Jodi picoult's the tenth circle

 

The Tenth Circle

Jodi Picoult

For Nick and Alex Adolph

 

(and their parents, Jon and Sarah) because I promised that one day I would.

 

Acknowledgments

This was a massive undertaking, and it would have been an impossible one without the help of my Dream Team of research helpers.

My usual suspects: Betty Martin, Lisa Schiermeier, Nick Giaccone, Frank Moran, David Toub, Jennifer Sternick, Jennifer Sobel, Claire Demarais, JoAnn Mapson, Jane Picoult.

Two ladies with the grace to help rape victims find a fragile peace: Laurie Carrier and Annelle Edwards.

Three terrific young women who let me peek into the life of a teenager: Meredith Olsen, Elise Baxter, and Andrea Desaulniers.

The entire team at Atria Books and Goldberg McDuffie Communications, especially Judith Curr, Karen Mender, Jodi Lipper, Sarah Branham, Jeanne Lee, Angela Stamnes, Justin Loeber, and Camille McDuffie.

Laura Gross, who goes above and beyond the call of agent duty on a daily basis.

Emily Bestler, who said all the wonderful, right things I needed to hear when I gave her a book that was like nothing sheÆd ever seen before.

Joanne Morrissey, who gave me a refresher course on Dante and whom IÆd most like to be stranded with in hell.

My own personal comic book superheroes: Jim Lee, Wyatt Fox, and Jake van Leer.

Pam Force, for the opening poem.

 

My Alaskan hosts: Annette Rearden, and Rich and Jen Gannon.

 

Don Rearden, who is not only an excellent writer (one who probably regrets ever saying, ôHey, if you ever want to go to the Alaskan bushàö) but also generous to a fault with his own knowledge and experience. And who guided me into the bush and, months later, to my last page.

Dustin Weaver, the comic book penciler who said he thought this might be fun. Quite simply: You drew the soul of this book.

And finally, thanks to Tim, Kyle, Jake, and Sammy, who give me my happy endings.

****

 

In the very earliest time,

 

when both people and animals lived on earth,

 

a person could become an animal if he wanted to and an animal could become a human being.

Sometimes they were people and sometimes animals

and there was no difference.

All spoke the same language.

 

That was the time when words were like magic. The human mind had mysterious powers.

A word spoken by chance

 

might have strange consequences.

 

It would suddenly come alive

 

and what people wanted to happen could happen- all you had to do was say it.

Nobody could explain this:

 

ThatÆs the way it was.

 

-ôMagic Words,ö by Edward Field Inspired by the Inuit

 

Prologue

December 23, 2005

This is how it feels when you realize your child is missing: The pit of your stomach freezes fast, while your legs go to jelly. ThereÆs one single, blue-bass thud of your heart. The shape of her name, sharp as metal filings, gets caught between your teeth even as you try to force it out in a shout. Fear breathes like a monster into your ear: Where did I see her last? Would she have wandered away? Who could have taken her? And then, finally, your throat seals shut, as you swallow the fact that youÆve made a mistake you will never be able to fix.

The first time it happened to Daniel Stone, a decade ago, he had been visiting Boston. His wife was at a colloquium at Harvard; that was a good enough reason to take a family vacation. While Laura sat on her panel, Daniel pushed TrixieÆs stroller the cobbled length of the Freedom Trail. They fed the ducks in the Public Garden; they watched the sloe-eyed sea turtles doing water ballet at the aquarium. After that, when Trixie announced that she was hungry, Daniel headed toward Faneuil Hall and its endless food court.

That particular April day was the first one warm enough for New Englanders to unzip their jackets, to remember that there was any season other than winter. In addition to the centipedes of school groups and the shutter-happy tourists, it seemed that the whole of the financial district had bled out, men DanielÆs age in suits and ties, who smelled of aftershave and envy. They sat with their gyros and chowder and corned beef on rye on the benches near the statue of Red Auerbach. They sneaked sideways glances at Daniel.

He was used to this-it was unusual for a father to be the primary caretaker of his four-year-old daughter. Women who saw him with Trixie assumed that his wife had died, or that he was newly divorced. Men who saw him quickly looked the other way, embarrassed on his behalf. And yet Daniel would not have traded his setup for the world. He enjoyed molding his job around TrixieÆs schedule. He liked her questions: Did dogs know they were naked? Is adult supervision a power grown-ups use to fight bad guys? He loved the fact that when Trixie was spacing out in her car seat and wanted attention, she always started with ôDadà? ö even if Laura happened to be driving the car.

ôWhat do you want for lunch?ö Daniel asked Trixie that day in Boston. ôPizza? Soup? A burger?ö

She stared up at him from her stroller, a miniature of her mother with the same blue eyes and strawberry hair, and nodded yes to all three. Daniel had hefted the stroller up the steps to the central food court, the scent of the salted ocean air giving way to grease and onions and stir-fry. He would get Trixie a burger and fries, he decided, and for himself, heÆd buy a fishermanÆs platter at another kiosk. He stood in line at the grill, the stroller jutting out like a stone that altered the flow of human traffic. ôA cheeseburger,ö Daniel yelled out to a cook he hoped was listening. When he was handed the paper plate he juggled his wallet free so that he could pay and then decided that it wasnÆt worth a second tour of duty just to get himself lunch, too. He and Trixie could share.

