THURSDAY, OCTOBER 6

“Tally McNabb, death by gunshot, probable suicide.” The chief flipped open a folder and draped it over his knee.

Hadley stifled a yawn and flipped her own notebook to a fresh page. She had gotten in last night at eleven, to discover Hudson half-asleep over an unfinished history project. She had sent him up to bed and stayed up until midnight gluing bark onto a cardboard longhouse.

“I got the medical examiner’s report this morning.” The chief picked his mug off the scarred wooden table he preferred to sit on and took a long drink of coffee. “Earlier this morning,” he amended. “His finding is death consistent with suicide, but he won’t go further than that. Her injuries were caused by a Taurus .38 ACP, the weapon at the bottom of the pool”—he pointed toward one of several color pictures pinned to the corkboard—“which has her prints all over it.”

“Nitrate patterns on her firing hand?” Lyle MacAuley asked.

“If she had ’em, they were washed away by the chlorinated water.”

The dep straightened from his slouch and jotted the facts on the whiteboard.

“There’s no way she was killed anywhere else on the property,” Eric McCrea said. “We sprayed with luminol. The place was clean.”

The chief nodded. “Dr. Dvorak felt the”—he glanced down at the file—“the residual biological matter in the pool was consistent with her dying at that spot.”

Hadley tried not to think about what “residual biological matter” meant.

“The neighbors heard one shot at approximately 2:00 P.M. and discovered her shortly thereafter,” the chief went on. “Dr. Dvorak places TOD between noon and two o’clock. Nobody was seen coming or going from the place, although that’s not definitive since it was during the workday and most folks weren’t even home.”

“It reads like suicide to me,” MacAuley said.

“But we’re still missing the husband,” Eric pointed out.

“Wyler McNabb.” The chief took another drink of coffee. “The victim described him as ‘away gambling’ on Monday night, but at this point, we haven’t gotten any hits from the casinos Kevin sent his picture to. The Albany airport doesn’t have a record of him transiting this past week. His Escalade and her Navigator are still parked in the driveway of their house.”

“He could have driven home Tuesday or Wednesday, done her, and then fled the scene,” Eric said.

The chief tilted his head in agreement. “Besides his boat and his ATV, he has no other vehicles registered in his name. Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t have access to something.”

“Hadley and I checked out the backyard yesterday afternoon,” Flynn said. “There’s kind of a tangle behind the utility shed, and then a beat-down fence, and then you’re onto the neighbor’s property. Someone could’ve gone straight through to the next street over.”

“Did you include them in the canvass yesterday?”

Flynn looked at Hadley. “I did,” she said. “There was no one at home at the Saber Drive address behind McNabb’s house, or at the ones on either side. There was a retired couple across the street, but they didn’t see anything.”

“Where’s that street come out?”

Noble answered the chief. “Musket, Drum, and Saber all dead-end at the western side. Easterly, they all join up with Meersham Street. No other way out.”

“Eric’s right.” The chief rubbed a finger over his lips. “If McNabb had a car waiting for him, he could have done her, walked to Saber Drive, and been five miles down the road before the FR arrived.”

Hadley, who had been the first responder, nodded. “I got there eleven minutes after logging the call.”

“Of course, now you’re talking conspiracy to murder, with at least one accessory.” Lyle tapped the tip of his marker against the board. “That’s awfully complicated, for something that looks like suicide to begin with.”

“I agree. Eric. What did you get from the electronic trail?”

Eric set his coffee on the floor and flipped his notepad back several pages. “No travel arrangements. No e-mails that seemed significant.” He looked over the edge of his pad. “She shared the account with McNabb, though, so if she was still swapping love notes with the MP boyfriend, she might have had some Web-based mail service. She had a Facebook page that hadn’t been updated in five months.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m not any sort of computer whiz, Chief. If you want the guts vacuumed out, you’ll have to get the state cybercrime unit to do it.”

The chief shook his head. “That’ll be a last-resort item. Lyle?”

