“Are you people going to need me much longer?” Victor asked.

Scudder shook his head. “If they got your name and number, you can go whenever you want.”

Upset as she was, Marsha could hardly focus on her afternoon patients and needed all her forbearance to appear interested in the last, a narcissistic twenty-year-old with a borderline personality disorder. The moment the girl left, Marsha picked up her purse and went out to her car, for once letting her correspondence go to the following day.

All the way home she kept going over her conversation with Remington. Either Victor had been lying about the amount of time VJ was spending at the lab or VJ had been forging his excuses. Both possibilities were equally upsetting, and Marsha realized that she couldn’t even begin dealing with her feelings about Victor and his unconscionable experiment until she had found out how badly VJ had been harmed. The discovery of his truancy added to her worries; it was such a classic symptom of a conduct disorder that could lead to an antisocial personality.

Marsha turned into their driveway and accelerated up the slight incline. It was almost dark and she had on her headlights. She rounded the house and was reaching for the automatic garage opener when the headlights caught something on the garage door. She couldn’t see what it was and as she pulled up to the door, the headlights reflected back off the white surface, creating a glare. Shielding her eyes, Marsha got out of the car and came around the front. Squinting, she looked up at the object, which looked like a ball of rags.

“Oh, my God!” she cried when she saw what it was. Shaking off a wave of nausea, she ventured another look. The cat had been strangled and nailed against the door as if crucified.

Trying not to look at the bulging eyes and protruding tongue, she read the typed note secured to the tail: YOU’D BETTER MAKE THINGS RIGHT.

Leaving her car where it was but turning off the headlights and the engine, Marsha hurried inside the house and bolted the door. Trembling with a mixture of revulsion, anger, and fear, she took off her coat and went to find the maid, Ramona, who was tidying up in the living room. Marsha asked whether she’d heard any strange noises.

“I did hear some pounding around noon,” Ramona said. “I opened the front door but nobody was there.”

“Any cars or trucks?” Marsha asked.

“No,” said Ramona.

Marsha let her go back to her cleaning and went to phone Victor, but once she got through, the office said he’d already left. She debated calling the police, but decided Victor would be home any minute. She decided to pour herself a glass of white wine. As she took a sip she saw headlights play against the barn.

“God damn it!” Victor cursed as he found Marsha’s car blocking the garage. “Why does your mother do that? She could at least keep her heap on her side.”

Angling the car toward the back door of the house, Victor came to a stop and turned off the lights and the ignition. He was a bundle of nerves following the experience at Gephardt’s. VJ and Philip were blithely unaware of what had happened there, and they didn’t ask for an explanation despite the fact that they had had to wait in the car for so long.

Victor got out slowly and followed the other two inside. By the time he closed the door he could tell that Marsha was in one of her moods. It was all in her tone as she ordered VJ and Philip to take off their shoes, get upstairs, and wash for dinner.

Victor hung up his coat, then entered the kitchen.

“And you!” said Marsha. “I suppose you didn’t see our little present on the garage door?”

“What are you talking about?” Victor said, matching Marsha’s testy tone.

“How you could have missed it is beyond me,” Marsha said, putting down her wineglass, flipping on the courtyard light and brushing past Victor. “Come with me!”

Victor hesitated for a moment, then followed. She marched him through the family room and out the back door.

“Marsha!” Victor called, hurrying to keep up with her.

She stopped by the front of her car. Victor came up beside her.

“What are you . . .” he began. His words trailed off as he found himself looking at the gruesome sight of Kissa, brutally nailed to the garage door.

Marsha was standing with her hands on her hips, looking at Victor, not at the cat. “I thought you’d be interested to see how well you ‘laid it on the line’ with the problem people.”

Victor turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at the dead, tortured animal, and he couldn’t face his wife.

“I want to know what you’re going to do to see that this is stopped. And don’t think you’ll get away with a simple ‘I’ll handle it.’ I want you to tell me what steps you’re going to take, and now. I just can’t take any more of this . . .” Her voice broke.

Victor wasn’t sure how much more of it he could take either. Marsha was treating him as if he was to blame, as though he’d brought this down on them. Maybe he had. But he’d be damned if he knew who was behind this. He was as baffled as Marsha was.

Victor slowly turned back to the garage door. It was only then he saw the note. He didn’t know whether to be angry or sick. Who the hell was doing this? If it were Gephardt, at least he wouldn’t be bothering them again.

“We’ve gone from a phone call to a broken window to a dead pet,” said Marsha. “What’s next?”

“We’ll call the police,” Victor said.

“They were a big help last time.”

“I don’t know what you expect from me,” Victor said, regaining some composure. “I did call the three people I suspected of being behind this. By the way, the list of suspects has been reduced to two.”

“What does that mean?” Marsha asked.

“Tonight on the way home I stopped at George Gephardt’s,” Victor said. “And the man was—”

“Yuck!” VJ voiced with a disgusted expression.

Both Victor and Marsha were startled by VJ’s sudden appearance. Marsha had hoped to spare her son from this. She stepped between VJ and the garage door, trying to block the gruesome sight.

“Look at her tongue,” VJ said, glancing around Marsha.

“Inside, young man!” Marsha said, trying to herd VJ back to the house. She really never would forgive Victor for this. But VJ would have none of it. He seemed determined to have a look. His interest struck Marsha as morbid; it was almost clinical. With a sinking feeling she realized there was no sorrow in his reaction—another schizoid symptom.

“VJ!” Marsha said sharply. “I want you in the house now!”

“Do you think Kissa was dead before she got nailed to the door?” VJ asked, still calmly, trying to look at the cat as Marsha pushed him toward the door.

Once they were inside, Victor went directly to the phone while Marsha tried to have a talk with VJ. Surely he had some feelings for their cat. Victor got through to the North Andover police station. The operator assured him they’d send a patrol car over right away.

Hanging up the phone, he turned into the room. VJ was going up the back stairs two steps at a time. Marsha was on the couch with arms folded angrily. It was clear she was even more upset now that VJ had seen the cat.

“I’ll hire some temporary security until we get to the bottom of this,” said Victor. “We’ll have them watch the house at night.”

“I think we should have done that from the start,” Marsha said.

Victor shrugged. He sat down on the couch, suddenly feeling very tired.

“Do you know what VJ told me when I tried to ask him about his feelings?” Marsha asked. “He said we can get another cat.”

“That sounds mature,” Victor said. “At least VJ can be rational.”

“Victor, it’s been his cat for years. You’d think he would show a little emotion, grief at the loss.” Marsha swallowed hard. “I think it is a cold and detached response.” She hoped she could remain composed while they discussed VJ, but as much as she tried to hold them back, tears welled in her eyes.