Coach Starsky and his assistants were clustered by the Pierson bench. She didn't know how long before the sides retired. If there were hits or walks, it could go on for another twenty minutes. She waited, with her heart pounding, under a tree, thinking that she might suffer cardiac arrest if she didn't get Brett out of here.

The batter was walked, and she nearly screamed in frustration. The next batter took two balls then cracked the third high to center field. Thank God, it was caught.

While Brett trotted off the field, she approached Starsky, telling herself it had to be sure and quick.

Starsky, a guy in his late twenties, was barking batter lineup when he saw her. "He's having a great game." He nodded toward the Scoreboard. "Three of those runs have his name on them."

She tried to look delighted. "Look, Star, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take him out."

He looked at her in disbelief. "What?"

"It's a medical emergency. Roger. He's in the hospital." She began to choke up.

Starsky's face fell. "Oh, jeez, I'm sorry. Yeah, sure. Jeez, I hope he's going to be okay. Christ, he's so young."

Brett came over.

She took a deep breath knowing how rotten this was. "It's Dad. He's in the hospital. We have to go."

Instantly Brett's face darkened. "What's wrong with him? What happened?"

"I think he'll be okay, but we have to go."

Thankfully, Brett didn't protest. "Sorry," she said to Starsky.

"Jeez, good luck. Nice game, Brett."

Laura hustled him toward the parking lot. She could feel the eyes rake her. People were thinking that it had to be pretty bad to pull him out of a game. She hated herself for the sham. She hated depriving him of the glory. This was a high point in his young life. And in a few short hours the television would blare out the story that he had been pulled from the game because his parents were mass murderers disguised as just-plain-folk Laura and Roger Glover.

She led him to the Subaru. Brett was fighting tears and asking her for details. "In the car," she growled.

They were nearly at her car when a police cruiser pulled into the lot. Laura nearly started screaming. But it turned the other way. She fumbled in her handbag for the keys. Her hand was shaking so badly, she could barely get the key into the lock.

Suddenly the cruiser pulled directly behind the Subaru.

"Mom, whose car is this?" Brett asked loud enough for the cop to hear.

Goddamn you, Brett.

"Hey!" the cop shouted.

Laura froze. In the next minute their lives would change forever. Laura slipped her hand in the bag and gripped the gun, still not looking at the officer.

The cop called again, and Laura flicked the safety off. She knew she would shoot him dead if he tried to stop her. She knew that as sure as night followed day. It made no sense and somewhere down the road she'd wish she had exercised better judgment, sorry she hadn't settled on a less brutal alternative. But at the moment she was operating on pure mother-bear adrenaline, thinking only of saving her son from a life of foster homes.

"Mom, it's Mr. Brezek."

"You pulling out?"

Gene Brezek was the father of ace pitcher Brian, and Brett's good friend. Laura gasped a yes.

"I just got off duty," Brezek said. He still had his uniform on. "Who's winning?"

"Tie six-all," Brett said.

Brezek moved the cruiser so she could back out. "How come you're leaving?"

Laura was still fumbling with the key. "Not feeling well."

"Get a new car?"

She nearly said a rental, but caught herself. Rental cars all had coded license plates. "A friend's."

"Where's Roger?"

She opened the door without answering and let Brett in. In any second his radio would start squawking an all-points bulletin for their arrest.

"Hope you're feeling better," Brezek said, giving up on friendly chat.

She nodded and backed out, concentrating on not hitting anything or squealing away.

"Why did you say I wasn't feeling well?"

It was like Brett to pick up on a lie. They had made honesty a centerpiece in raising him. Trust is what kept families whole and healthy.

She pulled the car out of the grounds and took off up the road away from town.

"You lied to him, Mom."

"It was too much to get into. We've got to go."

"Mom, you're doing sixty. The sign said thirty-five."

They were on a residential road heading for the highway. She didn't know how long before the police showed and Brezek learned that she'd gotten away under his nose. Her only hope was that he didn't notice which way she headed from campus. She cut her speed.

"What's wrong with Dad?"

"Chest pains."

Another lie, but their lives were infested with them.

"Where is he?"

"In the hospital."

"Memorial's the other way."

"Another hospital."

"There are no other hospitals this way. You're heading for the Interstate."

"Minneapolis."

"Minneapolis? That's a hundred miles from here."

"He was on business there."

And another, she told herself. But at the moment survival was all that mattered, not truth. That might come later when she heard from Roger. If it turned out to be a false alarm, they could stall a few more years.

If it was the Awful-Awful, her son's life as he knew it was over.

The meeting was set for two P.M. Wally was on the highway by noon and heading for their rendezvous.

He had awakened that morning a little before nine with Sheila beside him. The real measure of attraction was gauged by how you felt about that person in the morning-before the mouthwash, shower, and brush worked their wonders.

And she had looked beautiful asleep-the small perfectly straight nose, long feathery eyebrows, a ridge of tiny freckles across her nose, full pale lips, shiny brown hair pooled on the pillow like liquid chocolate. He wanted to kiss her awake and make love again. But he felt out of phase. Maybe it was all the champagne they had drunk. And the fact he had gotten only five hours sleep. They had made love four times until Sheila fell asleep from exhaustion.

Wally stepped into the bathroom. He felt lousy and looked it. The bloom was missing from his face. His eyes were glassy and red. Maybe the alcohol. Maybe he needed the stabilizing shot.

After a long shower, he felt a little better and made coffee and breakfast. By the time he drove Sheila home, the slump was back. But he took refuge in recollections of the night. And what a night it had been.

They had driven to his new pied-à-terre high on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi. He had moved in three weeks ago after the furniture arrived, including a king-size bed and an elegant entertainment unit that housed a state-of-the-art sound system. For the occasion he had on ice a bottle of Grand Dame Veuve Clicquot.

It had started on the white leather couch in the dim light of the living room overlooking the boats on the river, and rapidly proceeded to the bed in the next room, leaving a Hansel-and-Gretl trail of clothing.

He could still see her sitting on the bed with her legs up to her chin, waiting for him to select a CD from the rack. And while he did, all Wally could think was Thank you, God. Thank you, God.

Sheila had jokingly suggested Ravel's Bolero as in the movie 10. Wally didn't have that, thinking that there was a time when "Old Man River" would have been his speed.

"Will you settle for 'The Sabre Dance'?"

"My God, what am I in for?"

Sheila's musical laugh still chimed in his heart.

This was heaven, he had told himself, and he put on some vintage Sinatra which seemed about right. Sheila agreed.

And somewhere in the middle of "In the Wee Hours of the Morning," she put her arms around Wally's neck, and he knew he had found forever.