“Uh-oh,” he said. “We know this guy, Mike-it’s Charlie Pickering.”

“Goodness-gracious, great balls of fire,” Mike said. “Now why aren’t I surprised?” He looked at the teenage assistant and sighed.

“Better call the cops, Justin. It looks like we’ve got us a situation here.”

“Am I in trouble for using that?” Ralph asked an hour later, and pointed to one of the two sealed plastic bags sitting on the cluttered surface of the desk in Mike Hanlin’s office. A strip of yellow tape, marked EVIDENCE amp;/ DATE 101,31 and SITE r of the DERRY PUBLIC LIBRARY ran across the front.

“Not as much as our old pal Charlie’s going to be in for using this,” John Leydecker said, and pointed to the other sealed bag, The hunting knife was inside, the blood on the tip now dried to a tacky maroon. Leydecker was wearing a University of Maine football sweater today. It made him look approximately the size of a dairy barn. “We still pretty much believe in the concept of self-defense out here in the sticks. We don’t talk it up much, though-it’s sort of like admitting you believe the world is flat.”

Mike Hanlon, who was leaning in the doorway, laughed.

Ralph hoped his face didn’t show how deeply relieved he felt. As a paramedic (one of the guys who had run Helen Deepneau to the hospital back in August, for all he knew) worked on him-first photographing, then disinfecting, finally butterfly-clamping and bandaging-he had sat with his teeth gritted, imagining a judge sentencing him to six months in the county clink for assault with a semideadly weapon. Hopefully, Mr. Roberts, this will serve as an example and a warning to any other old farts in this vicinity who may feel justified in carrying around spray-cans of disabling nerve-gas…

Leydecker looked once more at the six Polaroid photographs lined up along the side of Hanlon’s computer terminal. The fresh-faced emergency medical technician had taken the first three before patching Ralph up. These showed a small dark circle-it looked like the sort of oversized period made by children just learning to print low down on Ralph’s side. The E.M.T had taken the second set of three after applying the butterfly clamp and getting Ralph’s signature on a form attesting to the fact that he had been offered hospital service and had refused it. In this latter group of photographs, the beginnings of what was going to be an absolutely spectacular bruise could be seen.

“God bless Edwin Land and Richard Polaroid, Leydecker said, putting the photographs into another EVIDENCE Baggie.

“I don’t think there ever was a Richard Polaroid,” Mike Hanlon said from his spot in the doorway.

“Probably not, but God bless him just the same. No jury who got a look at these photos would do anything but give you a medal, Ralph, and not even Clarence Darrow could keep em out of evidence.” He looked back at Mike, “Charlie Pickering.”

Mike nodded. “Charlie Pickering.”

“Fuckhead.”

Mike nodded again. “Fuckhead deluxe.”

The two of them looked at each other solemnly, then burst into gales of laughter at the same moment. Ralph understood exactly how they felt-it was funny because it was awful and awful because it was funny-and he had to bite his lips savagely to keep from joining them.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do right now was get laughing; it would hurt like a bastard.

Leydecker took a handkerchief out of his back pocket, mopped his streaming eyes with it, and began to get himself under control.

“Pickering’s one of the right-to-lifers, isn’t he?” Ralph asked.

He was remembering how Pickering had looked when Hanlon’s teenage assistant had helped him sit up. Without his glasses, the man had looked about as dangerous as a bunny in a petshop window.

“You could say that,” Mike agreed dryly. “He’s the one they caught last year in the parking garage that services the hospital and WomanCare. He had a can of gasoline in his hand and a knapsack filled with empty bottles on his back.”

“Also strips of sheeting, don’t forget these,” Leydecker said.

“These were going to be his fuses. That was back when Charlie was a member in good standing of Daily Bread.”

“How close did he come to lighting the place up?” Ralph asked curiously.

Leydecker shrugged. “Not very. Someone in the group apparently decided firebombing the local women’s clinic might be a little closer to terrorism than politics and made an anonymous phone-call to Your local police authority,”

“Good deal,” Mike said. He snorted another little chuckle, then crossed his arms as if to hold any further outburst inside.

“Yeah,” Leydecker said. He laced his fingers together, stretched out his arms, and popped his knuckles. “Instead of prison, a thoughtful, caring ’judge sent Charlie to juniper Hill for six months’ worth of treatment and therapy, and they must have decided he was okay, because he’s been back in town since July or so.”

“Yep,” Mike agreed. “He’s down here just about every day. Kind of improving the tone of the place. Buttonholes everyone who comes in, practically, and gives them his little peptalk on how any woman who has an abortion is going to perish in brimstone, and how the real baddies like Susan Day are going to burn forever in a lake of fire. But I can’t figure out why he’d take after you, Mr. Roberts.”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Are you okay, Ralph?” Leydecker asked. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Ralph said, although he did not feel fine; in fact, he had begun to feel very queasy.

“I don’t know about fine, but you’re sure lucky. Lucky those women gave you that can of pepper-gas, lucky you had it with you, and luckiest of all that Pickering didn’t just walk up behind you and stick that knife of his into the nape of your neck. Do you feet like coming down to the station and making a formal statement now, or-” Ralph abruptly lunged out of Mike Hanlon’s ancient swivel chair, bolted across the room with his left hand over his mouth, and clawed open the door in the rear right corner of the office, praying it wasn’t a closet. If it was, he was probably going to fill up Mike’s galoshes with a partially processed grilled-cheese sandwich and some slightly used tomato soup.

It turned out to be the room he needed. Ralph dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and vomited with his eyes closed and his left arm clamped tightly against the hole Pickering had made in his side. The pain as his muscles first locked and then pushed was still enormous.

“I take it that’s a no,” Mike Hanlon said from behind him, and then put a comforting hand on the back of Ralph’s neck.

“Are you okay?

Did you get that thing bleeding again?”

“I don’t think so,” Ralph said, He started to unbutton his shirt, then paused and clamped his arm tight against his side again as his stomach gave another lurch before quieting once more. He raised his arm and looked at the dressing. It was pristine. “I appear to be okay.”

“Good,” Leydecker said, He was standing just behind the librarian. “You done?”

“I think so, yes.” Ralph looked at Mike shamefacedly. “I apologize for that.”

“Don’t be a goof.” Mike helped Ralph to his feet.

“Come on,” Leydecker said, “I’ll give you a ride home. Tomorrow will be time enough for the statement. What you need is to put your feet up the rest of today, and a good night’s sleep tonight.”

“Nothing like a good night’s sleep,” Ralph agreed. They had reached the office door. “You want to let go of my arm now, Detective Leydecker? We’re not going steady just yet, are we?”

Leydecker looked startled, then dropped Ralph’s arm. Mike started to laugh again.” ’Not going-’ That’s pretty good, Mr. Roberts.”

Leydecker was smiling. “I guess we’re not, but you can call me Jack, if you want. Or John. just not Johnny. Since my mother died, the only one who calls me Johnny is old Prof McGovern.”