She shook her head again, uncrossed her legs. Climbed out of bed, as if the words demanded action.

"Leary?"

"It's a question we all ask," she explained, standing there looking out her window into the trees, her hands cradling that tin whistle as if it were a relic. "What's best for the poor old gomers we have to take care of all the time. You know, just how hard should we fight to save them? When does it stop being sensible and become obscene instead? I could understand if any one of the people who's covering this up had said they were doing it because deep in their hearts they really believed it was better for those old people. Because they really did think whoever's doing this was giving them peace. A chance to be rid of all of us, ya know?"

He'd thought it when he'd finally sat down with Joe Leary. "Yeah. I know."

"But not one person really even thought about it. Not one." She turned on him, her eyes accusing. "Not even me. And that's just the most enlightening thing of all."

She was trembling. Murphy wasn't even sure she knew it, but he could see it in her hands and along her arms. She looked like she was going to break, those big blue eyes of hers bleaker than any survivor's waiting at a mine shaft. And Murphy didn't know what to do about it.

"What happened, Leary?" he asked.

She laughed. "Happened?" She hesitated a heartbeat, as if battling something. When she turned away from him, Murphy had the most unholy feeling she'd lost. "Nothing happened. Nothing at all."

This wasn't helping his peace of mind.

"All right," he said. "Let's try this. What's in the box?"

She didn't move. "Nothing."

"You just developed a fetish for evidence boxes."

"Uh-huh."

Murphy had been able to weasel the truth out of four embezzling senators, a bomb-hiding revolutionary, and several dozen reticent whistle-blowers. He stood at the edge of Leary's room and didn't have a clue what to say next.

"And you have nothing to say about this Alice Hampton, or whoever, who died last night."

She tensed like an animal scenting predators. "Not right now."

"Then when?"

"I don't know. Tomorrow... I think, tomorrow. You might want to take today off, too. Go see a movie or something."

"Are you sure it can wait?"

Not a breath of movement.

"Leary?"

She never turned around. Just shook her head. And Murphy, not knowing what else to do, turned around to leave. He'd made it all the way down the steps before he heard movement behind him.

"Murphy?"

He stopped. She was standing at the top of the stairs, her face in shadow, her hands tight around that damn sliver of tin.

"What?"

It took her a minute to speak, and when she did, she sounded scared. "Would you come back later tonight?"

"Why, Leary? What's going to happen?"

She lifted her head a little, and almost smiled. "You mean you don't believe I just want some mindless sex?"

"Not really."

"Please." Murphy heard desperation and couldn't believe it. "Come over about midnight. I think I'm going to need some help."

Murphy knew something substantial was happening here. He just wished like hell somebody'd tell him what it was.

"I'll be here." He was all set to walk out when he remembered at least one of the reasons he'd intended to come over here in the first place. "One thing. I got another call from my whisperer this morning. It's a woman. And she called from a service station. Any ideas?"

"A service station?"

"Yeah. Mike's Mobile. Mean anything?"

And here he'd thought she sounded bad before. This time when she spoke, she sounded as if she were going to die. "Yeah," she said. "It does."

"And?"

"Tomorrow. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Leary just turned back to her room, which left Murphy nothing better to do than leave. He made it all the way out the door this time. When he closed it behind him, though, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just run away.

* * *

Timmie spent the rest of the day right where she was. Far away from the phone, far away from her friends, as far from her father as she could manage. She listened to the phone ring half a dozen more times and didn't move an inch to answer it. She thought about calling Murphy back more than once. She didn't. She didn't do anything, because there was just nothing she could manage to do right now.

At three the door opened again and Meghan clomped in. "Mom!" she yelled. "Hey, Mom! I'm home! I have the mail! And Mr. Mattie's here!"

Timmie wasn't ready for Meghan. She definitely wasn't ready for the Reverend Walter with his sweet, Christian heart and old, old eyes. He'd see right through her. He'd know exactly what she'd been thinking ever since the moment that voice on the phone had offered to solve all her problems. And then he'd forgive her, and Timmie really wasn't ready for that.

So she climbed out of bed and walked to the head of the stairs. Down below, standing square and tall and strong, just like a soldier of God should, Walter took up the entire doorway.

"Timmie? Brought your baby home."

"Thanks, Walter."

Walter leaned over a little so he could see Timmie better as Meghan bounded up the stairs with a handful of bills and one manila envelope in her hand. An envelope from Conrad. Timmie wasn't sure how she could feel worse. She dropped it on the floor where it couldn't hurt her and hugged her baby. It wasn't until Meghan had galloped back down to the kitchen for cookies that Timmie realized that Walter still stood at the bottom of the steps.

"My pleasure," he rumbled in a soothing baritone Timmie loved. "She's a treasure. How much longer you think I'm gonna need to keep an eye on the children?"

No longer, she wanted to say. It's all over. The children will be safe, I'll be able to sleep again, and my father will be... safe. Far away from me and my mother and anybody else who can't remember how wonderful he could be.

"I'm not sure," she said instead, feeling it in her chest. In her stomach. In the tense ache of her hands where they were clenching that damn tin whistle. "Do you mind?"

The reverend shook his head. "Not if it means you can stop this evil with a clear mind. I'm happy to do it." When Timmie couldn't seem to manage an answer, he frowned, a polite man. "Are you all right, Timothy Ann?"

Stupid question. She needed to confess, but Walter wasn't a priest. She needed to act, but she was frozen. She needed to believe that whatever she ended up doing tonight, it would be the right thing. That it was all right that she hadn't told her caller no last night.

She needed to believe that she'd hesitated only because she couldn't stand to see her father hurt anymore, and she couldn't quite do that. Which didn't leave her with much.

"I'm fine, Walter. Just fine."

Walter's nod was slow. "All right, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

Timmie meant to tell him to tell Mattie to stay home. She didn't quite manage that, either. So twenty minutes later to the minute, the front door crashed open and Mattie, Ellen, and Cindy marched into the house. Timmie waited for them on the top step.

"You are not all right," Mattie accused from the bottom of the stairs.

Timmie didn't move. "Go away, Mattie," she said softly. "I'll call you tomorrow."

Mattie straightened like a shot. "I will not. And you'll tell me now."