Sarah looked mournfully as the written language test was slipped into the file. "Did I pass?"

"You don't pass these tests. They're just to tell me about you so I can help you do better in school."

"I don't want to go back to school."

"I understand, Sarah, but it's not a good idea for you to stay back another year. You don't want all your classmates to advance a grade while you're left behind, do you?"

"Yes," Sarah answered without hesitation, "I'd like that."

Dr. Parker laughed. "Well, how about if I call Mrs. Beiderson and have her agree that you can take your tests out loud? Would that be all right?"

"So I wouldn't have to write out the answers?"

"Right."

"Would she do that?"

"I'm sure she would." The call had already been made.

"What about the spelling test? I'm ascared of spelling." The voice grew meek. Manipulatively meek, the doctor noted. Sarah had tried this technique before, with success.

"I'd like you to take it. Would you do it for me?"

"I'll be up in front of everybody. They'll laugh at me."

"No, you can do it by yourself. You and Mrs. Beiderson. That's all."

The child's instinctive sense of negotiation caught on that this was the best she could do. She looked at Dr. Parker and nodded uneasily. "I guess."

"Good. Now -"

"Can I finish the story at home?"

"The story?"

"Freddie and the baseball." She nodded at the booklet.

"I'm sorry, Sarah, that's all we had time for."

The girl's face twisted with enormous disappointment. "But I didn't get to write down the neat part!"

"No?" Dr. Parker asked. "What's the neat part?"

Sarah looked up at the same diplomas the doctor had watched Diane Corde scrutinize so desperately the previous week. The girl turned back, looked into the doctor's eyes and said, "What happens is Freddie hits the baseball into the street and it goes rolling down the sidewalk and into a drugstore. And there's Mr. Pillsit…" Sarah's eyes widened. "And he used to play for the Chicago Eagles. That was a ball team that had real eagles that would swoop down and grab the baseball and sail out over the grandstand and they won every game there was. And Mr. Pillsit says to Freddie -"

Dr. Parker held up her hand. "Sarah, did you read this story someplace?"

She shook her head. "No, I just made it up, like I was supposed to. I thought I was supposed to. I'm sorry…" The eyes lowered theatrically. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, not at all. Keep going."

"'And Mr. Pillsit,' he says to Freddie, 'If you really want to play baseball, I can make you the best player that ever was, only you have to go find the tallest tree in the eagles' forest and climb up to the top. Are you brave enough to do that?'"

Freddie was of course up to the job, and Sarah enthusiastically continued with his adventures, not noticing the psychiatrist's braceletted hand reach forward and nonchalantly lift her gold pen, recording in rapid, oblique symbols of speed writing Freddie's quest for the magic baseball – fighting Hugo the Claw, the worst eagle that ever was, building a new clubhouse for the team after their original one burned down, running away from home and living in a big nest with a family of beautiful golden eagles. Freddie never returned home though he did become a famous baseball player. By the time Sarah finished, Dr. Parker had filled ten pages of steno paper. "That is a very interesting story, Sarah."

"No," Sarah said, sounding like a TV film reviewer. "But the picture was of Freddie and a baseball so I couldn't think of anything else."

The doctor flipped through her notebook slowly then said, "All right, I've got to look over all the work you've done for me and you've got to go study for your tests."

"I want my daddy to help me."

After a moment the doctor looked up. "I'm sorry, Sarah. What did you say?"

"I want Daddy to help me study. Is that okay?"

"That'll be fine," Resa Parker spoke absently. Her mind was wholly occupied by a boy and a baseball and a talking eagle.

"This is my federal firearm permit and this is my Missouri private investigator's license."

Sheriff Steve Ribbon studied the squares of laminated plastic in the man's wallet. He'd never seen a federal firearm permit. Or a Missouri private eye's license.

He said, "Looks in order."

Charlie Mahoney put the wallet back in his pocket. He wore a businessman's suit – in a fine, faint plaid that looked gray but up close was tiny lines of pink and blue. Ribbon liked that suit a whole lot. Ribbon nodded him toward a chair, observing that the man had two types of self-assurance: the institutional authority of a longtime cop. And the still confidence of a man who has killed another man.

Mahoney tossed an expensive, heavy tan raincoat onto an empty chair and sat down across the desk from Ribbon. He talked without condescension or interest about the beautiful spring weather, about the difficulty of getting to New Lebanon by air, about the ruralness of the town. He then fell silent and looked behind Ribbon, studying a huge topographical map of the county. During this moment Ribbon grew extremely uncomfortable. He said, "Now what exactly can I do for you?"

"I'm here as a consultant."

"Consultant."

"I'm representing the estate of Jennie Gebben. I was a homicide detective in Chicago and I have a lot of investigatory experience. And I'm offering my services to you. Free of charge."

"The thing is -"

"I've apprehended or assisted in the apprehension of more than two hundred homicide suspects."

"Well, what I was going to say was, the thing is, you're a, you know, civilian."

"True," Mahoney conceded. " Ill be frank. I can't tell you how upset Mr. Gebben is that this has happened. This has nothing to do with your ability to collar the perpetrator, Sheriff. Sending me here was just something he felt he had to do. Jennie was his only child."

Ribbon winced and felt genuine sorrow in his heart. "I appreciate what he must be going through. I've got kids myself. But you know how it is, regulations. You must've had those in Chicago."

"Sure, plenty." Mahoney studied the great blossom of Ribbon's face and added some shitkick to his voice as he said, "Can't hurt just to do a little talking. That can't hurt nothing now, can it?"

"No, I suppose not."

"You're in charge of the case?"

"Well, ultimately," Ribbon said. "But we got a senior detective here who's doing most of the legwork. Bill Corde. Good man."

"Bill Corde. Been doing this sort of thing for a few years?"

"Yessir, he has."

"What approach is he taking?"

"Well, he's thinking that it was somebody who knew her. Most likely somebody at the school."

Mahoney was nodding in a way that said to Ribbon he was troubled. "Playing the odds."

"Beg your pardon?"

"He's taking the cautious approach. Statistically most people are killed by somebody -"

"- they know."

"Exactly. But from what I've read about this case it's a little stranger than most. Some twists and turns, you know what I'm saying?"

"I hear you." Ribbon's voice lowered. "I've got a load of trouble with what's happening here. There are some, you know, cult overtones to the whole thing."

"Cult." Mahoney was nodding again, this time agreeably. "Like she was a sacrifice victim or whatever. Right. Those goats and that blood. The moon and everything. Whoever picked up on that idea was doing some good law enforcement work."

Ribbon's caution was on the ebb but he said, "I still have some trouble with you getting involved, Mr. Mahoney. I -"

"Charlie," Mahoney chided. "Charlie." He lifted his thick hands, with their yellow-stained index fingers, heavenward. "At least do yourself a favor and let me tell you about the reward."