“She was a bookkeeper for BWI Opperman. Hired this past August, a few months after she got back. Wyler McNabb works there as well; he may have gotten her an in with the job. The company has a construction contract in Iraq. He’s worked over there, and she’s had”—he looked at his notebook—“two tours of duty, so it was a good fit. Our girl was scheduled to return to Iraq as part of the team’s administrative support.” He looked at McCrea. “Maybe she didn’t like that idea.”

McCrea picked up his tall cardboard cup. “Are you asking me my opinion? It’s no tropical vacation paradise, but I wouldn’t eat my gun to avoid going back.”

Hadley glanced at Flynn, but he was busy writing notes. MacAuley continued. “The HR director described her as reliable, skilled, no problems with anyone she worked with.” He shot the chief a meaningful glance. “At home, she kept their financial records real neat, like you’d expect. There might have been money stress—most of those fancy SUVs and stuff were less’n a year old, and they didn’t have very much in checking or savings, according to her most recent statement, which is the only one I could find. There were some receipts for winnings and expenses from several casinos in an accordion file marked TAXES, so the gambling was not a one-off. There’s a single mortgage on the house, payments current. The only thing that I flagged was his life insurance policy. It was underwritten by his employer to the tune of a cool half mil.”

Hadley couldn’t help it; she whistled.

“That’s a helluva lot for a construction worker with no dependents,” the chief said.

“Judging by the tax returns I saw, he was the big earner, not her. Which means if he was about to pull the plug on the relationship, she’d be pretty much left out in the cold, as far as money went.” He made a gesture toward the chief. “You know, your first thought mighta been the right one.”

“Murder-suicide?”

“Could be the reason McNabb hasn’t turned up yet is that she did him somewhere else and hid the body.”

“Then came back home to top herself? Maybe.”

“I disagree. I think we’re going to find the husband.” Eric crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chair back. “I think he did her.”

The chief raised his eyebrows. “Based on…?”

“I can’t see her killing herself. She’s got relationship problems, and job problems, but let’s face it, there was obviously a lot of marital property to go around even if they did split up. And how hard can it be for a good bookkeeper to find employment?” Eric let his chair drop to the floor again. “I’m betting they had a roaring fight, he did her, and then dropped her in the pool.”

The chief dropped the folder back onto the table. “We can all agree that finding Wyler McNabb is the top priority. Once we’ve got him, we’ll be able to pin this thing down.” He glanced around the squad room. “Any other questions? No? Okay, then. Lyle, Eric, with me.”

Hadley glanced at Flynn, and then toward McCrea, who was following the chief and MacAuley out the door.

Flynn paused in the act of tucking his notebook away. “What?”

“She was a veteran.”

“Yeah?”

She dropped her voice. “Eric was awfully insistent on her death being a homicide. Do you think it’s a warning sign? Like he couldn’t stand the idea that another veteran might have killed herself?”

“She might not have.” Flynn collected his hat and handed Hadley hers. “Sure, it looks a lot like suicide, but she’s got a missing husband who likes to throw money around like rice at a wedding. An Escalade. A plasma-screen TV. An in-ground swimming pool, for chrissakes.”

She couldn’t stop her grin. He sounded so outraged. “Flynn, I had an in-ground pool in California.”

He stood to one side and let her precede him out the squad room door. “It makes sense out there. Here, where you can only use it a few months out of the year?” He shook his head. “It’s just a big concrete sign that reads Money means nothing to me. They could have stapled twenties on the front of the house and sent the same message. At least that way, they wouldn’t have had to keep the thing clean and chlorinated.”

They walked down the hall side by side. Money means nothing to me. She bit her lip.

“What?” He opened the station house door.

Hadley zipped her jacket against the cool breeze. “What do you mean, what?”

“You thought of something. You always bite your lip like that when you’re thinking.” Flynn clattered down the steps toward the parking lot, a small smile on his face.

She forced herself not to bite her lip again as she followed him. “Of all the stuff they have at the McNabbs’ house, what do you think cost the most?”

