Intrigued, Pierre decided to visit the San Francisco Zoo. Surely he could cajole an array of primate tissue samples from the curator…

Pierre and Molly attended another meeting of the Bay Area Huntington’s Support Group in San Francisco; by this stage, he really did need the support.

The guest speaker was a loud PR woman from a company that made wheelchairs, walkers, and other aids for the mobility-impaired. Pierre hadn’t realized so many high-tech options were available.

After the meeting, he spoke again to white-haired Carl Berringer. “Good meeting,” said Pierre. “Interesting speaker.”

Carl’s whole upper body was shaking. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Umm, yes. Pierre Tardivel, from Montreal, originally. I came to a meeting about fifteen months ago.”

“Forgive me. My memory’s not what it used to be.”

Pierre nodded. He himself had not yet encountered many mental difficulties, but he knew they were a common part of Huntington’s.

“It’s a mixed blessing, a speaker like that,” said Berringer, nodding in the direction of the woman. She was talking with some people on the other side of the classroom. “For those of us who’ve got insurance, we think, Great — look at all those neat ideas. But a lot of our members don’t have any coverage, and couldn’t possibly afford any of those gadgets.”

Although the California law that went into effect two years earlier let anyone with the Huntington’s gene get insurance so long as they weren’t yet displaying overt symptoms, those already manifesting the disease were still generally uninsurable. “I tell you,” Carl said, “that system you’ve got up in Canada is the only thing that makes sense in the genetic age — universal coverage, with the population as a whole sharing the risks.”

He paused. “You got insurance?”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky guy,” said Berringer. “I’m under my wife’s company plan now, but I had to quit my job to get that; it only covers dependent spouses.”

Pierre nodded grimly. “Sorry.”

“It probably wasn’t worth it,” said Carl. “She’s with Bay Area Health:

B-A-H. We call them ‘Bah, Humbug.’ They’ve got ridiculously low caps for catastrophic illness.” A pause. “Who are you with?”

“Condor.”

“Oh, yeah. They turned me down.”

“I actually own some Condor stock,” said Pierre. “I was thinking of going to their shareholders’ meeting this year, raise a bit of a stink about their policies. Is anybody else here with them?”

Berringer steadied himself by holding on to the brushed aluminum molding beneath the classroom greenboard. He looked around the room.

“Well, let’s see. Peter Mansbridge had been with them.”

That name had stuck in Pierre’s mind the first time Berringer had said it to him because by coincidence it was the same name as the anchor of

The National, CBC’s nightly newscast. “Peter Mansbridge?” Pierre said.

“Wasn’t he the fellow you said was shot to death?”

Berringer nodded. “Real shame that. Nicest guy you ever wanted to meet.”

“Anybody else?”

Berringer moved his left hand up to scratch the side of his head. His hand made the journey like a fluttering bird. “I used to know all this.” He shook his head sadly. “Time was, I had a memory sharp as a tack.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Pierre. “It’s not important.”

“No, no, let’s see…” He turned to face the room. “Excuse me!” he said loudly. “Excuse me!”

People turned to look at him; the caregivers in the group stopped moving.

“Excuse me, everybody. This fellow here, um—”

“Pierre.”

“—Pierre here is wondering if anyone else has insurance with Condor?”

Pierre was embarrassed that his simple question had been made into a big deal, but he smiled wanly.

“I do,” said a stunning black woman of about forty, holding up a manicured hand. She was standing next to a wheelchair; a black man was seated in it, his legs moving about constantly. “Of course, they won’t cover Burt.”

“Anybody else?” asked Carl.

A white fellow with Huntington’s raised his hand, his arm moving like a sapling’s trunk in a variable wind. “Wasn’t Cathy Jurima with them?” he said.

“That’s right,” another caregiver said. “She was an orphan — no family-history records. She got in years ago.”

“Who’s Cathy Jurima?” said Pierre.

Carl frowned. “Another of our members who was murdered.”

A crazy thought hit Pierre. “What about the other one who was killed?

Who was he insured by?”

Carl raised his voice again. “Anyone remember who covered — oh, what was his name now? Juan Kahlo?”

Heads shaking around the room — some in negation.

Carl shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Thanks, anyway,” said Pierre, trying to sound calm.

Pierre and Molly left the meeting. Pierre was quiet the whole trip home, thinking. Molly drove. They parked in their driveway, then walked next door to pick up Amanda from Mrs. Bailey. It was 10:40 p.m.; they begged off from the offered coffee and cake.

Amanda had been sleeping, but she woke up when her parents arrived.

Molly scooped up her daughter — it wasn’t safe for Pierre to carry her when they had to walk down the cement steps that led up to Mrs. Bailey’s front door. Molly hugged Amanda close, and as they walked back to their house, she said, “No, sweetheart, that’s all right… Did you, now? Did you really? I bet Mrs. Bailey was surprised at how good you are at drawing!”

Pierre’s heart pounded. He loved Amanda with all his soul, but he always felt like there was a wall between him and her, especially when Molly was carrying on what sounded like onesided conversations, detecting Amanda’s thoughts and replying to them.

The three of them came into their house, and Molly moved over to sit on the couch, Amanda perching herself in her mother’s lap.

“Would Joan Dawson have been under the same health plan as you?” asked Pierre.

Molly was stroking Amanda’s brown hair soothingly. “Not necessarily.

I’m on the faculty-association plan; she was support staff. Completely different union.”

“Remember Joan’s funeral?” said Pierre.

Amanda was apparently thinking something at her mother. “Just a second, dear,” said Molly to the girl. She then looked up at Pierre. “Sure, I remember the funeral.”

“We met Joan’s daughter there. Beth — remember?”

“Slim redhead? Yeah.”

“What was her husband’s name?”

“Umm — Christopher, wasn’t it?”

“Christopher, right. But what was his last name?”

“Good grief, I don’t have the foggiest—”

Pierre was insistent. “It was Irish — O’Connor, O’Brien, something like that.”

Molly frowned, thinking. “Christopher… Christopher… Christopher

O’Malley, that was it.”

“O’Malley, right!” He went into the dining room and got the phone book from a cupboard there.

“It’s too late to be calling anyone,” said Molly.

Pierre didn’t seem to hear her. He was already dialing. “Hello? Hello, is that Beth? Beth, I’m sorry to be calling so late. This is Pierre Tardivel; we met at your mother’s funeral, remember? I worked with her at LBNL.

That’s right. Listen, I need to know who provided your mother’s health insurance. No, no — that’s a life-insurance company; her health insurance.

Right, health. Are you sure? Are you positive? Okay, thanks. Thanks very much; sorry to disturb you. What? No, no, nothing like that. Nothing for you to worry about. Just, ah, just some paperwork back at the office.

Thanks. Bye.”

He put down the phone, his hand shaking.

“Well?” asked Molly.

“Condor,” said Pierre, as if it were a swear word.

“Christ,” said Molly.

“One more,” said Pierre, putting away the Berkeley phone book and pulling out the much thicker San Francisco one.

“Hello? Hello, Mrs. Proctor. It’s Pierre Tardivel. I’m really sorry about calling so late, but… yes, that’s right.” He did his best Peter Falk. ‘“Just one more little thing.’” Back to his normal voice. “I’m wondering if you can tell me who provided your husband Bryan’s health insurance. No, no, I don’t mind holding on.” He covered the mouthpiece and looked at Molly.