Daniel maneuvered the stroller into the stream of people again, waiting to be spit out into the cupola. After a few minutes, an elderly man sitting at a long table shuffled his trash together and left. Daniel set down the burger and turned the stroller so that he could feed Trixie-but the child inside was a dark-haired, dark-skinned infant who burst into tears when he saw the stranger in front of him.

DanielÆs first thought: Why was this baby in TrixieÆs stroller? His second: Was this TrixieÆs stroller? Yes, it was yellow and blue with a tiny repeating bear print. Yes, there was a carrying basket underneath. But Graco must have sold millions of these, thousands alone in the Northeast. Now, at closer inspection, Daniel realized that this particular stroller had a plastic activity bar attached on the front. TrixieÆs ratty security blanket was not folded up in the bottom, just in case of crisis.

Such as now.

 

Daniel looked down at the baby again, the baby that was not his, and immediately grabbed the stroller and starting running to the grill. Standing there, with a cabbage-cheeked Boston cop, was a hysterical mother whose sights homed in on the stroller Daniel was using to part the crowd like the Red Sea.

She ran the last ten feet and yanked her baby out of the safety restraint and into her arms while Daniel tried to explain, but all that came out of his mouth was, ôWhere is she?ö He thought, hysterical, of the fact that this was an open-air market, that there was no way to seal the entrance or even make a general public announcement, that by now five minutes had passed and his daughter could be with the psychopath who stole her on the T heading to the farthest outskirts of the Boston suburbs.

Then he noticed the stroller-his stroller-kicked over onto its side, the safety belt undone. Trixie had gotten proficient at this just last week. It had gotten comical-they would be out walking and suddenly she was standing up in the fabric hammock, facing Daniel, grinning at her own clever expertise. Had she freed herself to come looking for him? Or had someone, seeing a golden opportunity for abduction, done it for her?

In the moments afterward, there were tracts of time that Daniel couldnÆt remember even to this day. For example, how long it took the swarm of police that converged on Faneuil Hall to do a search. Or the way other mothers pulled

their own children close to their side as he passed, certain bad luck was contagious. The detectiveÆs hammered questions, a quiz of good parenting: How tall is Trixie? What does she weigh? What was she wearing? Have you ever talked to her about strangers? This last one, Daniel couldnÆt answer. Had he, or had he just been planning to? Would Trixie know to scream, to run away? Would she be loud enough, fast enough?

The police wanted him to sit down, so that theyÆd know where to find him if necessary. Daniel nodded and promised, and then was on his feet the moment their backs were turned. He searched behind each of the food kiosks in the central court. He looked under the tables in the cupola. He burst into the womenÆs bathroom, crying TrixieÆs name. He checked beneath the ruffled skirts of the pushcarts that sold rhinestone earrings, moose socks, your name written on a grain of rice. Then he ran outside.

The courtyard was full of people who didnÆt know that just twenty feet away from them the world had been overturned. Oblivious, they shopped and milled and laughed as Daniel stumbled past them. The corporate lunch hour had ended, and many of the businessmen were gone. Pigeons pecked at the crumbs theyÆd left behind, caught between the cobblestones. And huddled beside the seated bronze of Red Auerbach, sucking her thumb, was Trixie.

Until Daniel saw her, he didnÆt truly realize how much of himself had been carved away by her absence. He felt-ironically-the same symptoms that had come the moment he knew she was missing: the shaking legs, the loss of speech, the utter immobility. ôTrixie,ö he said finally, then she was in his arms, thirty pounds of sweet relief.

Now-ten years later-Daniel had again mistaken his daughter for someone she wasnÆt. Except this time, she was no longer a four-year-old in a stroller. This time, she had been gone much longer than twenty-four minutes. And she had left him, instead of the other way around.

Forcing his mind back to the present, Daniel cut the throttle of the snow machine as he came to a fork in the path. Immediately the storm whipped into a funnel-he couldnÆt see two feet in front of himself, and when he took the time to look behind, his tracks had already been filled, a seamless stretch. The YupÆik Eskimos had a word for this kind of snow, the kind that bit at the back of your eyes and landed like a hail of arrows on your bare skin: pirrelvag. The

term rose in DanielÆs throat, as startling as a second moon, proof that he had been here before, no matter how good a job heÆd done of convincing himself otherwise.

He squinted-it was nine oÆclock in the morning, but in December in Alaska, there wasnÆt much sunlight. His breath hung before him like lace. For a moment, through the curtain of snow, he thought he could see the bright flash of her hair-a foxÆs tail peeking from a snug woolen cap-but as quickly as he saw it, it was gone.