“The pool.”

“Really? More than the cars?”

“Yeah. You have to dig them out crazy deep and wide, and surround them with layers and layers of crushed gravel and stuff to keep them from cracking when everything freezes. It’s a huge job.”

She paused by her cruiser. “I wonder … Eric and MacAuley didn’t turn up a note.”

He looked at her intently. “No.”

“Maybe where she did it was her note. She kills herself in the most expensive, wasteful thing they own.”

“What’s her message? F-you?”

“No.” Hadley opened the car door and tossed her lid and notebook in. “‘Money means nothing to me.’”

*   *   *

Hadley had been on patrol for three hours when she got the call to respond to army personnel trying to get into the McNabb house.

“Are you sure?” she asked Harlene.

The dispatcher’s voice was tart. “That’s what the neighbor said. If you go over there in your unit, you can find out for yourself.”

Hadley was extra polite when she signed off. She was pretty sure Harlene liked her, but Hadley’s position as low man on the totem pole meant she got the least amount of slack.

Quentan Nichols, she thought. Back for another shot at love. Boy, was he in for an unpleasant surprise. The surprise, however, was on Hadley, when she pulled in behind an anonymous government-issued car and found a tall white woman standing in the front yard, talking on a cell phone.

The woman hung up as Hadley opened the driver’s side door. She was dressed in a green suit instead of those blurry camouflage outfits soldiers wore, with a lot of ribbons and stuff pinned to a jacket that must have been tailored but still didn’t fit quite right. Hadley, whose uniforms came in any size as long as it was men’s, recognized the look.

“Ma’am? Can I help you?”

A flicker at the corner of the garage. Hadley twitched toward the movement, then relaxed when she saw another army guy coming toward them. This one was in urban camo, like Nichols had been, but was younger and lighter-skinned. He was also carrying a sidearm.

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Arlene Seelye.” The woman stepped toward her. She was older than Hadley had thought at first, midforties at least. “I’m looking for Mary McNabb, also known as Tally McNabb.”

“You’re military police?”

Colonel Seelye nodded. “Specialist McNabb is absent without leave. We’re here to return her to her battalion.”

Hadley tried not to let that little piece of info rock her back. AWOL? They had all been working on the assumption that McNabb was quit of the army. The chief needed to be in on this. “Can you wait here a moment, ma’am? I’ve got to report back to my dispatcher and tell her what’s going on.”

Colonel Seelye cut her eyes toward the small houses flanking the McNabb place. “Observant neighbors.”

“It’s a small town, ma’am. We try to look out for each other.” Hadley walked back to her unit with the cop strut she had picked up from watching Deputy Chief MacAuley—not too fast, not too slow. Owning the situation. Inside, she raised Harlene and let her know what was going on.

“Hold on a sec,” Harlene said. “The chief’s just calling in.” Hadley’s line went dead. She looked through the windshield at the two MPs. They had turned toward the house, so their backs were toward her. She wondered what they were saying to each other.

“Hadley?”

“Yeah. I mean, here.”

“The chief is on his way. He wants to talk to ’em, so don’t let ’em leave before he gets there.”

Hadley almost asked how she was supposed to accomplish that, but she knew what Harlene would say. Think of something! “Will do,” she said. “Knox out.”

As she crunched across the leaf-strewn lawn, the colonel and her backup turned again to face her. Detective and beat cop, Hadley thought. Plainclothes and uniform. The look was familiar, even if the outfits were different.

“So…” Colonel Seelye squinted at Hadley’s name badge, causing fine lines to radiate from the corners of her eyes. “Officer Knox. Can you tell us where we can find Mary McNabb?”

Harlene hadn’t said anything about concealing the truth from them. “I’m sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but Tally McNabb is dead. She was found floating in her backyard pool yesterday.”

The younger guy’s head jerked toward Seelye, but the officer only blinked slowly. “That would explain the crime scene tape around the fence.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And your department is investigating this as…?”

“Death by gunshot, probable suicide, ma’am.”

