"Your ankles sweat, you know that?"

"I'm not surprised," the doctor said.

"So you're sticking with this idea that I'm crazy? That's what you're going to tell Mulcahy?"

Courtney brushed himself off. The palms of his hands were red and abraded, and this seemed to bother him. He straightened his blazer. "You're very lucky I didn't lose one of my contact lenses," he told Wiley.

"You're lucky you didn't lose your goddamn life." Plainly unsatisfied, Wiley sat down at the doctor's desk. Courtney reclaimed his spot on the couch, a brand-new spiral notebook on his lap.

"In my opinion, it started with the hurricane column," the psychiatrist said.

"Come on, doc, that was a terrific piece."

"It was uncommonly vicious and graphic. 'What South Florida needs most is a killer hurricane ... ' All that stuff about screaming winds and crumpled condominiums. My mother saw that ... that trash," the doctor said with agitation, "and the next day she put her place on the market. The poor woman's scared to death. An ocean view with a nine-point-eight-mortgage—assumable!—and still she's scared out of her mind. Wants to move to bloody Tucson. All because of you!"

"Really?" Skip Wiley seemed pleased.

"What kind of drugs," Dr. Courtney started to ask him, "provoke this kind of lunacy?"

But Skip Wiley already was on his way out the door, a honey-maned blur.

Cab Mulcahy strolled into the newsroom shortly after five. He was a composed, distinguished-looking presence among the young neurotics who put out the daily newspaper, and several of them traded glances that said: Wonder what brings the old man out?

Mulcahy was looking for Wiley. Actually, he was looking for Wiley's column. Mulcahy harbored a fear that Wiley would devise a way to sneak the damn thing into print in defiance of their agreement.

The city editor said he hadn't seen Wiley all day, and reported that no column had arrived by messenger, telephone, or teletype. The city editor also pointed out that, without a column, he was staring at a big sixteen-inch hole on the front page, with deadlines fast approaching.

"Ricky Bloodworth's offered to do the column if Wiley doesn't show up," the city editor said.

"Has he now?"

"He worked up a couple pieces in his spare time. I saw 'em this morning, Cab, and they're not bad. A little purple, maybe, but interesting."

"No way," Mulcahy said. 'Tell him thanks just the same."

The city editor looked dejected; Mulcahy knew that he had been yearning to rid himself of the Wiley Problem for a long time. The city editor did not get on well with Skip Wiley. It was a bad relationship that only got worse after Wiley let it slip that he was making five thousand dollars a year more than the city editor, not including stock options. Stock options!The city editor had gone home that night and kicked the shit out of his cocker spaniel.

"Did you call Wiley's house?" Mulcahy asked.

"Jenna hasn't seen him since he left for the doctor's this morning. She said he seemed fine and dandy."

"That's what she said?"

"Verbatim,"the city editor said. "Fine and dandy."

Mulcahy phoned Dr. Remond Courtney and told him that Skip Wiley hadn't showed up for work.

"Oh?" Dr. Courtney did not seem surprised, but it was hard to tell. Courtney was an expert at masking his reactions by saying things like Ohand I seeand Why don't you tell me about it.

"I was wondering," Mulcahy said impatiently, "how things went today?"

"How things went?"

"With you and Mr. Wiley. You had an appointment, remember?"

More silence; then: "He became abusive."

"Became abusive? He's alwaysabusive."

"Physically abusive," Courtney said. He was trying to remain clinical so Mulcahy wouldn't suspect how scared he'd been. "I believe he threatened my life."

"What did you do?"

"I talked him out of it, of course. I think we were doing much better by the end of the hour."

"Glad to hear it," Mulcahy said, thinking: Wiley's right, this guy is useless. "Tell me, did Skip say where he was going after his visit?"

"No. He left in a hurry. It had been a strenuous session for both of us."

Mulcahy said, "So what's the verdict?"

"Verdict?"

"What the hell is wrong with him?"

"Stress, fatigue, anxiety, paranoia. It's all job-related. I suggest you give him a year off."

"I can't do that, doctor. He's a very popular writer and the newspaper needs him."

"Suit yourself. He's a nut case."

A nut case who sells newspapers, Mulcahy thought ruefully. Next he tried Jenna.

"I still haven't seen him, Cab. I'm getting a little worried, too. I've got a spinach pie in the oven."

Jenna had the most delicious voice of any woman Cab Mulcahy had ever met; pure gossamer. Even spinach piecame out like Let's do it!The day Skip Wiley moved in with Jenna was the day Cab Mulcahy decided there was no God.

"Does he usually call?" Mulcahy asked.

"He doesn't do anything in a usual way, you know that, Cab." A silky laugh.

Mulcahy sighed. In a way it was his fault. Hadn't he introduced them to each other, Jenna and Skip, one night at the Royal Palm Club?

Jenna said, "Skip makes contact two or three times a day, in various ways. Today—nothing, after noon."

"What did he say," Mulcahy ventured, "when he ... made contact?"

"Not much. Hold on, I gotta turn down the stove ... okay, let me try to remember ... I know! He said he was on his way to get a new muffler for the car, and he also said he murdered the psychiatrist. Is that part true?"

"Of course not," Mulcahy said.

"I'm glad. He's got such a crummy temper."

"Jenna, did Skip mention when he might be making contact again?"

"No, he never does. He likes to surprise me, says it keeps the romance fresh. Sometimes I wonder if he's just testing me. Trust is a two-way street, y'know."

"But he comes home for dinner?"

"Almost always," Jenna said.

"If he comes home tonight," Mulcahy said, by now eager to escape the conversation, "please have him call the newsroom. It's important."

"I'm getting worried, Cab," Jenna said again. "This spinach is starting to clot."

What an actress, Mulcahy thought, she's just terrific. When Skip Wiley first seduced Jenna, he'd thought he was getting himself a gorgeous blond melon-breasted bimbo. That's how he had described her to Mulcahy, who knew better. He had warned Wiley, too, warned him to proceed with extreme caution. Mulcahy had seen Jenna in action once before; she was magnetic and purposeful far beyond Skip Wiley's ragged powers of comprehension. But Wiley hadn't listened to Mulcahy's warning, and chased Jenna shamelessly until she'd let herself get caught.

Mulcahy's speculation about Wiley's weirdness included the possibility that Jenna was the key.

Mulcahy swept the clutter from the desk into his briefcase, put on his jacket, and threaded his way through the newsroom toward the elevators.

"Cab, just a second." It was the city editor, looking febrile.

"If Wiley doesn't show, run a feature story in his slot," Mulcahy instructed, still walking.

"A parade story, something mild like that. And at the bottom run a small box in italics. Say Wiley's out sick. Say the column will resume shortly."

The city editor didn't skulk off the way Mulcahy expected him to. Mulcahy stopped short of the elevators and asked, "What's the matter?"

"The highway patrol just called," the city editor said uneasily. "They found Wiley's car, the old Pontiac."

"Where?'

"In the middle of Interstate 95. At rush hour."

"No Wiley?"

The city editor shook his head grimly. "Engine was running, and Clapton was blasting on the tape deck. The car was just sitting there empty in traffic. They're towing it to Miami police headquarters. I've sent Bloodworth over to see what he can find out. Want me to call you later at home?"