The Yupiit also had a word for the moments when it was so cold that a mug of water thrown into the air would harden like glass before it ever hit the frozen ground: cikuqÆerluni. One wrong move, Daniel thought, and everything will go to pieces around me. So he closed his eyes, gunned the machine, and let instinct take over. Almost immediately, the voices of elders he used to know came back to him-spruce needles stick out sharper on the north side of trees; shallow sandbars make the ice buckle-hints about how to find yourself, when the world changed around you.

He suddenly thought back to the way, at Faneuil Hall, Trixie had melted against him when they were reunited. Her chin had notched just behind his shoulder, her body went boneless with faith. In spite of what heÆd done, sheÆd still trusted him to keep her safe, to bring her home. In hindsight, Daniel could see that the real mistake heÆd made that day hadnÆt been turning his back momentarily. It had been believing that you could lose someone you loved in an instant, when in reality it was a process that took months, years, her lifetime.

It was the kind of cold that made your eyelashes freeze the minute you walked outside and the insides of your nostrils feel like shattered glass. It was the kind of cold that went through you as if you were no more than a mesh screen. Trixie Stone shivered on the frozen riverbank beneath the school building that was checkpoint headquarters in Tuluksak, sixty miles from the spot where her fatherÆs borrowed snow machine was carving a signature across the tundra, and tried to think up reasons to stay right where she was.

Unfortunately, there were more reasons-better reasons-to leave. First and foremost, it was a mistake to stay in one place too long. Second, sooner or later,

people were going to figure out that she wasnÆt who they thought she was, especially if she kept screwing up every task they gave her. But then again, how was she supposed to know that all the mushers were entitled to complimentary straw for their sled dogs at several points during the K300 racecourse, including here in Tuluksak? Or that you could take a musher to the spot where food and water was storedàbut you werenÆt allowed to help feed the dogs? After those two fiascos, Trixie was demoted to babysitting the dogs that were dropped from a team, until the bush pilots arrived to transport them back to Bethel.

So far the only dropped dog was a husky named Juno. Frostbite-that was the official reason given by the musher. The dog had one brown eye and one blue eye, and he stared at Trixie with an expression that spoke of being misunderstood.

In the past hour, Trixie had managed to sneak Juno an extra handful of kibble and a couple of biscuits, stolen from the vetÆs supply. She wondered if she could buy Juno from the musher with some of the money left over in the stolen wallet. She thought maybe it would be easier to keep running if she had someone else to confide in, someone who couldnÆt possibly tell on her.

She wondered what Zephyr and Moss and anyone else back home in the other Bethel-Bethel, Maine-would say if they saw her sitting in a snowbank and eating salmon jerky and listening for the crazy fugue of barking that preceded the arrival of a dog team. Probably, they would think she had lost her mind. TheyÆd say, Who are you, and what have you done with Trixie Stone? The thing is, she wanted to ask the same question.

She wanted to crawl into her favorite flannel pajamas, the ones that had been washed so often they were as soft as the skin of a rose. She wanted to open up the refrigerator and not be able to find anything on its stocked shelves worth eating. She wanted to get sick of a song on the radio and smell her fatherÆs shampoo and trip over the curly edge of the rug in the hallway. She wanted to go back-not just to Maine, but to early September.

Trixie could feel tears rising in her throat like the watermarks on the Portland dock, and she was afraid someone would notice. So she lay down on the matted straw, her nose nearly touching JunoÆs. ôYou know,ö she whispered, ôI got left behind once, too.ö

Her father didnÆt think she remembered what had happened that day in Faneuil Hall, but she did-bits and pieces cropped up at the strangest times. Like when they went to the beach in the summer and she smelled the ocean: It suddenly got harder to breathe. Or how at hockey games and movie theaters and other places where she got mixed up in a crowd, she sometimes felt sick to her stomach. Trixie remembered, too, that they had abandoned the stroller at Faneuil Hall-her father simply carried her back in his arms. Even after they returned from vacation and bought a new stroller, Trixie had refused to ride in it.

HereÆs what she didnÆt remember about that day: the getting-lost part. Trixie could not recall unbuckling the safety harness or pushing through the shifting sea of legs to the doors that led outside. Then, she saw the man who looked like he might be her father but who actually turned out to be a statue sitting down. Trixie had walked to the bench and climbed up beside him only to realize that his metal skin was warm, because the sun had been beating down on it all day. SheÆd curled up against the statue, wishing with every shaky breath that she would be found.

This time around, thatÆs what scared her most.

1

Laura Stone knew exactly how to go to hell.

 

She could map out its geography on napkins at departmental cocktail parties; she was able to recite all of the passageways and rivers and folds by heart; she was on a first-name basis with its sinners. As one of the top Dante scholars in the country, she taught a course in this very subject and had done so every year since being tenured at Monroe College. English 364 was also listed in the course handbook as Burn Baby Burn (or: What the Devil is the Inferno?), and it was one of the most popular courses on campus in the second trimester even though DanteÆs epic poem the Divine Comedy wasnÆt funny at all. Like her husband DanielÆs artwork, which was neither comic nor a book, the Inferno covered every genre of pop culture: romance, horror, mystery, crime. And like all of the best stories, it had at its center an ordinary, everyday hero who simply didnÆt know how heÆd ever become one.

