"Let's put it this way," Kelly said, "I think he was pushed to his limit."

Brian shrugged. "I guess you just never know," he said philosophically.

"Maybe the good doctor's absence is understandable," Kelly said. "But, for the life of me, I can't understand where Tracy is. She was Becky's mother, for God's sake. And she has no reason to avoid the law. I'll tell you: this has me worried."

"What do you mean?" Brian asked.

"If the good doctor has really lost it," Kelly said, "it wouldn't be so far-fetched to think that he might blame his former wife in some twisted way for his daughter's death."

"Oh, geez," Brian said. "I never thought of that."

"Listen," Kelly said, suddenly making up her mind. "You go call the station to get Tracy Reggis's address. I'll go have a chat with Mr. Sullivan and ask him to page us if Tracy Reggis shows up."

"You got it," Brian said.

Brian headed back to the funeral-home office, while Kelly walked over to the funeral director and tapped him on the ann. Twenty minutes later, Kelly and Brian were in Kelly's car, gliding to a stop in front of Tracy 's house.

"Uh-oh," Kelly said.

"What's the matter?" Brian asked.

"That car," Kelly said. She pointed to the Mercedes. "I think that's the doctor's car. At least it's the car he was driving when he came to visit me."

"What should we do?" Brian asked. "I don't want any madman running out of the house with a baseball bat or a shot gun."

Brian had a point. Following her scenario, Reggis could very well be in the house holding his former wife as a hostage or even worse.

"Maybe we should go around and talk to the neighbors," Kelly suggested. "Somebody might have seen something."

At the first two houses they approached, no one responded to the front doorbell. The third bell they rang was Mrs. English's, and she answered the door promptly.

"You're Kelly Anderson!" Mrs. English said excitedly, after taking one look at Kelly. "You're wonderful. I see you on TV all the time." Mrs. English was a diminutive, silver-haired lady who looked like the quintessential grandmother.

"Thank you," Kelly said. "Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?"

"Am I going to be on TV?" Mrs. English asked.

"It's a possibility," Kelly said. "We're researching a story."

"Ask away," Mrs. English said.

"We're curious about your neighbor across the street," Kelly said. "Tracy Reggis."

"There's something strange going on there," Mrs. English said. "That's for sure."

"Oh?" Kelly questioned. "Tell us about it."

"It started yesterday morning," Mrs. English said. " Tracy came over and asked me to watch her house. Now, I watch it anyway, but she was very specific. She wanted me to tell her if any strangers came by. Well, one did."

"Someone you've never seen before?" Kelly asked.

"Never," Mrs. English said unequivocally.

"What did he do?" Kelly asked.

"He went inside."

"When Tracy wasn't here?"

"That's right."

"How did he get in?"

"I don't know," Mrs. English said. "I think he had a key because he opened the front door."

"Was he a big man with dark hair?"

"No, he was average-height with blond hair," Mrs. English said. "Very well dressed. Like a banker or lawyer."

"And then what happened?" Kelly asked.

"Nothing. The man never left and when it got dark, he didn't even turn on a light. Tracy didn't come back until late with another blond man. This man was bigger and had on a white coat."

"You mean like a doctor?" Kelly asked. She winked at Brian.

"Or a butcher," Mrs. English said. "Anyway, Tracy didn't come to talk with me like she said she would. She just went into the house with the second man."

"And then what happened?"

"They were all inside for a while. Then the first man came out and drove away. A little while later, Tracy and the other man came out with suitcases."

"Suitcases like they were going on a trip?"

"Yes. But it was a strange time to go on a trip. It was nearly midnight. I know because it was the latest I've stayed up for as long as I can remember."

"Thank you, Mrs. English," Kelly said. "You've been most helpful." Kelly motioned for Brian to leave.

"Am I going to be on TV?" Mrs. English asked.

"We'll let you know," Kelly said. She waved and walked back to her car. She climbed in. Brian got into the passenger seat.

"This story keeps getting better," Kelly said. "I wouldn't have guessed in all the world, but Tracy Reggis has apparently decided to go on the lam with her fugitive former husband. And to think she seemed like such a sensible person. I'm blown away!"

By three o'clock the chaos of the lunchtime rush finally faded in the Onion Ring restaurant on Prairie Highway, and the exhausted day shift gathered up their things and left: everyone except for Roger Polo, the manager. As conscientious as he was, he couldn't leave until he was sure there was a smooth transition to the evening shift. Only then would he turn things over to Paul, the cook, who acted as the supervisor in Roger's absence.

Roger was busy installing a new tape in one of the cash registers when Paul arrived at his station behind the grill and began arranging the utensils the way he liked them.

"Much traffic today?" Roger asked while snapping the register's cowling shut.

"Not bad," Paul said. "Was it a busy day here?"

"Very busy," Roger said. "There must have been twenty people waiting to get in when I opened the doors. and it never let up."

"Did you see the morning's paper?" Paul asked.

"I wish," Roger said. "I didn't even have a chance to sit down to eat."

"You better read it," Paul said. "That crazy doctor that came in here Friday murdered a guy out at Higgins and Hancock last night."

"No kidding!" Roger blurted. He was genuinely dumbstruck.

"Some poor Mexican guy with six kids," Paul said. "Shot him through the eye. Can you imagine?"

There was no way Roger could imagine. He leaned on the countertop. His legs felt wobbly. He'd been mad about being struck in the face; now he felt lucky. He shuddered to think of what might have happened had the doctor brought a gun when he'd come to the Onion Ring.

"When your time's up, it's up," Paul said philosophically. He turned around and opened the refrigerator. Looking into the patty box, he could see it was almost empty.

"Skip!" Paul yelled. He'd seen Skip out in the restaurant proper emptying the trash containers.

"Do you have the newspaper?" Roger asked.

"Yeah," Paul said. "It's on the table in the employee room. Help yourself."

"What's up?" Skip asked. He'd come to the outer side of the counter.

"I need more burgers from the walk-in," Paul said. "And while you're at it, bring a couple of packages of buns."

"Can I finish what I'm doing first?" Skip asked.

"No," Paul said. "I need ' em now. I only have two patties left."

Skip muttered under his breath as he rounded the counter and headed to the restaurant's rear. He liked to finish one job before starting another. It was also beginning to bug him that everybody in the whole place could boss him around.

Skip pulled open the heavy, insulated door to the freezer and stepped into the arctic chill. The automatic door closed behind him. He pushed back the flaps of the first carton on the left but found it was empty. He cursed loudly. His colleague equivalent on the day shift always left him things to do. This empty carton would have to be cut down for recycling.

Skip went to the next carton and found that one empty as well. Picking up both cartons, he opened the door and threw them out of the freezer. Then he walked into the depths of the walk-in to locate the reserve patty cartons. He scraped the frost off the label on the nearest one he could find. It said: MERCER MEATS. REG. 0.1 LB HAMBURGER PATTIES, EXTRA LEAN. LOT 6 BATCH 9-14. PRODUCTION: JAN. 12, USE By: APR. 12.