'Aren't you going to tell him again to lock the door?' the kid said.

'No need.'

Teasle listened to the rattle of the door being unlocked. He waited, then heard Galt lock the door after him. 'Start with the boots,' he told the kid.

So what else did he expect? The kid took off his jacket.

'There you go again. I told you start with the boots.'

'The floor is wet.'

'And I told you get in there.'

'I'm not going in there any sooner than I have to.' He folded his jacket, squinted at the water on the floor, and set the jacket on the stairs. He put his boots beside it, took off his jeans, folded them and put them on top of the jacket.

'What's that big scar above your left knee?' Teasle said. 'What happened?'

The kid did not answer.

'It looks like a bullet scar,' Teasle said. 'Where did you get it?'

'My socks are wet on this floor.'

'Take them off then.'

Teasle had to step back to keep from being hit by them.

'Now take off your sweat shirt,' he said.

'What for? Don't tell me you're still looking for my I. D. cards.'

'Let's just say I like a thorough search, that I want to see if you've anything hidden under your arms.'

'Like what? Dope? Grass?'

'Who knows? It's happened.'

'Well not me. I gave up that stuff a long time ago. Hell, it's against the law.'

'Very funny. Just take off your sweat shirt.'

For once the kid did what he was told. As slow as he could, of course. His stomach muscles showed tight, and there were three straight scars across his chest.

'Where did they come from?' Teasle said surprised. 'Knife scars. What the hell have you been up to anyway?'

The kid squinted at the light and did not answer. He had a large triangular patch of black hair on his chest. Two of the scars cut through it.

'Hold up your arms and turn around,' Teasle said.

'That isn't necessary.'

'If there was a quicker way to search you I would sure have found it. Turn around.'

There were dozens of small jagged scars across the kid's back.

'Jesus, what's going on here?' Teasle said. 'Those are lash marks. Who's been lashing you?'

The kid still did not answer.

That's going to be some interesting report the state police sends back on you.'

He hesitated: now came the part he hated.

'All right, pull down your shorts.'

The kid looked at him. And looked at him.

'Don't give me any bashful looks,' he said, disliking this. 'Everybody has to go through this, and everybody is still a virgin when I'm finished. Just pull the shorts down. That's enough. Stop right there at your knees. I don't want to see anymore of you than I have to. Hold yourself up down there. I want to see if there's anything hidden. Not two hands. One. Just your fingertips.'

Keeping a distance, Teasle stooped and peered at the kid's groin from several angles. The testes were bunched up close under. Now came the worst part of all. He would have told somebody like Galt to do it, but he did not like passing on dirty jobs. 'Turn around and bend over.'

The kid really looked at him. 'Get your jollies off somebody else. I won't put up with anymore of this.'

'Yes you will. Aside from what you might have hid up it, I'm not interested in your rear end whatsoever. Just do what you're told. Now reach back and spread your cheeks. Come on, it's not a sight I enjoy. There. You know, when I worked in Louisville, I once had a prisoner with a three-inch knife in a leather case shoved up himself. It always beat me how he could sit down.'

Upstairs Galt was unlocking the door and opening it.

'O. K., you're clean.' Teasle said to the kid. 'You can pull up your shorts.'

Teasle listened for Galt to close and lock the upstairs door, and then Galt came scraping his shoes down the cement steps. He was carrying a pair of faded denim coveralls, a thin mattress, a rubberized sheet, a gray blanket. He looked at the kid standing there in his shorts, and he said to Teasle, 'Ward just called in about that stolen car. He found it in the stone quarry north of here.'

'Tell him to stay put and tell Shingleton to call the state police for a fingerprint crew.'

'Shingleton already called them.'

Galt went into the cell, and the kid started to follow, his bare feet making a slapping noise in the water on the floor.

'Not yet,' Teasle told him.

'Well make up your mind. First you want me in there. Now you don't want me in there. I wish you knew what you wanted.'

'What I want is for you to go down to that shower at the end. And I want you to take off your shorts and wash yourself good before you put on the clean uniform. Be sure to wash that hair of yours. I want it clean before I have to touch it.'

'What do you mean touch it?'

'I have to cut it.'

'What are you talking about? You're not cutting my hair. You're not going anywhere near my head with any scissors.'

'I told you everybody has to go through this. Everybody from car thieves to drunks gets searched like you, and takes a shower, and gets any long hair cut. The mattress we're giving you is clean and we want it back clean without any ticks or fleas from where you've been sleeping in sheds and fields and God knows where.'

'You're not cutting it.'

'With a little encouragement I could arrange for you to spend another thirty-five days here. You wanted in damn bad enough. Now you're going through with the rest of it. Why don't you just give in and make things easy for the two of us? Galt, why don't you go up and get the scissors, shaving cream, and razor?'

'I'll only agree to the shower,' the kid said.

'That'll be fine for now. One thing at a time.'

As the kid walked slowly down to the shower stall, Teasle looked again at the lash marks on his back. It was almost six o'clock. The state police would be reporting soon.

Thinking about the time, he counted back to three o'clock in California, unsure now whether to call. If she had changed her mind, she would already have been in touch with him. So if he did phone, he would only be putting pressure on and driving her farther away.

All the same he had to try. Maybe later when he was done with the kid, he would call and just talk without mentioning the divorce.

Who are you fooling? The first thing you'll ask her is whether she's changed her mind.

Inside the stall the kid turned on the spray.

The hole was ten feet deep, barely wide enough for him to sit with his legs outstretched. In the evenings they sometimes came with flashlights to peer down at him through the bamboo grate. Shortly after each dawn they removed the grate and hoisted him up to do their chores. It was the same jungle camp they had tortured him in, the same thatched huts and rich green mountains. For a reason he did not at first understand, they had treated his wounds while he was unconscious: the slashes in his chest where the officer had repeatedly punctured him with a slender knife and drawn the blade across, grating against his ribs; the lacerations in his back where the officer had crept up behind, suddenly lashing. Lashing. His leg was badly infected, but when they had opened fire on his unit and captured him, no bone had been hit, only thigh muscle, and eventually he was able to limp around.

Now they did not question him anymore, did not threaten him, did not even talk to him. They always made gestures to show him his work: dumping slops, digging latrines, building cook-fires. He guessed their silence toward him was punishment for pretending not to understand their language. Still, at night in his hole, he heard their conversations dimly and from the scraps of words he was satisfied that even while unconscious he had not told them what they wanted to know. After the ambush and his capture, the rest of his unit must have gone on to its objective, because now he heard about the exploded factories and how this camp was one of many in the mountains watching for other American guerrillas.