She stared at the students packing the rows in the utterly silent lecture hall. ôDonÆt move,ö she instructed. ôNot even a twitch.ö Beside her, on the podium, an egg timer ticked away one full minute. She hid a smile as she watched the undergrads, all of whom suddenly had gotten the urge to sneeze or scratch their heads or wriggle.

Of the three parts of DanteÆs masterpiece, the Inferno was LauraÆs favorite to teach-who better to think about the nature of actions and their consequences than teenagers? The story was simple: Over the course of three days-Good Friday to Easter Sunday-Dante trekked through the nine levels of hell, each filled with sinners worse than the next, until finally he came through the other side. The poem was full of ranting and weeping and demons, of fighting lovers and traitors eating the brains of their victims-in other words, graphic enough to hold the interest of todayÆs college studentsàand to provide a distraction from her real life.

The egg timer buzzed, and the entire class exhaled in unison. ôWell?ö Laura asked. ôHow did that feel?ö

ôEndless,ö a student called out.

 

ôAnyone want to guess how long I timed you for?ö There was speculation: Two minutes. Five.

ôTry sixty seconds,ö Laura said. ôNow imagine being frozen from the waist down in a lake of ice for eternity. Imagine that the slightest movement would freeze the tears on your face and the water surrounding you. God, according to Dante, was all about motion and energy, so the ultimate punishment for Lucifer is to not be able to move at all. At the very bottom of hell, thereÆs no fire, no brimstone, just the utter inability to take action.ö She cast her gaze across the sea of faces. ôIs Dante right? After all, this is the very bottom of the barrel of hell, and the devilÆs the worst of the lot. Is taking away your ability to do whatever you want, whenever you want, the very worst punishment you can imagine?ö

And that, in a nutshell, was why Laura loved DanteÆs Inferno. Sure, it could be seen as a study of religion or politics. Certainly it was a narrative of redemption. But when you stripped it down, it was also the story of a guy in the throes of a midlife crisis, a guy who was reevaluating the choices heÆd made along the way.

Not unlike Laura herself.

As Daniel Stone waited in the long queue of cars pulling up to the high school, he glanced at the stranger in the seat beside him and tried to remember when she used to be his daughter.

ôTrafficÆs bad today,ö he said to Trixie, just to fill up the space between them.

Trixie didnÆt respond. She fiddled with the radio, running through a symphony of static and song bites before punching it off entirely. Her red hair fell like a gash over her shoulder; her hands were burrowed in the sleeves of her North Face jacket. She turned to stare out the window, lost in a thousand thoughts, not a single one of which Daniel could guess.

These days it seemed like the words between them were there only to outline the silences. Daniel understood better than anyone else that, in the blink of an eye, you might reinvent yourself. He understood that the person you were yesterday might not be the person you are tomorrow. But this time, he was the one who wanted to hold on to what he had, instead of letting go.

ôDad,ö she said, and she flicked her eyes ahead, where the car in front of them was moving forward.

It was a complete clichT, but Daniel had assumed that the traditional distance that came between teenagers and their parents would pass by him and Trixie.

They had a different relationship, after all, closer than most daughters and their fathers, simply because he was the one she came home to every day. He had done his due diligence in her bathroom medicine cabinet and her desk drawers and underneath her mattress-there were no drugs, no accordion-pleated condoms. Trixie was just growing away from him, and somehow that was even worse.

For years she had floated into the house on the wings of her own stories: how the butterfly they were hatching in class had one of its antennae torn off by a boy who wasnÆt gentle; how the school lunch that day had been pizza when the notice said it was going to be chicken chow mein and how if sheÆd known that, she would have bought instead of bringing her own; how the letter I in cursive is

nothing like youÆd think. There had been so many easy words between them that Daniel was guilty of nodding every now and then and tuning out the excess. He hadnÆt known, at the time, that he should have been hoarding these, like bits of sea glass hidden in the pocket of his winter coat to remind him that once it had been summer.

This September-and here was another clichT-Trixie had gotten a boyfriend. Daniel had had his share of fantasies: how heÆd be casually cleaning a pistol when she was picked up for her first date; how heÆd buy a chastity belt on the Internet. In none of those scenarios, though, had he ever really considered how the sight of a boy with his proprietary hand around his daughterÆs waist might make him want to run until his lungs burst. And in none of these scenarios had he seen TrixieÆs face fill with light when the boy came to the door, the same way sheÆd once looked at Daniel. Overnight, the little girl who vamped for his home videos now moved like a vixen when she wasnÆt even trying. Overnight, his daughterÆs actions and habits stopped being cute and started being something terrifying.

His wife reminded him that the tighter he kept Trixie on a leash, the more sheÆd fight the choke hold. After all, Laura pointed out, rebelling against the system was what made her start dating Daniel. So when Trixie and Jason went out to a movie, Daniel forced himself to wish her a good time. When she escaped to her room to talk to her boyfriend privately on the phone, he did not hover at the door. He gave her breathing space, and somehow, that had become an immeasurable distance.

