Travis, holding his ribs and leaning very heavily on me, said, “We aren’t leaving you.”

“Then stay the hell out of my way.”

She had no sooner said this than we heard Spanning come charging back in through the kitchen door.

She was ready for him. As he came running into the living room, she hit him with a kick in the face that dropped him in place. I don’t think he had a clear idea what had happened to him at that point, but she had disarmed him by the time he was slowly getting back up on his feet.

He shook his head to clear it.

“Nobody,” she said, “has called me a wop since third grade.”

He charged toward her. A mistake.

She took hold of his arm and with one smooth, beautiful twisting motion, threw him head over heels. He came down so hard and so fast, I’m surprised the floor withstood the blow. One of the chairs didn’t.

He stood up again, this time with fists raised, and took a few clumsy steps forward. He didn’t stand a chance.

Both of her feet and both of her fists connected with him about four times each-if I counted the sounds of the blows right-before he hit the floor again. This time he stayed down.

She hadn’t broken a sweat.

Travis said, “You’re a cruel woman, Rachel Giocopazzi.”

“Why?” she asked, already tying Spanning up. “Because I knocked this piece of shit on his ass?”

“No,” he said. “For trying to get us to leave without seeing you do it.”

36

Without Ezekiel Brennan’s help, I’m convinced we wouldn’t have been able to get home as early as we did, which was noon on Monday.

We didn’t call the police until Rachel had retrieved and hidden all of her illegal tools. Travis insisted on going with us to the garage to help, even after we warned him about the Camry. Deeny, it turned out, was awake, and not a little angry. When Travis saw the window, he said, “The hobo sign for ‘This is not a safe place.” You gave her fair warning, Irene.“

When Rachel opened the car door, Travis said to Deeny, “Your husband controlled my father the same way he controls you. If you want to talk to the lawyer who helped my father, maybe he’ll help you.” He paused, then added, “You’re going to need a good lawyer.”

We saw the wisdom of it ourselves, and called Brennan right after we called the police.

We didn’t tell the entire truth to the Los Alamitos Police, but we kept our stories straight. We had come to the house to look for the El Camino, a vehicle which might contain traces of the explosives used to destroy Travis’s camper. Rachel supplied Richmond’s photos of the El Camino taken on the day the bomb was put in place. When she mentioned that Harold Richmond was involved, there was a change of attitude-his infamy lived on in the department.

I told them that they might contact Detective McCain of the LAPD about Mr. Richmond’s whereabouts. This was a success, and reached while being interviewed in Detective McCain’s office, Richmond confirmed that he sometimes talked about his business to the cocktail waitress at the Wharf. No, he didn’t know what her last name was.

McCain was pleased to hear where he could find the Camry. We knew, from what we had shown them when they arrived on the scene, that the Camry would prevent Gerald from walking out of the station.

The police were still curious about our activities, especially given our attire. On that subject we said nothing. Mr. Brennan’s arrival resulted in Travis’s release; he was not being charged with any crime, and Mr. Brennan insisted that Travis receive immediate medical attention. Deeny, who was being released by the hospital into police custody as Travis walked in the Emergency Department doors, called out, “I want to talk to my lawyer!”

“I’ll be right with you,” Mr. Brennan replied.

Her cooperation led to first my release and then Rachel’s-and oddly, Deeny did not seem to recall much of anything that happened just before she was hit on the head, but specifically denied seeing any special burglary tools on Ms. Giocopazzi’s person, no matter what was claimed by Gerald. By then McCain and Detective Reed Collins from Las Piernas had made the trip to Los Alamitos, and Gerald was officially placed under arrest.

I called the paper and phoned in a story that made Morey decide I could be excused for another day or two while I healed a little. The acting news editor told me he was assigning a couple of other people to write follow-up stories from less personal angles. Fine with me.

Mr. Brennan drove Rachel over to the hospital, where she arrived not long before Travis was ready to go home with us.

“I want to grow up to be like my cousin,” he said to me, walking stiffly and trying to act as if the broken ribs, black eye, fat lip and lump on his forehead were nothing. He held up his cleanly swathed right hand. “And look, you don’t have to change the bandage for me today.”

“We have a specially air-conditioned Volvo to take you home in,” I said, and after we all thanked Mr. Brennan again, we were on our way, sans driver’s side window, but happy.

We arrived at my house to see two men getting out of a Yellow Cab. “Oh shit,” said Rachel. “Now we’ve had it.”

“Who is it?” Travis asked.

“Our husbands.”

But she was wrong if she thought they were angry. After several hours of trying to reach us at every possible number, they were so glad to see us, they didn’t even bitch about the cab fare from LAX.

I awakened at about seven in the evening, as the last of the early summer sunlight was fading. After a few moments of enjoying the sensation of being held possessively by my sleeping husband, I gently extricated myself from his grip. He rolled over but didn’t awaken, and soon was snoring again. I stood and listened to it for a while after getting dressed.

I checked on Travis, who was sleeping soundly, despite being propped up at the angle the broken ribs required. Uncomfortable, but better than getting pneumonia, the doctors said.

I fed the animals and started making dinner. I put a chicken in the oven and started straightening the living room. I came across the Virgin Mary night-light and smiled. It reminded me of one my mother had once had, too. I tried plugging it in, but it didn’t light up. I unplugged it, and unscrewed the base-no bulb.

I went into the kitchen, checked on the chicken and, after a brief search, found a spare night-light bulb. My husband came out of the bedroom, and I became distracted by some nuzzling until he said, “Uh-oh. What papist trappings are you decorating the house with now, Catholic girl?”

I laughed and told him that the night-light was apparently the one gift that had survived the years during which my aunt purged her home of every other reminder of Arthur, save Travis himself. He cocked his head to one side for a moment, but made no wisecracks, so I went back to replacing the bulb.

Travis came slowly down the hall and Frank, who had already taken a liking to him, offered to help him get settled in a chair.

“No thanks,” Travis said. “The thought of trying to get up again makes me want to stay on my feet.” He saw what I was working on and smiled a misshapen grin. “What are you doing to the Virgin Mary?”

“I was going to surprise you,” I said, trying to concentrate on what was becoming a frustrating effort to reattach the base to the statue. “You know-replace the bulb and set this in your room-have you wake up to a glowing religious night-light.”

Frank groaned.

“Hey, Mr. Episcopalian,” I said, handing the two parts to him. “Instead of making rude sound effects, why not see if you can get this back together?”

Frank took it from me as Travis said, “Well, you do almost have to grow up with it, Irene.”

“Tell that to her sister,” Frank said, peering up the hollow Virgin Mary’s plastic gown. “She keeps trying to talk me into converting.”