The colonel held herself very still. Finally she said, “Who is the lead investigator on the case?”

“I guess that would be the chief. Although the dep—the deputy chief and Sergeant McCrea are working it, too.”

“The chief of police.” Seelye raised one eyebrow. “How many sworn officers does the Millers Kill Police Department have, Officer Knox?”

There was something in her voice that kind of went up Hadley’s spine and made the answers to her questions pop out. “Eight, if you include the chief, ma’am. Plus two part-time auxiliaries.”

“That’s … small. Your department can’t have had much experience with homicide or violent crime.”

“You’d be surprised, ma’am.”

Whatever the colonel was going to say was cut off by the grind of tires on asphalt. Hadley kept her eyes on the MPs. Behind her, a car door thunked. The young guy darted glances to Seelye, but Seelye simply watched, not asking anything, not registering any surprise. Hadley thought she’d never seen such a self-contained woman before.

“Officer Knox.” When the chief greeted her, she turned to him. He gave her a nod and continued on toward the colonel. “I’m Russell Van Alstyne.” He held out his hand. “Chief of police.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Arlene Seelye, U.S. Army Military Police, attached to the 10th Soldier Support Battalion.” They shook hands. “I came here to pick up one of our soldiers who was absent without leave, but your officer here tells me we’re too late.”

The chief nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Can you tell me what your investigation has turned up so far, Chief?”

“Tally McNabb’s autopsy indicated death consistent with suicide by handgun, although we haven’t found any note. She seemed to be under some marital and job stress.” The chief glanced at the younger, armed soldier. “Of course, if she was hiding out from you folks, that would have been a whole other problem that we weren’t aware of.”

“Are you considering her death as a possible homicide?”

The chief shot a look at Hadley. She straightened. “Her husband’s been missing since before her body was discovered. We have a BOLO out on Wyler McNabb. I suspect that we’ll be able to clear the case pretty quick once we find him.” He looked assessingly at the house. “One way or the other. What’s the army’s story?”

The colonel shrugged. “McNabb went on leave in May, a couple months after her last deployment, and never came back. Her case kept getting shuffled to the bottom of the pile—you can imagine the sort of stuff we have to deal with when an entire battalion of young men and women get back to the States after a year. However, her company went back on alert this month, which shot her file to the top of our roster. So here we are.”

The chief nodded. “So here you are. Was there anything else going on with her? Was she in trouble?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you said, we ought to at least consider the possibility that she was killed. If McNabb was involved with something criminal, that would open up some new lines of inquiry for us.”

Colonel Seelye smiled faintly. “I assure you, Chief Van Alstyne, as far as the army is concerned, not showing up for work is a crime. Let me ask you something. Other than the autopsy, what is your evidence for suicide?”

“Well”—the chief hitched his thumbs in his gun belt and spread his legs a little—“we checked for a note, like I said, and we went over her credit card statements and her mortgage book to see if she had money troubles.”

“Did she?”

“Not that we could tell.” He scratched the back of his head. In the two years she had been on the force, Hadley had never seen him do that. It made him look like a hayseed.

There was something wrong here. The chief was the original what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy. Why was he suddenly acting like an ignorant small-town sheriff?

“You know, it would be very helpful to us if we could take a look at her effects,” the colonel said.

“For someone AWOL?” The chief huffed a laugh. “Why on earth for?”

Colonel Seelye tilted her head. “She may have had help in keeping out of sight and off the battalion’s radar screen, so to speak. If she had any accomplices, we’d like to know.”

“Hmn.” The chief rubbed his chin. “Well, the problem with that is, this is Wyler McNabb’s house, and you’ve got no cause to enter a civilian’s home.”

“He’s wanted for questioning in a violent death.”

“Yeah, but wanted ain’t proved, as we say up here. If he checks out clean, my department could be in a heap of trouble if we let some army investigators paw through his things.” He grinned at the MPs. “Unless you think her being AWOL had some bearing on her being dead.”