ôHello?!ö Trixie said, snapping Daniel out of his reverie. The cars in front of them had pulled away, and the crossing guard was furiously miming to get Daniel to drive up.

ôWell,ö he said. ôFinally.ö

 

Trixie pulled at the door handle. ôCan you let me out?ö Daniel fumbled with the power locks. ôIÆll see you at three.ö ôI donÆt need to be picked up.ö

Daniel tried to paste a wide smile on his face. ôJason driving you home?ö

Trixie gathered together her backpack and jacket. ôYeah,ö she said. ôJason.ö She slammed the truck door and blended into the mass of teenagers funneling toward the front door of the high school.

ôTrixie!ö Daniel called out the window, so loud that several other kids turned around with her. TrixieÆs hand was clenched into a fist against her chest, as if she were holding tight to a secret. She looked at him, waiting.

There was a game they had played when Trixie was little, and would pore over the comic book collections he kept in his studio for research when he was drawing. Best transportation? sheÆd challenge, and Daniel would say the Batmobile. No way, Trixie had said. Wonder WomanÆs invisible plane.

Best costume?

 

Wolverine, Daniel said, but Trixie voted for the Dark Phoenix. Now he leaned toward her. ôBest superpower?ö he asked.

It had been the only answer they agreed upon: flight. But this time, Trixie looked at him as if he were crazy to be bringing up a stupid game from a thousand years ago. ôIÆm going to be late,ö she said and started to walk away.

Cars honked, but Daniel didnÆt put the truck into gear. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what he had been like at her age. At fourteen, Daniel had been living in a different world and doing everything he could to fight, lie, cheat, steal, and brawl his way out of it. At fourteen, he had been someone Trixie had never seen her father be. Daniel had made sure of it.

ôDaddy.ö

 

Daniel turned to find Trixie standing beside his truck. She curled her hands around the lip of the open window, the glitter in her pink nail polish catching the sun. ôInvisibility,ö she said, and then she melted into the crowd behind her.

Trixie Stone had been a ghost for fourteen days, seven hours, and thirty-six minutes now, not that she was officially counting. This meant that she walked around school and smiled when she was supposed to; she pretended to listen

when the algebra teacher talked about commutative properties; she even sat in the cafeteria with the other ninth-graders. But while they laughed at the lunch ladiesÆ hairstyles (or lack thereof), Trixie studied her hands and wondered whether anyone else noticed that if the sun hit your palm a certain way, you could see right through the skin, to the busy tunnels with blood moving around inside. Corpuscles. She slipped the word into her mouth and tucked it high against her cheek like a sucking candy, so that if anyone happened to ask her a question she could just shake her head, unable to speak.

Kids who knew (and who didnÆt? the news had traveled like a forest fire) were waiting to see her lose her careful balance. Trixie had even overheard one girl making a bet about when she might fall apart in a public situation. High school students were cannibals; they fed off your broken heart while you watched and then shrugged and offered you a bloody, apologetic smile.

Visine helped. So did Preparation H under the eyes, as disgusting as it was to imagine. Trixie would get up at five-thirty in the morning, carefully select a double layer of long-sleeved Tshirts and a pair of flannel pants, and gather her hair into a messy ponytail. It took an hour to make herself look like sheÆd just rolled out of bed, like sheÆd been losing no sleep at all over what had happened. These days, her entire life was about making people believe she was someone she wasnÆt anymore.

Trixie crested the hallway on a sea of noise-lockers gnashing like teeth, guys yelling out afternoon plans over the heads of underclassmen, change being dug out of pockets for vending machines. She turned into a doorway and steeled herself to endure the next forty-eight minutes. Psychology was the only class she had with Jason, who was a junior. It was an elective. Which was a fancy way of saying: You asked for this.

He was already there; she knew by the way the air had taken a charge around her body, an electric field. He was wearing the faded denim shirt sheÆd borrowed once when he spilled Coke on her while they were studying, and his black hair was a mess. You need a part, she used to tell him, and heÆd laugh.

IÆve got better ones, heÆd say.

 

She could smell him-shampoo and peppermint gum and, believe it or not, the cool white mist of utter ice. It was the same smell on the T-shirt sheÆd hidden in the bottom of her pajama drawer, the one he didnÆt know she had, the one

she wrapped around her pillow each night before she went to sleep. It kept the details in her dreams: a callus on the edge of JasonÆs wrist, rubbed raw by his hockey glove. The flannel-covered sound of his voice when she called him on the phone and woke him. The way he twirled a pencil around the fingers of one hand when he was nervous or thinking too hard.

HeÆd been doing that when he broke up with her.

 

She took a deep breath and headed past the seat where Jason slouched, his eyes focused on the four-letter words students had worn into the desktop through years of boredom. She could feel his face heat up with the effort he was making to avoid looking at her. It felt unnatural to walk past, to not have him tug on the straps of her backpack until she gave him her full attention. ôYouÆre coming to practice,ö heÆd say, ôright?ö As if there had ever been any question.

