double up on his stock purchases in order to make the money back before anybody found out. When that attempt failed, the Laney Trust was left holding the bag-an empty bag. -

He stopped at last, exhausted. I pulled the mask over his face again. He lay there, eyes closed, pulling in each breath as if there wouldn't be another. Tom sat in a chair on the other side of the bed, his face buried in his hands.

I turned to Tom. "Why didn't he just let Sadie tell and be done with it?" I asked. "A lot of people-experienced investors, big-time brokers-have lost their shirts in derivatives. Your father was the foundation's legally designated fiduciary officer. Unless it could be proved that he intended fraud, neither the board nor the order had any recourse against him, or against the bank. Even if he'd been brought to trial, he probably wouldn't have been convicted."

Not in this county, anyway, where the bank, like the company store, had a hand in the pocket of every prospective juror. A good defense lawyer would have convinced everybody that Mr. Rowan had done what he did to save the bank, the town, and the county from financial disaster. Anyway, the junior official in Singapore only got six years. Even if the county attorney had managed to wring a conviction out of the jury, Mr. Rowan's sentence would have been probated on account of age and physical condition.

Tom didn't answer, and I couldn't tell whether he had heard me. A nurse came in to check the respirator and the electrical apparatus, and left again. After a moment, the old man's eyes opened. He signaled me to remove the mask.

"Why didn't I let Sadie spill it?" he asked hoarsely. "Because all I needed was time. Just a few weeks, a couple of months at the most. I could've turned the situation around."

Tom's head came up swiftly. "I told you, Dad. There's nothing left to leverage."

"When did you find out about all this?" I asked Tom Junior.

"Last night, after Sadie told him what she planned to do. We were up half the night talking about it. I told him I'd take care of it, although I wasn't sure what that meant." He closed his eyes, numb and defeated. "Honest to God, China. I never figured he'd go out there to see her."

The old man's face seemed even grayer as he gasped out die words. "It was worth a shot, wasn't it? Sadie has… had a lot of respect for you, Tom. I figgered she'd hold off if she knew you were takin' over. I told her you'd make sure the foundation got its money."

"That's a lie, Pop." Tom shook his head sadly. "You've got to face it: Jesus Christ himself couldn't bring that money back."

The old man ignored him. "I told her to just sit tight. I told her you'd fix it so nobody'd know diddly. But she wouldn't listen." His frail voice soured. "Truth is, she was happy as a hog in mud that the money was gone. She didn't want it back. Can you b'lieve it? She was glad it was gone." He was shaken by a fit of coughing, and when it was over, he pulled at the mask like a drowning diver.

"Glad?" Tom asked dryly. "That's hard to believe."

I believed it. Sure, the deed restrictions tied up the land. But for all Sadie knew, an aggressive, hard-nosed church lawyer might get those restrictions set aside. With the trust fund depleted, however, there wouldn't be a nickel to build a retreat center or a golf course or a tennis court. St. Theresa's eight hundred acres would stay exactly as Helen Laney had wished, and the nuns would go on as they were, contemplatively growing garlic.

"So it wasn't you she was after," I said to Mr. Rowan, "or even the bank. It was the order all along."

"Yeah, but it wouldn't have stopped there. Once she started talking, it'd have been like a tornado through a tomato patch. The bank would' ve gone, and once the bank went, the town would have dried up too."

His voice trailed off. He was running out of steam. "So what happened?" I prompted gently.

"The more she held out, the madder I got," he said. "She went out to the barn to feed her horse, and I followed her, still arguin'. I finally just… lost it. There was a mattock leanin' against the wall. I grabbed it and swung. She went down like a sack of corn and I hit her again."

Across the bed, Tom groaned.

The old man turned his face away. "Go look under the hay bales at the north end of the barn. That's where I hid the mattock."

Tom looked at me, his face a mask of desperation. "What are we going to do?"

The old man roused himself. "I'll tell you what we're goin' to do," he said with unexpected clarity.

Tom looked down. "Oh, yeah? You got some more bright ideas, Pop?"

His father snorted. "You bet. See that switch?" He gestured with his eyes at the humming electrical equipment. "I can't reach it. You're goin' to flip it for me."

"You're crazy," Tom said. "I can't do that!"

"Sure you can," his father replied. "You can turn it back on again when I'm gone. Who do you think is goin' to know? Doc Townsend?" He grunted. "That turkey is dumb as a dodo bird. Dumb as a box of rocks."

Tom's mouth hardened. "If you think I'm going to help you kill yourself, you've got another think coming."

The old man lifted a trembling hand, his voice wispy, failing. "You want me to beg, son? Well, I'm beggin'."

"Forget it," Tom said. "There's no way-"

"Look at me, boy," the old man whispered desperately. "I can't go on livin' like this, tied to a bed. I'm beggin', damn it!"

This was between father and son. I went out into the hall.

A half-hour later, Tom came out of the room, red-eyed. "It's over," he said. He sagged against the wall. "People have the right to choose how they want to die."

"Sadie didn't."

There was a silence. After a minute, I said, "Did you mnk your dad might still be there when we drove over to sbe ranch this morning?"

He shook his head. "I left home before seven. I thought I'd talked him out of going to see her. But when she didn't show up, I knew the old man had out-foxed me." He pushed himself away from the wall. "I guess I'd better go ■Ear to the sheriff's office. This isn't the kind of thing I can tell Stu Walters over the phone."

"'Why tell him anything?"

He looked at me. "Because Sadie's dead. My father killed her. And then he committed suicide, with my help. Or I killed him, if that's how the county attorney wants to look at it."

I shook my head. "Sadie was kicked in the head by a horse. Her death certificate says so."

His eyes were large and staring. "You're kidding."

"It's Doctor Townsend's expert opinion," I said, "ratified by the local JP." I shook my head. The old man was right. Dumb as a box of rocks.

"You knew that, and you let Dad commit-"

"People have the right to choose how they want to die," I said again. ' 'What would you have chosen for him? That he drag out his dying for another month? Maybe even two or three?"

"Oh, Jesus, China," he whispered, agonized, and reached for me. He pulled me against him, burying his face blindly in my shoulder, weeping for his father. I wept, too, but my tears were for Sadie.

After a moment I pushed Tom away and stepped back. "What do you know about your father's will?" I asked.

' 'His will?'' He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm his sole heir, I suppose. Why?"

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cross, the only evidence that Tom Rowan, Senior, had been with Sadie Marsh that morning. "This belongs to you now," I said,

and put it in his hand. Sadie's death would be mourned, but not avenged.

But perhaps it had been. Her killer lay dead beyond the door. I figured she'd call it even.