Seelye shook her head. “No, of course not.” She smiled back at the chief. “Still, you can understand our position, can’t you? If we have soldiers evading their sworn duty, morale drops, training suffers, and eventually, you have men and women in harm’s way who know that their brother and sister soldiers have sold them out.” She clipped her jaw shut, as if she realized she had gone overboard.

“That’s a problem, all right.” The chief frowned. “Tell you what, let me run it by Judge Ryswick. If he says it’s okay, we’re covered. I wouldn’t have an answer for you until at least tomorrow, though. Are you staying in the area?”

Colonel Seelye unbuttoned her jacket and slipped her hand into an inside pocket. “Let me give you my cell number.” She retrieved a business card and a pen. She flipped the card over and scribbled on the back. “Just give me a call as soon as you know. Fort Drum isn’t nearby, but it’s not at the other end of the country.”

She handed her card to the chief, who took it, smiling. “I’ll do that.”

“Then we’re all set for now.” She looked at the private. “Let’s go.”

The younger man nodded. He headed for their car, the colonel two steps behind him.

“And let me just say, on behalf of my whole department”—the chief had the solemn sincerity of a six-dollar Hallmark card—“thank you for your service.”

Both the MPs paused. A twinge passed over Colonel Seelye’s face so fast Hadley would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching her closely. “Um. Thank you, Chief Van Alstyne.”

The chief stood there, a sticky-sweet smile on his face, as they got into the government car and as they drove away. When the MPs were out of sight, the smile dropped away. His face set in grim lines.

“What was that all about?”

“I’m not sure, but it wasn’t about Tally McNabb being AWOL.” He dug his phone out of his pants pocket. “When a soldier’s missing, the battalion’s military police post sends a couple low-level warrant officers out. Like you and Kevin hauling in someone who’s blown off a court date.” His eyes narrowed. “That colonel is an investigator. She doesn’t waste her time on fugitive specialists. She’s not attached to the 10th Soldier Support Battalion in Fort Drum, New York, either. She’s with the U.S. Army Finance Command. Which is based in Indianapolis.”

“How could you tell?”

He tapped his shoulder. “Her patches.” He flipped open the phone. Thumbed a number. “Hi, Lyle? Russ. I have a question about the paperwork you went through at McNabb’s house.” He paused. “You said she was pretty well organized, right? Did you see any documents related to her service? Could have been enlistment papers, evaluations—yeah? Okay, did you see anything indicating she had been discharged or separated?” He nodded to the phone. “Okay. Thanks.” Another pause. “I’ll catch you up at the five o’clock. ’Bye.” He flipped the phone shut. “Lyle says she had her whole service record in one folder. Including discharge papers from this past May.”

*   *   *

“Is it a bad time?” In the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through Will Ellis’s hospital window, Clare could see the white-coated outline of the man sitting next to the bed, but she couldn’t make out the details.

“No, it’s me.” Trip Stillman stood up. “I’m not officially here. I mean, I’m not here as Will’s doctor.”

Clare came into the room, half-closing the door behind her. “I’m not officially here, either.”

“Does that mean you’re not here as my priest or not here as my mom’s friend?” Will’s voice was weak but welcome. The fact that he had already been moved to a regular room was a testament to his physical strength.

“I guess I’m here as your brother in arms. Sister in arms?” She took Will’s hand. “How are you doing?”

“Better.” He gripped her hand. It felt like a small child squeezing a stuffed animal. “Really. Better. There’s this hospital counselor I’ve been talking to, and Sarah’s come to see me…” He took a breath, as if speaking two sentences in a row tired him out. “Mostly, I was finally honest with my parents about how freaking mad I’ve been.” He looked at Clare. “It was like you said, remember? Everybody wanted so much for me to feel better. It was like I was letting the team down if I felt pissed off or screwed over.”

“How do you feel now?” Clare asked.

“Like I want my damn legs back. Every minute of every day, I wish I was normal again. That’s not going to change.” He shook his head, a slow roll back and forth against the hospital pillow. “But, Jesus, I’m glad I’m not dead.”