Mr. Torkelson had assigned seating, and Trixie had been placed in the first row-something she had hated for the first three months of the school year and now was supremely grateful for, because it meant she could stare at the board and not have to see Jason or anyone else out of the corner of her eye. She slipped into the chair and opened her binder, her eyes avoiding the big Wite-Out centipede that used to be JasonÆs name.

When she felt a hand on her shoulder-a warm, broad, guyÆs hand-all the breath left her body. Jason was going to apologize; heÆd realized that heÆd made a mistake; he wanted to ask her if sheÆd ever forgive him. She turned around, the word yes playing over her lips like the call of a flute, but instead found herself staring at Moss Minton, JasonÆs best friend.

ôHey.ö He glanced back over his shoulder to where Jason was still hunched over his own desk. ôYou okay?ö

Trixie smoothed the edges of her homework. ôWhy wouldnÆt I be?ö ôI just want you to know we all think heÆs an idiot.ö

We. We could be the state champion hockey team, of which Moss and Jason were cocaptains. It could be the whole of the junior class. It could be anyone who wasnÆt her. That part of it was almost as hard as the not having Jason: trying to negotiate through the minefield of the friends theyÆd shared, to learn who still belonged to her.

ôI think sheÆs just something he needs to get out of his system,ö Moss said, his words a handful of stones dropped from a cliff.

TrixieÆs handwriting started to swim on the page before her. Please leave, she thought, praying fiercely for the telekinetic power to cause a distraction, and for once in her life something went right. Mr. Torkelson walked in, slammed the door, and came to the front of the classroom. ôLadies and gentlemen,ö he announced, ôwhy do we dream?ö

A stoner in the back row answered. ôBecause Angelina Jolie doesnÆt go to Bethel High.ö

The teacher laughed. ôWell, thatÆs one reason. Sigmund Freud might even agree with you. He called dreams a æroyal roadÆ into the unconscious, made up of all the forbidden wishes you had and wished you didnÆt.ö

Dreams, Trixie thought, were like soap bubbles. You could look at them from a distance, and they were lovely. ItÆs when you stuck your face too close that your eyes wound up stinging. She wondered if Jason had the same dreams she did, the kind where you wake up with all your breath gone and your heart as flat as a dime.

ôMs. Stone?ö the teacher repeated.

 

Trixie blushed. She had no idea what Torkelson had asked. She could feel JasonÆs gaze rising like a welt on the back of her neck.

ôIÆve got one, Mr. T,ö Moss called out from somewhere behind her. ôIÆm skating out at the regionals, and a pass comes my way, but all of a sudden my stick is like a piece of spaghetti-ö

ôAs blatantly Freudian as that is, Moss, IÆd really like to hear from Trixie.ö Like one of her fatherÆs superheroes, TrixieÆs senses narrowed. She could

hear the girl in the back of the class scratching out a secret note to her friend

across the aisle, Torkelson clasping his hands together, and worst of all, that broken connection as Jason closed his eyes. She scribbled on her thumbnail with her pen. ôI donÆt remember any dreams.ö

ôYou spend a sixth of your life dreaming, Ms. Stone. Which in your case

amounts to about two and a half years. Certainly you havenÆt blocked out two and a half years of your life?ö

She shook her head, looked up at the teacher, and opened her mouth. ôIàIÆm going to be sick,ö Trixie managed, and with the classroom wheeling around her, she grabbed her books and fled.

In the bathroom, she flung her backpack under the row of square white sinks that looked like a giantÆs dentures and crouched in front of one of the toilets. She vomited, although she would have wagered that there was nothing inside of her. Then she sat on the floor and pressed her hot cheek against the metal wall of the stall.

It was not that Jason had broken up with her on their three-month anniversary.

It was not that Trixie-a freshman whoÆd seemed to have hit the jackpot, a nobody elevated to the level of queen by association-had lost her Cinderella status. It was that she truly believed you could be fourteen when you learned how love could change the speed your blood ran through you, how it made you dream in kaleidoscope color. It was that Trixie knew she couldnÆt have loved Jason this hard if he hadnÆt loved her that way too.

Trixie came out of the stall and turned the water on in the sink. She splashed her face, wiped it with a brown paper towel. She didnÆt want to go back to class, not ever, so she took out her eyeliner and mascara, her lip gloss and her compact mirror. She had her motherÆs rich copper hair, her fatherÆs dark complexion. Her ears were too pointed and her chin was too round. Her lips were okay, she guessed. Once, in art class, a teacher had said they were classic and made the rest of the students draw them. It was her eyes, though, that scared her. Although they used to be a dark mossy color, nowadays they were a frosted green so pale it was barely a color at all. Trixie wondered if you could cry away the pigment.

She snapped shut her compact and then, on second thought, opened it and set it on the floor. It took three stomps before the mirror inside shattered. Trixie threw out the plastic disc and all but one shard of glass. It was shaped like a tear, rounded on one end and sharp as a dagger on the other.

