What could Jim have learned to disturb him so?

He felt an unaccountable burst of sorrow for his old friend. Had the diehard, stonewall rationalist come upon something that he didn't want to accept? How sad.

He dialed the number Carol had given him. When he heard Jim's gruff voice on the other end, he put on his best hale-fellow voice.

"Jimbo! It's Bill Ryan. How's it goin'?"

"Just great." The flat tone made no attempt to hide the lie behind his words.

"Getting used to being a rich member of the establishment?"

"Working on it."

"So what's new?"

"Not much."

This was getting nowhere. Bill decided to come straight to the point.

"Find out anything new about your natural parents?"

"What makes you say that?" The words sounded as if they'd been ripped out of Jim—the first sign of emotion he'd shown since he'd picked up the phone.

Bingo.

"Just wondering. When we were out to dinner last week, you seemed satisfied that Hanley was your father and said you were going to comb the mansion for the identity of your mother."

Jim's voice was thick. "Yeah, well, maybe I didn't know as much as I thought I knew."

What's that supposed to mean?

"I'm sorry, Jim. I don't get it."

But Jim had leapt off the subject.

"Just a minute," he said. "Did Carol put you up to this?"

"Well, she's worried, Jim. She—"

"It's okay, Bill. I know she's worried. I haven't been playing fair with her. But I'll straighten things out today… I think."

"Can I help?"

"Bill, I don't think anyone can help."

A terrible, crushing sadness flowed across the line.

"Hey, surely—"

"Gotta go, Bill. Thanks. Bye."

And then the line went dead.

Bill sat there and knew with pitying certainty that his old friend had discovered the roots he had quested after for so long, and was being torn apart by what he had found.

3

Gerry Becker drove along Shore Drive to the Hanley mansion. He found the spike-topped wrought-iron gates closed and no car in the driveway. But that didn't mean Stevens wasn't there. He parked at the curb but remained behind the wheel for a while, staring at the huge place as the afternoon sun warmed the inside of the car and Big Dan Ingram yakked between the records on WABC.

He sat a little longer, basking in the clear March sky's preview of spring until Big Dan started playing "Daydream Believer." The Monkees. Perfect. Four jerks grabbed off the street get fame and fortune handed to them. Just like Jim Stevens. What a bummer!

He figured he should stop putting it off and get on with what he had come to do.

It was crow-eating time.

He pushed the gates open, walked up the drive, stepped up on the front porch, rang the bell, and held his breath.

He hated doing this. After all, the jerk had slugged him in the nose yesterday. So maybe it hadn't been in the best of taste to present the fruit of his whole day's research in that particular way. That didn't give Stevens the right to belt him. Did he think he could get away with that sort of shit because he was rich now?

But he had to stay on Stevens's good side. He wasn't going to let this story and the chance of a wire service pickup go blooey over one misunderstanding. If he had to eat a little crow today to ensure his exclusive on the story, well then, pass the mustard.

But after all this was over and the story was in print under his byline, he'd tell Jim Stevens to fuck off.

The heavy oak door swung open and Stevens stood there, staring at him.

"What the hell do you want?" Jim said.

His tone was hostile but his eyes showed something else. Becker wasn't sure what it was.

"I came to apologize."

"It's already forgotten."

"No, really. That was a stupid thing for me to do. Incredibly bad taste."

"Don't give it a second thought." His tone had gone flat, utterly emotionless.

Hey, this was going better than he had ever hoped. This was easy and damn near painless! He wished he could come in out of the cold, but Stevens kept the door almost closed and made no move to invite him inside.

"That's cool. Really big of you, Jim. So, have you turned up anything new we can put into the article?"

That strange look returned to Stevens's eyes. He said, "Don't give the article a second thought, either, Gerry."

Becker went numb. "I don't get it."

"It means I don't want you around anymore."

"We had a deal!"

"You've got your story."

"I've only got half of it!"

"You've got all you're going to get. Forget the rest."

"We were going to find out who your mother was! The story's not complete without it!"

At mention of his mother that strange look in Stevens's eyes deepened.

"Sorry about that. You'll have to go with what you've got. Or better yet, drop the whole thing."

"Not on your life, you son of a bitch! This is my ticket off the Express! You're not robbing me of it!"

"Good-bye, Gerry."

He slammed the door shut.' Furious, Becker gave it a kick, then hurried back through the gate to his Beetle, so angry that he could barely keep from screaming. And then he recognized Stevens's strange look for what it was.

He's afraid of me!

Becker took an immediate liking to the notion. He could not remember another time in his life when someone had been afraid of him. It gave him a good feeling, powerful.

There could only be one reason for Stevens's reaction: He had discovered something in his past he didn't want made public. That had to be it.

Gerry Becker promised himself that one way or another, he was going to ferret out that something.

4

"Jim?"

No answer.

The house seemed empty. Carol had sensed that the moment she stepped through the door, yet she had called out, anyway.

So quiet. Dust motes glowed and swirled in the late-afternoon sun slanting through the front windows. Carol looked around for a note. When she didn't find one, she went directly to the phone to call the Hanley mansion.

She was angry. She'd had just about all she could take now. This should have been a great day. She'd sent a very happy and grateful Mr. Dodd home with his daughters today—he was going to stay with Maureen, Catherine taking him on weekends—and she would have been high as a kite if not for Jim's secretive, erratic behavior.

She was about to dial when she heard a rustle from the study. A single step, a craning of her neck, and she saw him in profile as he sat on the convertible sofa.

He was staring off into space. He looked so lost, so utterly miserable that she wanted to cry for him. As she started forward she saw his eyes close and his head sag back against the cushion. His breathing became slow and rhythmic, the tension eased from his face. He was asleep.

Carol watched him for a few minutes. She didn't have the heart to awaken him. For the moment, at least, he had escaped whatever demons were pursuing him.

And then she saw the source of those demons—the journals from the safe, lying on the cushion next to him. Her first impulse was to grab them and find out for herself what could upset him so, but she hesitated. What if he woke up and found her sneaking out of the room with them? What would he think then about her respect for his privacy?

But damn it, this affected her too!

She tiptoed over to the sofa and gently slid the books off the cushion. There was a bad moment as she was lifting the pile away from him when the smaller black one almost slid out of her hands and onto Jim's lap, but she steadied it and slipped from the room without waking him.

She took them to the bedroom and, with trembling fingers, began flipping through one of the gray journals.