Stillman leaned forward and awkwardly touched Will’s shoulder. “We’re all glad you’re not dead.”

Clare took a deep breath. “Listen. I’ve got something to tell you, and it’s not good news, but I think you should hear it first from me instead of stumbling over it in the paper or something.”

Stillman rose. “I’ll give you your privacy, then.”

“No, Trip, wait. This is for you, too.” The doctor sank back into his chair, frowning. Clare blanked for a moment. Then she remembered what Russ had said once about delivering bad news. Get to the worst of it fast. “Tally McNabb was found dead at her home yesterday afternoon.”

“What?” Both men spoke at once.

“She died from a single gunshot to the head. The police are investigating. They say it looks like suicide, but they can’t confirm it yet.”

“Oh, God.” Will shut his eyes. “Did I—do you think she got the idea from me?”

“No, I don’t. I was here the night they brought you in. I talked with her. There wasn’t anything in what she said or how she acted that made me think she wanted to do herself harm.”

Stillman had slid his PalmPilot from his coat and was tapping through screen after screen. “I don’t think she was suicidal,” he said. “I don’t see anything here suggesting that was an issue.”

Clare raised both eyebrows. “You keep notes on our therapy sessions?” Her voice was pointed.

“Yes. Not to show them to anyone.” He sat stiffly upright. “It’s an old habit instilled in medical school. Over the years, it’s been very useful. Lifesaving, at times.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little—” She cut herself off. One of their group was dead. Another hospitalized. Compared to that, a crack in the wall of confidentiality was nothing. “Never mind. I agree with you. About her frame of mind. I don’t think she killed herself.”

“You mean she was murdered?” Will’s shocked voice was a reminder of how young he really was.

“Do the police have a suspect?” Stillman asked.

“They’re looking for her husband. He hasn’t been seen since sometime before her body was found.”

Stillman nodded. “I’ve heard it’s usually the husband or boyfriend in situations like this.”

“In Tally’s case, you can take your pick. She had an affair with an MP when she was in-country. He came looking for her twice this past summer.” Clare’s shoulders twitched. “Maybe he finally caught up with her.”

They all sat with that thought for a while. Finally, Will said, “I feel like we let her down.”

Clare shook her head. “No. What could we have done? She didn’t show any signs that she was in an abusive relationship.” Even as she said it, she thought of Tally’s disappearance back in the summer. Moving from friend to friend, eating at the soup kitchen.

“She said she was tired of always being afraid. Remember?” Will looked to Stillman for confirmation.

The doctor bit the inside of his cheek. “That phrase suggests to me she was tired of the fear you bring back with you.” He spoke carefully, doling out his words one by one. “The stuff you know is foolish, but you just can’t put it behind you. Like trying to find a mortar shelter when the town fire alarm whistle goes off.”

“Or being afraid to fall asleep.” Clare didn’t realize she had spoken out loud until both men looked at her. She shrugged. “Nightmares.”

“Me, too,” Will said. “What if that wasn’t it, though? What if she was afraid of something going on in her life right here and now?”

“The MKPD is looking into it. They’ll get to the bottom of it.” She took his hand again and squeezed it, ignoring the niggling voice in the back of her head reminding her of how sure Russ had been that Tally’s death was a suicide.

A pretty young girl stuck her head in the door. “Bookmobile,” she sang. “Ready to pick out a good read?”

“I’d better go,” Clare said. “I don’t want to tire you out. I’ll be by tomorrow.”

“As will I.” Trip Stillman pocketed his PalmPilot as he rose. “Tell your mother I said hi.”

“Thanks. For coming to see me.” Will lifted his hand in a feeble salute.

The bookmobile girl rolled back to let them out of the room. Clare recognized her as one of the youngest and chattiest of the hospital’s aides. In her apron and ponytail, she looked like a nurse in a World War II flick, come to bring cheer to the wounded boys.

“I notice they’re not sending him the grandmotherly candy stripers,” she said.