She slid down along the tiled wall of the bathroom until she was sitting underneath the sink. Then she dragged the makeshift knife over the white canvas

of her inner arm. As soon as she did it, she wished she could take it back. Crazy girls did this, girls who walked like zombies through YA novels.

But.

 

Trixie felt the sting of the skin as it split, the sweet welling rise of blood. It hurt, though not as much as everything else.

 

ôYou have to do something pretty awful to wind up in the bottom level of hell,ö Laura said rhetorically, surveying her class. ôAnd Lucifer used to be GodÆs right-hand man. So what went wrong?ö

It had been a simple disagreement, Laura thought. Like almost every other rift between people, thatÆs how it started. ôOne day God turned to his buddy Lucifer and said that he was thinking of giving those cool little toys he created- namely, people-the right to choose how they acted. Free will. Lucifer thought that power should belong only to angels. He staged a coup, and he lost big- time.ö

Laura started walking through the aisles-one downside of free Internet access at the college was that kids used lecture hours to shop online and download porn, if the professor wasnÆt vigilant. ôWhat makes the Inferno so brilliant are the contrapassi-the punishments that fit the crime. In DanteÆs mind, sinners pay in a way that reflects what they did wrong on earth. Lucifer didnÆt want man to have choices, so he winds up literally paralyzed in ice. Fortune-tellers walk around with their heads on backward. Adulterers end up joined together for eternity, without getting any satisfaction from it.ö Laura shook off the image that rose in her mind. ôApparently,ö she joked, ôthe clinical trials for Viagra were done in hell.ö

Her class laughed as she headed toward her podium. ôIn the 1300s-before Italians could tune in to The Revenge of the Sith or Lord of the Rings-this poem was the ultimate battle of good versus evil,ö she said. ôI like the word evil.

Scramble it a little, and you get vile and live. Good, on the other hand, is just a command to go do.ö

The four graduate students who led the class sections for this course were all

sitting in the front row with their computers balanced on their knees. Well, three of them were. There was Alpha, the self-christened retrofeminist, which as far as Laura could tell meant that she gave a lot of speeches about how modern women had been driven so far from the home they no longer felt comfortable inside it.

Beside her, Aine scrawled on the inside of one alabaster arm-most likely her own poetry. Naryan, who could type faster than Laura could breathe, looked up over his laptop at her, a crow poised for a crumb. Only Seth sprawled in his chair, his eyes closed, his long hair spilling over his face. Was he snoring?

She felt a flush rise up the back of her neck. Turning her back on Seth Dummerston, she glanced up at the clock in the back of the lecture hall. ôThatÆs it for today. Read through the fifth canto,ö Laura instructed. ôNext Wednesday, weÆll be talking about poetic justice versus divine retribution. And have a nice weekend, folks.ö

The students gathered their backpacks and laptops, chattering about the bands that were playing later on, and the BΘΠ party that had brought in a truckload of real sand for Caribbean Night. They wound scarves around their necks like bright bandages and filed out of the lecture hall, already dismissing LauraÆs class from their minds.

Laura didnÆt need to prepare for her next lecture; she was living it. Be careful what you wish for, she thought. You just might get it.

Six months ago, she had been so sure that what she was doing was right, a liaison so natural that stopping it was more criminal than letting it flourish.

When his hands roamed over her, she transformed: no longer the cerebral Professor Stone but a woman for whom feeling came before thought. Now, though, when Laura realized what she had done, she wanted to blame a tumor, temporary insanity, anything but her own selfishness. Now all she wanted was damage control: to break it off, to slip back into the seam of her family before they had a chance to realize how long sheÆd been missing.

When the lecture hall was empty, Laura turned off the overhead lights. She dug in her pocket for her office keys. Damn, had she left them in her computer bag?

ôVeil.ö

 

Laura turned around, already recognizing the soft Southern curves of Seth

DummerstonÆs voice. He stood up and stretched, unfolding his long body after that nap. ôItÆs another anagram for evil,ö he said. ôThe things we hide.ö

She stared at him coolly. ôYou fell asleep during my lecture.ö ôI had a late night.ö

ôWhose fault is that?ö Laura asked.

 

Seth stared at her the way she used to stare at him, then bent forward until his mouth brushed over hers. ôYou tell me,ö he whispered.

Trixie turned the corner and saw them: Jessica Ridgeley, with her long sweep of blond hair and her dermatologistÆs-daughter skin, was leaning against the door of the AV room kissing Jason.

Trixie became a rock, the sea of students parting around her. She watched JasonÆs hands slip into the back pockets of JessicaÆs jeans. She could see the dimple on the left side of his mouth, the one that appeared only when he was speaking from the heart.

Was he telling Jessica that his favorite sound was the thump that laundry made when it was turning around in a dryer? That sometimes he could walk by the telephone and think she was going to call, and sure enough she did? That once, when he was ten, he broke into a candy machine because he wanted to know what happened to the quarters once they went inside?

Was she even listening?

