“You’re just jealous that I’m joining a club you’re not a part of.”

“The world is filled with clubs I’m not a part of. The homeowner club is the least of my worries.”

“I’m just excited. It’s like I’m ready to open a new chapter in my life.”

“We’ll entitle it ‘Thirty Years of Indebtedness for a Glimpse of Morning Light.’”

“Can’t you be excited for me?”

“Oh, I am. Really. Really.”

“I want a soda,” said Beth.

The kitchen was narrow and utilitarian but clean. Spacious and modern, would say Sheila the Realtor. Ergonomically laid out, but with an old-fashioned charm. Lined up on the small table were bottles of soda, bottles of liquor, a large ice bucket, highball glasses. Beth poured herself a diet soda. I took a long draft of my beer and looked around. People were crowding the doorway, leaning on the countertops. I wondered where all these people came from. Theresa Wellman seemed to have more friends than she let on in our discussions, but that’s the way of it, I suppose.

“Let’s go upstairs,” said Beth. “I wonder how many bedrooms and baths this place has.”

It’s a disease, I thought as I climbed the stairs behind Beth, this real-estate thing. Owning a house is worse than owning a boat. There’s always a boat out there that’s bigger and shinier and faster. There’s always a house with more modern appliances. That’s why I rent, to stay out of the whole thing. And I was feeling both miserable and self-satisfied when I smelled it.

Something burning, sweet and musty all at once, the scent of a college dorm on a Thursday night.

“What’s that?” I said to Beth.

“What?” she said.

“That?”

“Oh,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Is it really?”

“Yeah.”

“What should we do?”

“As much as I’d like to flee, I don’t think we can.”

“It’s not her, I’m sure of it,” said Beth.

“As sure as her ginger ale was just a ginger ale?”

“We can’t just snoop around, can we?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think maybe we ought to look into the bedrooms just to satisfy our real-estate lust.”

“That we can do,” said Beth.

The scent grew stronger as we climbed the stairs. There were four doors on the upper hallway, all closed. One had a sign that said Bathroom. Beside the bathroom was another door. I looked around, leaned into the wood, heard nothing. I turned the knob, peeked in. Linen closet.

“Nice storage space,” I said.

“Oh, storage space is very important.”

I leaned close to another door, listened in. There was a conversation going on, animated. An animated television conversation. I slowly twisted the knob, opened the door. No cloud of smoke billowed out. I peeked in, saw the television tuned in to some cartoon, and then the bed, and then, when I opened the door wider, a huge pair of pretty brown eyes.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello,” said the girl.

“You must be Belle,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“What’s on?”

“Cartoon Network. Do you want to watch?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“As long as you don’t talk too much.”

“I promise,” I said.

“That’ll be a first,” said Beth.

“I have an idea,” I said to Beth. “Why don’t you check out those other bedrooms and look for Theresa. I think maybe we ought to have a talk.”

After Beth closed the door behind her, I turned to Belle and put out my hand.

“I’m Victor,” I said.

“Ssshhh.”

“Okay,” I said.

Isn’t it fun how clever we lawyers can be, with our clever questions and our clever tricks? We use our cleverness to spin everything on its head for the benefit of our clients, and the clever lawyer on the other side does the same, and the judge, in the middle, simply makes the decision. It’s such a clever system, because it cleanses all responsibility from the participants. We are merely cogs in the great wheel of justice. Be as clever as you can and hope for the best, that’s the job description. And just then, sitting next to Belle, now in the custody and care of her mother, I felt oh, so clever.

Two cartoon kids were being chased by some skeleton in a big black cape, and they were all singing a fun jazzy song. I had never seen it before. These are the kinds of things you miss when you don’t have cable, which was a shame, really. Although you also miss Pat Burrell swinging and missing at sliders down and away, so it evens out. I couldn’t tell if Belle was enjoying herself – she had the fixed, blank expression on her face of someone who was trying very hard not to cry. I wanted to ask her how long she’d been there, or if she missed her daddy, or what she thought about clever lawyers, but I had promised her I wouldn’t talk too much, and that was one promise I was going to keep.

About ten minutes later, Beth opened the door. She had grown suddenly pale, her jaw was locked as if some sad specter had risen from the blond wooden floors, grabbed her arms, and shaken her until her faith came loose.

“Do you know Bradley Hewitt’s telephone number?” she said.

“I can get it.”

“Then maybe you ought to give him a call.”

I took the expressway to I-95 and followed it south, through Chester, around Wilmington, continuing on the way to Baltimore and Washington, D.C. I kept careful watch on my rearview mirror and spotted nothing, which meant not a whole lot. It was becoming pretty damn clear that I had no idea for the life of me how to spot a tail.

I sped up, slowed down, I pulled over and stopped, started again and wove my way through traffic. They were there, I had no doubt, Fred and thick little Louie, in their Impala or boxy Buick or two-tone Chevy with whitewall tires. They were there because I had told everyone and his brother that I was bringing Charlie home. They were there, but they were hidden from my gaze. Still I kept looking. Why? Because they would expect me to keep looking.

I paid my toll into Maryland and kept on driving, south, south. Whatever I-95 is, it is not the scenic route. I jiggled around in my seat, fiddled with the radio. Sports talk, news, classic rock. What is up with classic rock? Get your own damn music, why don’t you? Oh, yeah, they did and they didn’t like it, so they come after ours. I jiggled some more in my seat, as if my bladder were bursting. Oh, good, a rest stop. I swerved right, cut off a van, and headed in.

I slammed into a parking spot, hopped out, looked behind me a couple times as I hustled into the building. It had the usual crap: a Burger King, a Mrs. Fields Cookies, Pizza Hut Express, Popeye’s Fried Chicken, and then, to salve your conscience, a TCBY. Worth a visit all on its own, wouldn’t you say? But it also had Starbucks to keep you awake and a bathroom to pass all the coffee that was keeping you awake. I headed straight to the bathroom, to the left of the entrance. Looked around and then entered one of the stalls, second from the end. It was occupied.

“Here you go, mate,” said Skink in a whisper as he handed me a set of blue overalls and a hat. He was wearing a suit exactly like mine, same tie and shoes.

“You look good, Skink.”

“You want me to dress like you again, you gots to start dressing better. Hurry.”

“I sort of need to pee,” I said.

“No time.”

I tossed him my keys and started to climb into the overalls. “I’m parked third row back, right in front of the entrance.”

“Swell.”

“You don’t look anything like me.”

“Can’t be helped. I’ll hang here for a bit and then put a hand to my face. By the time they cotton that I’m not you, you should be long gone.”

“If my ride shows.”

“That was up to you, mate.”

“Be careful when you go out there. They won’t be so pleased to see you.”

“They’s the ones ought to be careful. Out you go.”

I tugged on the hat, shook my head a couple of times, and then settled into a bent slouch, like I’d been steering an eighteen-wheeler for twelve hours straight. I gave Skink a good-old-boy bang in the shoulder before I left the stall.