We ate the orange and yellow food and waited for Chris Porterfield to call. She did not. At eight Calvin Markham and a SUNY friend stopped in, and we played hearts until around ten, when they left for a quick foray to the Terminal before heading home. Timmy decided to stay over, and we got out the Scrabble. At a quarter to twelve, with the score nearly tied, he went out with "pomelo," a kind of grapefruit, so he said. I looked it up. "A kind of grapefruit."

We went to bed. I'd always loved the sight of Timmy's milk-white skin under the blueish glow of the streetlight outside my front window, and I was sitting there running my fingers over all the different parts of him as he lay uncovered beside me when at exactly five before midnight the phone rang.

"Hello. Don Strachey."

"This is Christine Porterfield. I'd like to know who you are and exactly what your game is." A strong, confident voice.

I said, "I'm a private detective hired by Billy Blount's parents to get him out of this thing. Their idea of what getting him out of this means may be different from mine, or yours, or Billy's. I'm interested in hearing Billy's and I'd like to talk to him. I have this idea you could help me with that."

"Mr. Strachey, what if I told you that Billy doesn't need any help. That he's safe, and happy, and he's starting to make a new life for himself. You know that Billy and I understand each other—we're very close, and you've found that out. So why don't you just take my word for it that he's all right, and tell the Blounts not to worry. Will you do that?"

"I'm glad he's okay," I said, "because I keep hearing nice things about him, and I don't think he deserves any more grief. But it can't last, and I think you know that. Billy's too young to spend his life looking over his shoulder. The police have already traced you to Cheyenne, and if you're with him, it's only a matter of time before you stumble. That will be disastrous for both of you."

A hesitation. Then: "Look—thank you for telling Margarita about the Cheyenne police. We appreciated that. But we're not really in Cheyenne, and we're with people who know how to help us—how to help Billy. They're not amateurs at this, and they know what they're doing. Actually, I'm coming to Albany in a week or so—Billy is getting the support he needs from other people here. Maybe we can get together and I can reassure you. Though I'm afraid there really isn't much more I'll be able to tell you. I'm sorry."

"There's another thing," I said. "And I hope you'll give this a lot of thought. Billy did not commit a murder—we both believe that." In fact, I wasn't a hundred percent certain of this, but I was nearly there. "But someone did kill Steve Kleckner," I said, "and the odds are that he's still in Albany. If he took a life once, he could do it again. He may, in fact, be the man who attacked a friend of Billy's Saturday morning and wounded him. Only Billy knows exactly what happened the night of the Kleckner murder, and he has a responsibility to someone— maybe someone he knows—to help identify the killer before he

kills again. If I could just talk with Billy about that night—for now that's all I'll ask."

Silence. Then: "Just a minute. Can you hold on for just one minute?" She sounded irritated, frustrated.

"I'll wait."

The receiver was set down with a clunk. I could hear a TV set on near the phone somewhere. The PBS Paul Robeson special ended, and Monty Python came on. That'd be Pacific Time, or Mountain. I'd check. Two minutes went by.

She came back. "I'm very sorry—I do understand what you're saying, but—I just can't help you, Mr. Strachey. You said a friend of Billy's has been wounded. Could you tell me who that was?"

"Huey Brownlee. The attack might or might not have had anything to do with the Kleckner killing, but if the attacker is the same man, I've got to talk with Billy fast to figure out what that connection might be. See what I'm saying? Anyway, tell Billy that Brownlee wasn't badly hurt. He's okay."

"Oh, thank God for that. You see—well, the fact is, Billy did not actually see who stabbed Steven Kleckner, and he has no idea who could have done it. So how could he possibly help you? Please-try to understand—"

"You mean Billy wasn't there at the time? He'd gone out, or what?"

"He was—taking a shower."

"Taking a shower."

"Billy is quite fastidious in some ways."

That made sense. I wondered if he also carried an ashtray around with him.

I said, "And no one else was there when he—went into the bathroom?"

"No."

"Nor when he came out?"

"No. He says he thought he was going crazy. He couldn't understand how it had happened. The other man, Steven, had fallen asleep, and when Billy came out of the shower, at first he thought the man was still asleep. And then he saw the blood all over the man. He felt the man's pulse, even though he said he could see that the poor man was dead. Then Billy panicked and ran away. He did notify the police, but he knew everyone would

think he had done it, and Billy was absolutely terrified of being put in prison. Billy does not like to be locked up unjustly. It happened to him once before."

"I know," I said. "I'm sorry. Would you mind telling me where and when that happened?"

A pause. "Why do you want to know that?"

"Just checking all the angles," I lied. "Maybe Billy made an enemy there—some real psycho who'd track him down later and set him up as a murder suspect."

This sounded flaky, but it was the best I could come up with on no notice. In fact another much more logical notion was beginning to shape itself.

She said, "Mr. Strachey, I don't want to tell you how to run your business, but that sounds a bit off the wall to me. This happened ten years ago. I know about it because I was there. And believe me, Billy's only enemies were the lunatics in charge of the place. From what Margarita told me about you, I'd expect you to understand that."

They both must have been around sixteen when they'd gone in, under the age of consent. "Did your parents have you committed, too?" I asked. "For reasons of 'poor social adjustment?"

She said, "Yes. On account of our homosexuality. Our 'sickness.'"

I'd heard stories like Chris's and Billy's and had read of such atrocities in the gay literature. Before Stonewall it was not all that uncommon and is still today not entirely unheard of. But I'd never known anyone it had happened to, and it amazed me that two people could come through it with their minds as cleansed of rage as Chris Porterfield's and Billy Blount's apparently were. If 'they were. I had yet to meet either Billy or Chris face to face.

I said, "What was the name of the place? I'd like to find out if it's still operating with the same medieval outlook."

I could have asked her directly what I had in mind, but I might have lost her—and driven her and Billy from the city where I now suspected they were hiding.

She said, "Sewickley Oaks. In New Baltimore. I doubt that it's changed."

"How long were you there?" I asked.

"Long enough," she said. "More than a year."

"Were you and Billy released at the same time?"

She hesitated, "Oh—yes. We were."

That was it. I had it. I'd find them.

"Look," she said, "I really can't talk to you anymore. I hope I've helped you somewhat, and Billy and I do want the murderer to be found. I know, it's horrible that someone like that is still there in Albany loose somewhere. It's just that— Billy understands so little of what happened. Even now he's quite confused about it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"