"What about doing some kind of voiceprint analysis? Trying to get an electronic match."

"From what I know, you need actual words for a match. And the department doesn't do voiceprints anymore."

"Why not?"

"Probably not enough call. What they're useful for, mostly, is kidnapping ransom calls, and that's usually the FBI's game. Also phone scams, bunco stuff, which is low priority with all the buckets of blood. I think one guy at the sheriff's is still doing them. I'll find out."

The dog finally put his head in the bowl and began slurping water. Milo lifted his bottle, said, "Cheers," and emptied it.

"Why don't you and I try a little bit of low-tech teamwork right now?" I said. "You take audio, I'll take video-"

"And I'll be in Screamland afore ye."

• • •

He took the portable tapedeck into the library and loaded the video. We sat across from one another, listening to screams, trying to shut out the context. Even with two people it was difficult- hard to divide the howls into discrete segments.

We played and rewound, doing it over and over, trying to locate the sixteen seconds of the bad love tape amid the pain and noise of the longer video segment. The dog tolerated only a minute or so before scooting out of the room.

Milo and I stayed and sweated.

After half an hour, a triumph of sorts.

A discrepancy.

A second or two of sing-song, wordless jabber at the tail end of my tape that didn't materialize anywhere on the soundtrack of the video.

Ya ya ya… the screamer lowering his volume just a bit- a barely discernible shift not much longer than an eyeblink. But once I pointed it out, it mushroomed, as obvious as a billboard.

"Two separate taping sessions," I said, as stunned as Milo looked. "Has to be, otherwise why would the shorter tape have something on it that's missing from the longer segment?"

"Yeah," he said quietly, and I knew he was angry at himself for not catching it first.

He sprang to his feet and paced. Looked at his Timex. "When'd you say you were going to the airport?"

"Nine."

"If you're comfortable leaving the place unguarded, I could go get something done."

"Sure," I said, rising. "What?"

"Talk to the clinic director about Hewitt's social life."

He collected his things and we walked to the door.

"Okay, I'm off," he said. "Got the Porsche and the cellular, so you can always reach me if you need to."

"Thanks for everything, Milo."

"What're friends for?"

Ugly answers flashed in my head, but I kept them to myself.

Just as I was preparing to head out for LAX, Dr. Stanley Wolf returned my call. He sounded middle-aged and spoke softly and hesitantly, as if doubting his own credibility.

I thanked him and said I'd called about Dr. Grant Stoumen.

"Yes, I got the message." He asked several tortuous questions about my credentials. Then: "Were you a student of Grant's?"

"No, we never met."

"Oh… what do you need to know?"

"I'm being harassed by someone, Dr. Wolf, and I thought Dr. Stoumen might be able to shed some light on it."

"Harassed?"

"Annoying mail. Phone calls. It may be linked to a conference I co-chaired several years ago. Dr. Stoumen delivered a paper there."

"A conference? I don't understand."

"A symposium on the work of Andres de Bosch entitled "Good Love/Bad Love.' The term "bad love' was used in the harassment."

"How long ago was this?"

"Seventy-nine."

"De Bosch- the child analyst?"

"Did you know him?"

"No, child analysis is outside of my… purview."

"Did Dr. Stoumen ever talk about de Bosch- or this particular conference?"

"Not to my recollection. Nor did he mention any… annoying mail?"

"Maybe "annoying' is too mild," I said. "It's fairly nasty stuff."

"Uh-hm." He didn't sound convinced.

I said, "Last night it went a little further. Someone trespassed on my property. I have a fish pond. They took a fish out, killed it, and left it for me to see."

"Hmm. How… bizarre. And you think this symposium's the link?"

"I don't know, but it's all I've got so far. I'm trying to contact anyone who appeared on the dais, to see if they've been harassed. So far everyone I've tried to reach has moved out of town. Do you happen to know a psychiatrist named Wilbert Harrison or a social worker named Mitchell Lerner?"

"No."

"They also delivered papers. The co-chairs were de Bosch's daughter, Katarina, and a New York analyst named Harvey Rosenblatt."

"I see… Well, as I mentioned I'm not a child analyst. And unfortunately, Grant's no longer with us, so I'm afraid-"

"Where did his accident take place?"

"Seattle," he said, with sudden strength in his voice. "At a conference, as a matter of fact. And it wasn't a simple accident. It was a hit-and-run. Grant was heading out for a late-night walk; he stepped off the curb in front of his hotel and was struck down."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, it was terrible."

"What was the topic of the conference?"

"Something to do with child welfare- the Northwest Symposium on Child Welfare, I believe. Grant was always an advocate for children."

"Terrible," I said. "And this was in May?"

"Early June. Grant was on in years- his eyesight and hearing weren't too good. We prefer to think he never saw it or heard it coming."

"How old was he?"

"Eighty-nine."

"Was he still in practice?"

"A few old patients stopped by from time to time, and he kept an office in the suite and insisted on paying his share of the rent. But mostly he traveled. Art exhibitions, concerts. And conferences."

"His age made him a contemporary of Andres de Bosch," I said. "Did he ever mention him?"

"If he did, I don't recall it. Grant knew lots of people. He was in practice for almost sixty years."

"Did he treat especially disturbed or violent patients?"

"You know I can't discuss his cases, Dr. Delaware."

"I'm not asking about specific cases, just the general tenor of his practice."

"The little that I saw was pretty conventional- children with adjustment problems."

"Okay, thanks. Is there anyone else who could talk to me about him?"

"Just Dr. Langenbaum, and he knows about as much as I do."

"Did Dr. Stoumen leave a widow?"

"His wife died several years ago and they had no children. Now I really do have to get going."

"Thanks for your time, Dr. Wolf."

"Yes… hmm. Good luck on… working this through."

• • •

I got my car keys, left a lot of lights on in the house, and turned on the stereo to loud jazz. The dog was sleeping noisily on his towel bed, but he roused himself and followed me to the door.

"Stay and guard the home front," I said, and he harrumphed, stared for a moment, finally sat down.

I walked out, closed the door, listened for a protest, and when I didn't hear any, went down to the carport. The night had cooled, massaged by sea current. The waterfall seemed deafening and I drove away listening to it diminish.

As I coasted down toward the Glen, a sense of dread dropped over me, dark and smothering, like a condemned man's hood.

I paused at the bottom of the road, looking at black treetops and slate sky. A faint bit of light from a distant house blinked through the foliage like an earthbound star.

No way to gauge its distance. I had no real neighbors because an acre-wide strip of county land, unbuildable due to a quirky water table, cut through this section of the Glen. Mine was the only buildable site on the plot plan.

Years ago the isolation had been just what I wanted. Now a nosy streetmate didn't seem half bad.

A car sped down the Glen from the north, appearing suddenly around a blind curve, going too fast, its engine flatulent with power.