"I'll talk to you," she said.

25

There was an entrance to the four - car garage that had eluded me: At ground level, hidden behind an untrimmed blue spruce, was a window covered with chicken - coop wire mesh. She kneeled, played with a couple of strategic strands and the mesh came loose. A push, a wriggle and she was inside. I followed. I was much larger and it wasn't easy. My injured arm brushed against the pane and I had to hold my breath to stop from crying out as I squeezed through.

A half - jump brought me to a narrow room that had originally been a root cellar. It was damp and dark, the walls lined with shallow wooden shelving, the floor of poured concrete painted red. There was a wooden shutter above the window, held in place by an eye and hook. She unfastened it and it slammed shut. There was a second of darkness during which I braced myself for something devious. Instead came the pleasing pungence of kerosene, reminiscent of teenage love by the light of the campfire, and smoky illumination. She tilted the slats of the shutter so that additional light came in but visibility from the outside was obscured.

My eyes adjusted to the light and the details came into focus: A thin pallet and bedroll lay on the floor. The kerosene lamp, a hot plate, a can of Sterno and a packet of plastic utensils shared space on a rickety wooden table that had been painted and repainted so many times it looked like soft sculpture. There was a utility sink in one corner and above it a rack holding an empty jam jar, a toothbrush, toothpowder, safety razor and a bar of laundry soap. Most of the remaining floor space was taken up by wooden milk cartons of a type I hadn't seen since childhood. The boxes had tube - shaped hand holes on two sides and bore the imprint of "Farmer Del's Dairy, Tacoma, Wash - Our Butter Is Best, Put It to the Test." Below the slogan was a picture of a bored - looking heifer and a phone number with a two - letter prefix. She'd stacked the cartons three - high in places. The contents of some of them were visible - packets of freeze - dried food, canned goods, paper towels, folded clothing. Three pairs of shoes, all rubber - soled and sturdy, were lined up neatly against the wall. There were metal hooks hammered into a raw wood support beam. She hung her slicker on one of them and sat down on a straight - backed chair of unfinished pine. I settled myself on an overturned milk carton.

We looked at each other.

In the absence of competing stimuli the pain in my arm took over. I winced, and she saw it.

She got up, soaked a paper towel in warm water, came over and swabbed the wound. She poked around in one of the boxes and found sterile gauze, adhesive tape and hydrogen peroxide. Tending to me like Florence Nightingale, she bandaged the arm. The craziness of the situation wasn't lost on me - minutes ago she'd tried to kill me, now she clucked maternally and smoothed down the tape. I stayed karate - wary, expecting her to revert at any moment to murderous rage, to dig her fingers into the inflamed flesh and take advantage of the blinding pain to jab me in the eye.

But when she was finished she returned to her seat.

"The papers," I reminded her.

More poking around. But quick. She knew exactly where everything was. A sheaf of papers bound with a thick rubber band found its way into my hand. There were veterinarian's bills, rabies vaccination records, Kennel Club registration - the dog's full name had been Otto Klaus Von Schulderheis out of StuttgartMunsch and Sigourn - Daffodil. Quaint. There were also diplomas from two obedience schools in L.A. and a certificate stating that Otto had been trained as an attack dog for defensive purposes only. I handed the papers back to her.

"Thank you," she said.

We sat across from one another, pleasant as school chums. I took a good look at her and tried to work up some genuine animosity. What I saw was a sad - looking Oriental woman in her forties, her hair chopped China - doll short, sallow, frail, homely in baggy work clothes and shabby as a church mouse She sat, hands in lap, docile. The hatred wouldn't come.

"How long have you been living here?"

"Six months. Since Stuart's death."

"Why live like this - why not open up the house?"

"I thought this would be better for hiding. All I want is to be alone."

She didn't make much of a Garbo.

"Hiding from whom?"

She looked at the floor.

"Come on. I won't hurt you."

"The others. The other sick ones."

"Names."

"The ones you mentioned and others." She spit out a half - dozen other names I didn't recognize.

"Let's be specific. By sick you mean child molesters - all those men are child molesters?"

"Yes, yes. I didn't know it. Stuart told me later, when he was in prison. They volunteered at a children's home, took the kids to their houses. Did sick things with them."

"And at your school, too."

"No! That was only Stuart. The others never came to the school. Only at the children's home."

"La Casa de los Ninos. Your husband was a member of the Gentleman's Brigade."

"Yes. He told me he was doing it to help children. His friends recruited him, he said. The judge, the doctor, the others. I thought it was so nice of him - we didn't have children of our own - I was proud of him. I never knew what he was really doing - just like I didn't know about what he did at the school."

I said nothing.

"I know what you're thinking - what they all thought. That I knew all along. How could I not know what my own husband was doing in my own house? You blame me as much as you blame Stuart. I tell you, I didn't know!"

Her arms went out beseechingly, the hands saffron talons. I noticed that the nails had been gnawed to the quick. There was a desperate, feral look on her face.

"I did not know," she repeated, turning it into a self - punishing mantra. "I did not know. He was my husband but I did not know!"

She was in need of absolution but I didn't feel like a father confessor. I stayed tight - lipped and observed her with forced detachment.

"You must understand the kind of marriage Stuart and I had to see how he could have been doing all of those things without my knowledge."

My silence said Convince me.

She bowed her head and began.

"We met in Seoul," she said, "shortly after the war. My father had been a professor of linguistics. Our family was prosperous, but we had ties to the socialists and the KCIA killed them all. They went on rampages after the war, murdering intellectuals, anyone who wasn't a blind slave to the regime. Everything we owned was confiscated or destroyed. I was hidden, given to friends the day before KCIA thugs broke into the house and slit the throats of everyone - family, servants, even the animals. Things got worse, the government clamped down harder. The family that took me in grew frightened and I was turned out to the street. I was fifteen years old, but very small, very skinny, looking twelve. I begged, ate scraps. I - I sold myself. I had to. To survive."

She stopped, looked past me, gathered her strength and continued.

"When Stuart found me I was feverish, infested with lice and venereal disease, covered with sores. It was at night. I was huddled under newspapers in an alley at the back of a cafe where the GIs went to eat and drink and find bar girls. I knew it was good to wait in such places because Americans threw away enough food to feed entire families. I was so sick I could barely move, but I waited for hours, forcing myself to stay awake so the cats wouldn't get my dinner first. The restaurant closed shortly after midnight. The soldiers came out, loud, drunk, staggering through the alley. Then Stuart, by himself, sober. Later I found out he never drank alcohol. I tried to keep quiet but my pain made me cry out. He heard, came over, so big, a giant in uniform, bending over me saying "Don't worry, little girl." He picked me up in his arms and took me to his apartment. He had lots of money, enough to rent his own place off base. The GIs were on R and R, celebrating, making lots of unwanted babies. Stuart had nothing to do with those kinds of things. He used his place to write poetry. To fiddle with his cameras. To be alone."