“Might as well give him an eyeful of what he has to live for.” Stillman pressed the elevator button. “My niece used to volunteer here. She would have loved to spend time with a good-looking boy Will’s age.”

“Tell him that.”

“I will.”

Clare looked at her scratched and blurred reflection in the elevator’s doors. She was suddenly so tired she thought she might fall over. She leaned against the wall. “Do you think he’ll make it? Not now, I mean. In the long haul. Are his doctors just patching him up so he can try again?”

“I don’t think so. Will’s already done the hardest work of recovery.”

She made a little go-on gesture.

“His life’s been divided into before and after, and he’s in the after.” The elevator pinged, and Stillman held the door open for her. “I think he’s finally accepted that. That’s the first step toward going forward.” He stabbed the floor button.

The car jerked precipitously beneath them, and the lights dimmed.

Clare heard the sounds of the mortars in the distance as she looked frantically around the bunker. Dim emergency lights, and the smell of mouse shit and rotting wood, and where was the chem hazard locker and where was the bulkhead door and where was her mask and the blare of the klaxon and the thud of the shells getting nearer and the slosh of the river water rising higher and higher—

Clare found herself on the elevator floor, legs tucked, arms wrapped around her head. She opened her eyes. Trip Stillman was looking at her from exactly the same position.

The car jerked again, upward, quivered, and then began its descent. For a second, she couldn’t move. It’s getting worse. It’s supposed to be getting better, but it’s getting worse.

“Are you okay?” Stillman whispered.

She scrambled to her feet. Stillman got up more slowly. “Like I said. The foolish stuff.” His voice was thin and dry.

“Trip, I need sleeping pills and amphetamines and Tylenol Three.” Like falling into the duck-and-cover, the words came out without conscious control. “I had them when I came back and I’m almost out and I need more.” She looked at him. “I don’t have any good medical reason. I just need them. Will you help me?”

He stared at her. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. They got out. He glanced at the people walking past them; a pair of doctors, a technician in scrubs, a man toting a potted plant. He beckoned her around the corner, into a niche formed by a vending machine and a stainless steel crib frame. “What have you been taking?”

“I don’t know. They’re go pills and no-go pills. The only bags that had labels were the antibiotic and the Tylenol.” He frowned. “I’m cutting back on the sleeping pills. Really. With everything going on, I’ve been falling into bed at the end of the day. It’s just—” She swallowed. “When I wake up. If I have a nightmare. I need one then to get back to sleep.”

“Are you mixing them with alcohol?”

“Sometimes. Yes. Usually.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need more, you need to get off them. Amphetamines and sleeping pills just feed into each other.”

“I can’t!” To her horror, her voice cracked. “Trip, I’ve got nightmares and flashbacks and parishioners to take care of and a wedding to get through. I can’t talk to my spiritual adviser about this, and I’m not going to dump it on my fiancé. I just need to keep on an even keel for a few more weeks.”

Trip looked at the floor. Finally, he sighed. “I won’t give you any painkillers. Forget about it.” He pulled out his PalmPilot. “I’ll give you a two-week prescription for Ambien and Dexedrine. Here’s the deal.” He speared her with a look. “You take the Dexedrine as prescribed—no more than ten migs a day, to start. No booze when you take the Ambien and for twelve hours after. I’m going to call you for a blood test some time during the next two weeks. If I find you’ve been mixing, I’ll cut you off. If I find you have a higher concentration of dextroamphetamine than you ought to, I’ll cut you off. No second chances, no do-overs.”

She nodded.

He tapped something into his PalmPilot. “I’m e-mailing myself the instructions. I’ll give you the scrip Monday, at group. Can you hold out until then?”

She nodded.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.” He rubbed the scar along his forehead.

“Thank you.”

He sighed again. “I’ll see you on Monday.” He looked for a moment as if he were going to say something else. Instead, he turned and walked away. She stayed against the wall, half hidden, for a moment, turning the whole thing over in her head. Telling herself she was going to be okay. Wondering if this was her own before and after.