"You're right," Bankston agreed. He gave her the golf club, and she swung it through the air experimentally while he searched his pockets. In her black slacks and green sweater and knotted scarf she looked ready to tee off at the country club. In that small area the club whistled past me with no room to spare, and I started to protest, when I realized yet again that Melanie absolutely could not care less. Old assumptions die hard. I saw a foot on the stairs behind them.

"Give me your scarf, Mel," Bankston said suddenly. Melanie unknotted it instantly. "This would be less messy, and I've never done it before," he observed cheerfully. They never looked at me or at Phillip, except in passing, and I could tell to them we were not people like they were. The foot was joined by a matching foot, and silently took another step down. "Maybe I should tape this," Melanie said brightly. "It won't be what we had planned, but it might be interesting."

The next step squeaked, and I screamed, "God damn you to hell! How can you do this to me? How can you do this to a little boy?" They were as shocked as though a chair had spoken. Melanie swung the club instantly with both hands. My body was covering Phillip's on the chair, but the blow was so strong the chair was rocked. It was easy to shriek as loud as a freight train. I saw the feet descend all the way in a rush. "Shut up, bitch!" Melanie said furiously.

"Naw, you shut up," a flat voice advised her.

It was old Mr. Crandall, and he was carrying a very large gun. The only sound in the basement was the sobbing coming from me, as I struggled to control myself. Phillip raised his bound wrists to loop his arms over my head. I wished more than ever that he'd faint.

"You're not going to shoot," Bankston said. "You old idiot. With this concrete floor, it'll ricochet and hit them."

"I'd rather shoot them directly than leave them to you," Mr. Crandall said simply.

"Which one of us will you shoot first?" Melanie asked furiously. She'd been sidling away from Bankston a little at a time. "You can't get us both, old man." "But I can," said Robin from higher on the stairs, and he wasn't nearly as calm as Mr. Crandall. I managed to look up. I saw Robin descending with a shotgun. "Now I don't know as much about guns as Mr. Crandall, but he loaded this for me, and if I point it and fire I am real sure I will hit something." If they tried anything desperate it would be now. I could feel the turmoil pouring from them. They looked at each other. I could only stare through a haze of pain at the green silk scarf in Bankston's hand. Oh, surely they must see it was over, over.

Suddenly the fight oozed out of them. They looked like what they used to be, for a moment; a bank loan officer and a secretary, who could not remember where they were or how they had come to be there. The scarf fell from Bankston's hand. Melanie lay down the golf club. They did not look at each other anymore. There was a gust of people noise, and Arthur and Lynn Liggett came pelting down the stairs to be stopped short by the tableau.

Phillip's breath came out from behind the gag in a deep sigh, and he fainted. It seemed like such a good idea that I did it, too.

Chapter 17

"If I'd had my Dynamite Man Particle Blaster they wouldn't have hurt us," Phillip whispered. He simply would not be parted from me while I was being patched up. He held on to my hand or my leg or my torso; though many kind people offered to take him and rock him, or buy him an ice cream cone, or color with him, my little brother would not be separated from me. This definitely made it harder on me, but I tried to have so much sympathy for Phillip that the pain would not seem important. I'm afraid I found that to me, pain is very important, no matter who else has been hurt.

Now he was actually in the hospital bed with me, huddling as close to me as he could get, his eyes still wide and staring, but beginning to glaze over. I thought he'd had some kind of mild tranquilizer; I thought I remembered saying that was okay. My father and stepmother were driving back from Chattanooga;

Robin, bless him, had found their phone number and called, miraculously catching them in their motel room.

"Phillip, if I hadn't had you to hold on to, I would have gone nuts," I assured him. "You were so brave. I know you were scared inside, like I was, but you were brave as a lion to hold yourself together."

"I was thinking about escaping all the time. I was just waiting for a chance," he informed me. There, he was beginning to sound more like Phillip. Then, less certainly, "Roe, would they really have killed us?" What was I supposed to say? I glanced over at Robin, who shrugged in an it's-up-to-you gesture. Why was I asking Robin what I should say to my little brother?

"Yes," I said, and took a deep breath. "Yes, they were really bad people. They were rotten apples. They were nice on the outside but full of worms on the inside."

"But they're locked up in jail now?"

"You bet." I thought about lawyers and bail and I shivered. Surely not? "They can't ever get you again. They can't ever hurt anybody again. They're far away and all locked up, and your mom and dad will carry you home even further away from them."

"When are they gonna get here?" he asked desolately. "Soon, soon, as fast as their car can come," I said as soothingly as I could, perhaps for the fiftieth time, and thank God at that moment my father did come in, Betty Jo right behind him and under rigid control. "Mama!" said Phillip, and all his hard-held toughness left him. He became an instant soggy puddle of little boy. Betty Jo swept him out of the hospital bed and into her arms and held him as tightly as he held her. "Where can I take him?" she asked the nurse who'd followed them in. The nurse told 4 her about an empty waiting room two doors down, and Betty Jo vanished with her precious armful. I was so glad to see Betty Jo take him I could have cried. There is no substitute for a real mother. At least I am no substitute for a real mother. The past few hours had certainly taught me that, if I'd ever doubted it. My father bent and kissed me. "I hear you saved his life," he said, and tears trickled down his face. I had never seen my father cry. "I am so thankful you are both safe, I prayed in the car all the way here. I could have lost both of you in one night." Overwhelmed, he sank into the guest chair Robin had quietly vacated. Robin stood back in the shadows, the dim room light glinting off his red hair. I would never forget how he'd looked with the shotgun in his hands. I was just too tired to appreciate my father's emotion. It was late, so late. I had almost been strangled by a bank loan officer with a green silk scarf. I had been hit by a secretary with a golf club. I had been terrified out of my mind for myself and my little brother. I had looked into the face of evil. Strong words, I told myself hazily, but true. The face of evil. Finally, my dear father dried his eyes, told me he'd see me very soon, and said they were taking Phillip home that very night. "We'll have to see about treatment for him," he said apprehensively. "I don't know how to help him." "I'll see you," I mumbled.

"Thanks, Aurora," he said. "If you need help yourself, you know how to reach us." But they were dying to get Phillip away, and his voice verged on perfunctory. I was a grownup, right? I could take care of myself. Or my mother would take care of me. I let myself have a flash of bitterness, and made myself swallow it. He was not being careful of me, but he was right. I drifted off to sleep for a second. Robin was holding my hand when I woke up. I think he had kissed me.