You'll remedy that.

But you tarry in the front room over the father and daughter. Their agonies are so exquisite. You draw up a chair to sit and watch them…

Carol awoke, cold and trembling. Another sickening nightmare. It was getting so she was afraid to go to sleep. She reached for Jim and experienced a moment of panic when she realized he wasn't beside her.

Last night she had waited up in bed alone until late, trying to distract her thoughts with Fletcher Knebel's new best-seller, but even Vanished couldn't keep her awake. She had fallen asleep before Jim came home.

Had he come home?

She went looking for him. It didn't take long to search the two-bedroom ranch—he wasn't here. Anxious now, she phoned the mansion, and with each unanswered ring the tension grew inside her. Finally Jim answered. He sounded groggy, his voice hoarse, his words garbled.

"How're you feeling?" she said, trying to sound bright and cheery.

"Terrible."

"Probably hung over. You were hitting the Scotch pretty heavily last night."

"Or not heavily enough."

"Did you finally get everything straightened out with those new journals?"

"I think so. If I can believe them. It ain't pretty."

"What's wrong? Did they tell you who your mother was?"

"Yeah. Nobody."

"Come on, Jim! It's me: Carol. Don't keep me in the dark. This isn't like you."

"Like me? Hon, are you sure you know what's like me? I'm not even sure I know what's like me."

"I know that I love you."

"I love you too. And I'm sorry about the way I acted last night."

"Then why didn't you come home?"

"Too bushed to make the walk. I stayed up with the journals all night."

"Okay. I'll pick you up and we'll have breakfast somewhere, and you can tell me all about this."

"Later. We'll talk later. Go to work. Let me go through these things one more time, and I'll explain everything—if that's possible—when you get back this afternoon. Okay?"

"I can't wait until then!"

"Please don't come out here now. I've still got a few more things to work out in my head."

"What is it, Jim?"

"It's weird, Carol. Really weird. I'll see you later."

Carol hung up and sat there by the phone, baffled and worried by Jim's mood. When there were problems, he tended to withdraw, think them out, then return with a solution. But he was so down. She couldn't remember him ever getting this low before.

She shook herself and stood up. Whatever it was, they could handle it together. She'd work through the day and they'd settle everything tonight. She headed for the shower. Mr. Dodd was due to go home with his daughters today.

At least something will go right this morning, Carol thought.

She called Jim again at around ten-fifteen, on her coffee break, using the booth in the hospital lobby so she could have a little more privacy than afforded by the Social Services office. But Jim was still uncommunicative, and if anything he sounded even more strung out. She wondered if Bill could help. Maybe he'd talk to Bill.

As she pulled another dime from her wallet she saw Catherine and Maureen, Mr. Dodd's daughters, come in through the main entrance. She dialed hurriedly.

2

Professor Albert Calder and his wife, Jane, struck Bill as a stuffy couple, the kind of people who consider themselves the intellectual superiors of most of the human race. But that was fine. Especially if they were going to adopt Nicky. They would need to be superior to keep pace with that boy.

So far Bill had overseen two meetings of the prospective parents and child here in St. F.'s, and both had gone well. The Calders were impressed with Nicky's quick mind, and Nicky had felt free to pull his child-genius routines without fear of alienating the adults. The Calders' references showed they were a stable, childless couple with a decent income and, although not terribly active in their parish, at least regular attendees at Mass.

It appeared to be a match made in heaven.

The next step was a weekend stay. The Calders were in his office now to make those arrangements.

"Okay, Father. Then it's all set," Professor Calder said. "We'll pick him up Friday afternoon after school."

He was in his mid-thirties, with thick, horn-rimmed glasses, a neat Vandyke goatee, and dark hair prematurely salted with gray, which he was letting grow over his ears. There were suede elbow patches on his tweed jacket. Here was a man who reveled in being a college professor.

Jane Calder was a short, plump redhead with a generous smile.

"We can't wait to have him over," she said.

"I know Nicky's looking forward to it too."

The intercom buzzed, and Sister Miriam's voice said, "Personal call on two, Father."

"Tell them to hold."

Professor Calder stood up and gave him a crisp handshake.

"Father Ryan, it's been a pleasure."

"That's mutual, I can assure you, Professor." He shook hands with Mrs. Calder and ushered them into the hall. They knew their way out.

Bill's spirits were high. He had a feeling in his gut that this was it for Nicky—out of St. F.'s and into a home that could nurture his mind, body, and spirit. He felt good about the imminent adoption. This was what it was all about.

On top of that, he had had a call from the Maryland Provincial yesterday to clarify a few items on his curriculum vitae. That could mean that either Loyola or Georgetown were interested in him. Either way he'd be in or near the nation's capital, right in the thick of things.

Nicky, old pal, we're both getting out of here!

He picked up the phone. "Father Ryan."

"Bill, it's Carol. Carol Stevens. I need your help."

Involuntarily he flushed with pleasure at the sound of her voice, even though it sounded tight, tense.

"Something wrong?"

"It's Jim. He's been looking through Dr. Hanley's old journals, hunting for the identity of his mother. I think he's found something that's really upset him."

"What?"

"He won't tell me a thing about it. I'm worried, Bill. He sounds like he's about to explode. We're supposed to talk the whole thing out tonight, but that seems a long time away. I was wondering if maybe you could—"

"I'll call him right now," Bill said.

The relief in her voice poured through the phone. "Will you? Oh, thank you! I hate to impose but—"

"Carol, this is what friends are for. Don't give it a second thought."

After jotting down the number and saying good-bye, Bill sat there a moment with his hand on the receiver, thinking.

Carol again. There didn't seem to be any escape from her. Just when he thought he was getting a handle on his obsession with her, she says a few words to him over the phone and he's on fire again. This had to stop. He had to beat this.

But first he had to see about Jim.

He lifted the phone and hesitated. As a priest he did his share of counseling in the confessional. But those were strangers, and they had initiated the encounter by coming to him.

This was different. Jim was an old friend, and from the sound of it, Jim didn't want to talk about whatever it was that was upsetting him.

Jim… upset. That was hard to imagine. Jim Stevens was usually pretty unflappable.

Except about his roots.

Bill had realized from their conversations during last week's night on the town that Jim's roots were an obsession with him, and thus a vulnerable area of his psyche.

Listen to me: Bill Ryan, S.J., parlor psychoanalyst!

But he had made a point of studying a lot of psychology in the seminary. He had come to see the interplay between the human mind and human emotion as the wellspring of faith. To speak to man's faith, you had to understand its mechanisms. And how better to understand faith than to study the human psyche?