Howard as a murderer,” he said. “Let me tell you what happened that night at the Boom Boom Bungalow. I know because I was there with Howard.”

A moan of anxious revelation rose from the congregation. Then silence descended through it like a window slammed shut.

David looked out at his worshipers. Picked out special faces. Andy fifth row with his notebook already out and his mouth half open in disbelief. Max and Monika blank-faced and frozen, like defendants braced for the verdict. Nick and Katy with the three children between them. Nick’s expression said that he had just misheard something and was ready for the correction. Katy had apparently missed it altogether, still scuffling with Katherine over a tithing envelope. Darren Whitbrend sat with his wife first row, Darren trim in his white robes and plainly flummoxed. David had told him before the service that Darren was free to join the people who would abandon the Grove Drive-In Church of God this morning. Darren had said he would never abandon David or the Grove. Said it uncertainly. Then twice more, with more emphasis, like he was talking himself into believing it. Denied it three times. From habit, David looked down at second row right, but Barbara had decided it would be best for everyone if she and the children missed this service.

Dear God, help me move my lips.

“We got takeout food from Pepito’s,” he said. “The three of us had eaten together before, several times, and we liked the Mexican food. Back in Janelle’s cottage we prayed in thanks and ate. We drank wine. Around eight Janelle left with a friend of hers named Cory Bonnett.”

A firm murmur of recognition rippled through the audience, then ended.

Dear God, help me tell my truth.

“Howard and I stayed at Janelle’s cottage for a couple of hours. Then we drove to the Boom Boom Bungalow to retrieve Howard’s varsity jacket. He had left it there a week earlier and wanted to get it back.”

“My God,” someone said.

David felt something in him die as a family of five rose and made their way to an aisle. He wanted to chase them down. Make them sit and listen and understand. Make them forgive.

He heard the faint sound of car engines starting up outside.

“I drove Howard’s convertible sports car to the Boom Boom Bungalow because he had had too much wine. I double-parked on Coast Highway by the entrance to the bar and lobby and waited with the passenger door open.”

“The hell with you!” someone shouted.

A mass grumble rose. For a moment David thought the protest was against the shouter.

But a family of six walked out.

Then two elderly couples.

And a family of four.

Tires screeched outside, rubber smoking on the sky blue asphalt.

The grumble stopped. A silence of anticipation, David thought. He heard the intake of his breath from the speakers.

“Less than one minute later,” he said, “Howard came back. He trotted. He didn’t run. The varsity jacket was over his shoulder. He was smiling. He had no time to kill someone. No reason to kill someone. He had never met Adrian Stalling. He had retrieved a jacket from the manager of the motel and come back to the car. That is all. Later I drove him back to Janelle’s house and he was able to drive himself home. Howard Langton hurt no one. Do not remember him as a murderer. He was a gentle man who was born with certain faults and talents. As we all are.”