At the time he had been, if not a happily married man, a contented one. Irene, his wife of thirty years, had lost interest in sex. All her time and energy was taken up with her causes. He remembered thinking it was a relief. One less obligation to distract him from his career plans. He had been sliding comfortably along on the track that would take him to the superior court bench and onward.

Everything changed in a heartbeat. He was astonished, looking back on it, that he could have been so easily tempted, that temptation would take him so deep, that it all could happen so quickly.

Madness, that was what it was. It had infected him and swept through him like a cancer. First it was Lucy, then the cocaine, the parties, the forays into the world of Evan Bryce and the people who sought him out. He had been so smug at first, flattered and full of himself. He had believed he could handle it, that he could keep his newfound vices separate from his public image. But the task had grown increasingly difficult, until he felt as if he were being asked to juggle bowling balls while balancing on one foot on the head of a pin. His control had slipped bit by bit, and now his life was spiraling downward like a plane with all engines smoking. He could almost hear the wind roaring in his ears.

His need for cocaine was out of control. Between the drugs and the blackmail, his finances were eroding at an alarming rate. Irene was leaving him. God only knew what would happen when her attorney started demanding money and property that had long since gone to fund his secret life. Bryce had him under his thumb and there was a very incriminating videotape floating around that would end his career at the very least if it fell into the wrong hands.

“I have to get that tape,” he muttered.

He could scarcely hear above the thundering of his pulse in his ears. The trembling that had been contained to his hands quaked up his arms and down through his body. He felt as if he might explode. Panic choked him. On the brink of tears, he flung himself into the leather-upholstered desk chair and reached for the handle of the drawer. His fingers curled around it and tightened and tightened until his knuckles were the color of bone.

He had to stop. He had to, or the madness would never end. During the night he had promised himself he would quit. He would extend his vacation into a six-month leave of absence from the bench and clean up his act. He would go to another state, where no one would know him, and check himself into a clinic. There was a place in Minnesota he’d heard about. Top-notch, discreet. He would go there, and when he came back he would be a new man, his old self, back on the straight and narrow.

The plan brought with it a kind of euphoria, a high not unlike that he got from the drugs. For a moment he saw the future through a watery white light, like something inside a free-floating soap bubble. He would quit the drugs, get the stress under control, distance himself from the people who had dragged him down into this muck. Then the phone to his left shrilled a high, birdlike call and the bubble burst.

He grabbed the receiver, his heart rate spiking up-ward again, expecting to hear Bryce on the other end. “Townsend.”

“Judge Townsend.” The voice was unfamiliar, male, ringing with a quality of false joviality. “I was a friend of a friend of yours. Lucy MacAdam.”

Townsend said nothing. The silence vibrated against his ears. A hundred thoughts raced through his mind, none of them pleasant.

“Are you there?”

He tried to swallow the bile that rose up the back of his throat. His mouth was dry as chalk dust. “Y-yes. I’m here.”

“I happen to know you and Lucy had a little thing going. Thought maybe we could discuss it.”

The tape. Jesus, he had the tape! He thought of denying the charge, but what was the point? His nerves couldn’t take a cat-and-mouse game. Better to get it over with. “What do you want?”

“Not over the phone. I prefer to do business in person.”

“Where, then?”

“Do you like to fish, Judge?”

“What? What the hell-”

“Of course you do. You’re a rugged outdoors type, or you wouldn’t have come here. There’s a great spot I just discovered over on Little Snake. Meet me at the Mine Road turnoff on old county nine in an hour and I’ll lead the way. Know where that is?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good. Oh, and, Judge? Better bring your wallet.”

He fumbled to re-cradle the receiver, his attention on the pressure that was building inside his head. Maybe he would just have an aneurism and die and that would be the end of all his troubles. The pressure pounded behind his eyes like a pair of fists.

Would this nightmare never end?

If he could get the tape back, he thought desperately. He’d pay whatever he had to. He’d sell this place to raise the money as long as he could be assured of never being bothered again. That would be best anyway. Get rid of this place. That would be part of the process of turning himself around. The situation wasn’t beyond damage control yet. He would sell this place, get himself straightened out, get Irene back before the divorce proceedings revealed his ravaged finances.

Having a plan calmed him somewhat, but he was still trembling. He pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his nose again. He had to give the appearance of being in control when he met this new blackmailer. It wouldn’t be wise to show fear.

His fingers curled into the handle of the drawer again and pulled it open. Just one more time…

Mari went into the emergency room with Will to make sure he actually got himself on the list of patients to be seen, then left him there with a promise to come back in an hour. As she drove through town, she made a pass around the square to take in the progress on the sculpture.

Colleen Bentsen was going at it with torch in hand and an iron mask over her face. The sculpture was still little more than scrap metal. A knot of New Eden housewives with babies in strollers stood frowning at the model, turning their heads sideways and back in an attempt to get a perspective that made sense. M. E. Fralick stood beside the pedestal, swinging her long arms in exaggerated gestures as she tried to explain the scope of the project.

At the Moose, tourists were trooping through the main lobby in their pseudo-western wear, heading for breakfast before a day in the great outdoors. Mari went up to her rooms and pried herself out of Lucy’s jeans. After a quick shower, she dressed in a pair of old black leggings, crew socks, and hiking boots. She pulled a T-shirt over her head with the words BO KNOWS YOUR SISTER stamped across the front in black, and completed the ensemble with a man-size denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up half a dozen times. She tried to clamp her hair back with a big silver barrette, but the mane was too much for it. The clasp gave way and launched the barrette across the room like a missile.

She went down to the dining room, scanning the faces for Drew. Kevin sat alone at a table near the kitchen door, going over paperwork while he sipped coffee. Mari wound her way to the table and pulled out the chair across from him.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to do homework at the breakfast table? You’ll ruin your posture.”

He glanced up at her and grinned. Automatically, he came halfway to his feet, even though she had already seated herself. “No, I never heard that one. The big one around my house was ‘Don’t run with a pencil in your hand-’ ”

“You’ll put your eye out,” they finished in unison.

Mari laughed. “I think my mother’s real fear was the social stigma of a daughter with an eye patch. There are so few designers who consider it an acceptable fashion accessory.”

Kevin snagged a passing waiter for coffee. “Breakfast?”

“No, thanks,” she said halfheartedly, eyeing the plump golden blueberry muffin he had yet to touch. “I had a doughnut.”