"But you know him well enough to be sure he didn't commit suicide."

"Yes," she insisted. "That story about the false phone call to you, the picked locks. That kind of scheming isn't - wasn't Stuart. For all his sickness he was naive, almost simple. He wasn't a planner."

"It took planning to get those children down in the cellar."

"You don't have to believe me. I don't care. He's done his damage. Now he's dead. And I'm in a cellar of my own."

Her smile was pitiful.

The lamp sputtered. She got up to adjust the wick and add more kerosene. When she sat back down I asked her: "Who killed him and why?"

"The others. His so - called friends. So he wouldn't expose them. And he would have. During our last visits he'd hint around. Say things like, "I'm not the only sick one, Kimmy' or "Things aren't what they seem with the Gentlemen." I knew he wanted me to ask him, to help him spill it out. But I didn't. I was still in shock over losing the school, wrapped in my own shame. I didn't want to hear about more perversions. I cut him off, changed the subject. But after he died it came back to me and I put it all together."

"Did he mention anyone by name as being sick?"

"No. But what else could he have meant? They'd come to pick him up, parking their big soft cars in the driveway, dressed in those sport jackets with the Casa insignia. When he'd leave with them he'd be excited. His hands trembling. He'd come back in the early hours of the morning, exhausted. Or the next day. Isn't it obvious what they were doing?"

"You haven't told anyone of your suspicions?"

"Who would believe me? Those men are powerful - doctors, lawyers, executives, that horrid little Judge Hayden. I wouldn't stand a chance, the wife of a molester. To the public I'm as guilty as Stuart. And there's no evidence - look what they did to him to shut him up. I had to run."

"Did Stuart ever mention knowing McCaffrey from Washington?"

"No. Did he?"

"Yes. What about a child named Gary Nemeth. Did his name come up?"

"No."

"Elena Gutierrez? Morton Handler - Doctor Mor ton Handler?"

"No."

"Maurice Bruno?"

She shook her head. "No. Who are these people?"

"Victims."

"Violated like the others?"

"The ultimate violation. Dead. Murdered."

"Oh my God." She put her hands to her face.

Telling her story had made her sweat. Strands of black hair stuck to her forehead. "So it continues," she said mournfully.

"That's why I'm here. To put an end to it. What else can you tell me that would help?"

"Nothing. I've told you everything. They killed him. They're evil men, hiding their ugly secret under a cloak of respectability. I ran to escape them."

I looked around the dingy room.

"How long can you continue this way?"

"Forever, if no one gives me away. The island is secluded, this property is hidden. When I have to go to the mainland to shop I dress like a cleaning maid. No one notices me. I stockpile as much as possible to avoid making too many trips. The last one was over a month ago. I live simply. The flowers are my one extravagance. I planted them from seed packets and bulbs. They occupy my time, with watering, feeding, pruning, re - potting. The days go by quickly."

"How safe can you be - Towle and Hayden have roots here."

"I know. But their families haven't lived here for a generation. I checked. I even went by their old homes. There are new faces, new names. There's no reason for them to look for me here. Not unless you give them one."

"I won't."

"On my next trip I'll buy a gun. I'll be prepared for them if they come. I'll escape and go somewhere else. I'm used to it. The memory of Seoul returns in my dreams. It keeps me watchful. I'm sorry to hear about the other murders, but I don't want to know about them. There's nothing that I can do."

I got up and she helped me on with my jacket.

"The funny thing is," she said, "this estate probably belongs to me. As does the Brentwood property and the rest of the Hickle fortune. I'm Stuart's sole heir - we wrote our wills several years ago. He never discussed finances with me so I don't know how much he left, but it has to be considerable. There were bearer bonds, other pieces of real estate all up and down the coast. In theory I'm a rich woman. Do I look it?"

"There's no way to get in touch with the executors of his will?"

"The executor is a partner in Edwin Hayden's law firm. For all I know he's one of them. I can do without wealth when all it means is a fancy funeral."

She used her chair to climb out of the window. I followed her. We walked in the direction of the big, black house.

"You worked with the children from my school. How are they doing?"

"Very well. The prognosis is good. They're amazingly resilient."

"That's good."

A few steps later:

"And the parents - did they hate me?"

"Some. Others were surprisingly loyal and defended you. It created a schism in the group. They worked it out."

"I'm glad. I think about them often."

She accompanied me to the edge of the swamp that fronted the mansion.

"I'll let you go the rest of the way by yourself. How does the arm feel?"

"Stiff, but nothing serious. I'll survive."

I held out my hand and she took it.

"Good luck," she said. "Same to you."

I walked through weeds and mud, chilled and tired. When I turned around to look she was gone.

I stayed in the ferry's dining room drinking coffee for much of the return trip to the mainland, going over what I'd learned. When I got back to the hotel I called Milo at the station, was told he wasn't there and tried his home number. Rick Silverman answered.

"Hi, Alex. There's static. Is this long distance?"

"It is. Seattle. Is Milo back yet?"

"No. I expect him tomorrow. He went to Mexico on a supposed vacation but it sounds like work to me."

"It is. He's looking into the background of a guy named McCaffrey."

"I know. The minister with the children's home. He said you turned him on to it."

"I may have sparked his interest but when I spoke to him about it he brushed me off. Did he mention what led him to make the trip?"

"Let me see - I recall his saying he phoned the police down there - it's some small town, I forget the name - and they jerked him around. They implied they had something juicy for him but that he'd have to come up with some bucks to get it. It surprised me - I thought cops cooperated with each other - but he said that's the way they always are."

"That's it?"

"That's it. He invited me to come along but it didn't work out well with my schedule - I had a twenty - four - hour shift coming up and it would have required too much trading with the other guys." "Have you heard from him since he left?"

"Just a postcard from the airport at Guadalajara. An old peasant pulling a burro next to a Saguaro cactus that looked plastic. Very classy stuff. He wrote "Wish you were here' on it."

I laughed.

"If he does call, tell him to give me a ring. I've got some more information for him."

"Will do. Anything specific?"

"No. Just have him call."

"Okay."

"Thanks. Look forward to meeting you some day, Rick."

"Likewise. Maybe when he gets back and wraps things up."

"Sounds good."

I got out of my clothes and examined the arm. There was some oozing, but nothing bad. Kim Hickle had done a good patch up job. I did a half - hour of limbering exercise and a bit of karate, then soaked in a hot bath for forty - five minutes while reading the throwaway guide to Seattle the hotel had furnished.

I called Robin, got no answer, dressed and went for dinner. I remembered a place from my previous visit, a cedar - paneled room overlooking Lake Union, where they barbecued salmon over alder wood. I found it, using my memory and a map, arrived early enough to get a table with a view, and proceeded to put away a large salad with Roquefort, a beautiful coral - colored chinook filet, potatoes, beans, a basket of hot cornbread and two Coors. I topped it off with homemade blackberry ice cream and coffee and, with a full belly, watched the sun go down over the lake.