 

Suddenly, Trixie felt someone grab her arm and start dragging her down the hall, out the door, and into the courtyard. She smelled the acrid twitch of a match, and a minute later, a cigarette had been stuck between her lips. ôInhale,ö Zephyr commanded.

Zephyr Santorelli-Weinstein was TrixieÆs oldest friend. She had enormous doe eyes and olive skin and the coolest mother on the planet, one who bought her incense for her room and took her to get her navel pierced like it was an adolescent rite. She had a father, too, but he lived in California with his new

family, and Trixie knew better than to bring up the subject. ôWhat class have you got next?ö

ôFrench.ö

 

ôMadame Wright is senile. LetÆs ditch.ö

 

Bethel High had an open campus, not because the administration was such a fervent promoter of teen freedom but because there was simply nowhere to go. Trixie walked beside Zephyr along the access road to the school, their faces ducked against the wind, their hands stuffed into the pockets of their North Face jackets. The crisscross pattern where sheÆd cut herself an hour earlier on her arm wasnÆt bleeding anymore, but the cold made it sting. Trixie automatically started breathing through her mouth, because even from a distance, she could smell the gassy, rotten-egg odor from the paper mill to the north that employed most of the adults in Bethel. ôI heard what happened in psych,ö Zephyr said.

ôGreat,ö Trixie muttered. ôNow the whole world thinks IÆm a loser and a freak.ö

Zephyr took the cigarette from TrixieÆs hand and smoked the last of it. ôWhat do you care what the whole world thinks?ö

ôNot the whole world,ö Trixie admitted. She felt her eyes prickle with tears again, and she wiped her mitten across them. ôI want to kill Jessica Ridgeley.ö

ôIf I were you, IÆd want to kill Jason,ö Zephyr said. ôWhy do you let it get to you?ö

Trixie shook her head. ôIÆm the one whoÆs supposed to be with him, Zephyr. I just know it.ö

They had reached the turn of the river past the park-and-ride, where the bridge stretched over the Androscoggin River. This time of year, it was nearly frozen over, with great swirling art sculptures that formed as ice built up around the rocks that crouched in the riverbed. If they kept walking another quarter mile, theyÆd reach the town, which basically consisted of a Chinese restaurant, a minimart, a bank, a toy store, and a whole lot of nothing else.

Zephyr watched Trixie cry for a few minutes, then leaned against the railing

of the bridge. ôYou want the good news or the bad news?ö

Trixie blew her nose in an old tissue sheÆd found in her pocket. ôBad news.ö ôMartyr,ö Zephyr said, grinning. ôThe bad news is that my best friend has

officially exceeded her two-week grace period for mourning over a relationship, and she will be penalized from here on in.ö

At that, Trixie smiled a little. ôWhatÆs the good news?ö ôMoss Minton and I have sort of been hanging out.ö

Trixie felt another stab in her chest. Her best friend, and JasonÆs? ôReally?ö

 

ôWell, maybe we werenÆt actually hanging out. He waited for me after English class today to ask me if you were okayàbut still, the way I figure it, he could have asked anyone, right?ö

Trixie wiped her nose. ôGreat. IÆm glad my misery is doing wonders for your love life.ö

ôWell, itÆs sure as hell not doing anything for yours. You canÆt keep crying over Jason. He knows youÆre obsessed.ö Zephyr shook her head. ôGuys donÆt want high maintenance, Trix. They wantàJessica Ridgeley.ö

ôWhat the fuck does he see in her?ö

 

Zephyr shrugged. ôWho knows. Bra size? Neanderthal IQ?ö She pulled her messenger bag forward, so that she could dig inside for a pack of M&MÆs.

Hanging from the edge of the bag were twenty linked pink paper clips.

 

Trixie knew girls who kept a record of sexual encounters in a journal, or by fastening safety pins to the tongue of a sneaker. For Zephyr, it was paper clips. ôA guy canÆt hurt you if you donÆt let him,ö Zephyr said, running her finger across the paper clips so that they danced.

These days, having a boyfriend or a girlfriend was not in vogue; most kids trolled for random hookups. The sudden thought that Trixie might have been that to Jason made her feel sick to her stomach. ôI canÆt be like that.ö

Zephyr ripped open the bag of candy and passed it to Trixie. ôFriends with benefits. ItÆs what the guys want, Trix.ö

ôHow about what the girls want?ö

 

Zephyr shrugged. ôHey, I suck at algebra, I canÆt sing on key, and IÆm always the last one picked for a team in gymàbut apparently IÆm quite gifted when it comes to hooking up.ö

Trixie turned, laughing. ôThey tell you that?ö

 

ôDonÆt knock it until youÆve tried it. You get all the fun without any of the baggage. And the next day you just act like it never happened.ö

Trixie tugged on the paper clip chain. ôIf youÆre acting like it never happened, then why are you keeping track?ö

ôOnce I hit a hundred, I can send away for the free decoder ring.ö Zephyr shrugged. ôI donÆt know. I guess itÆs just so I remember where I started.ö

Trixie opened her palm and surveyed the M&MÆs. The food coloring dye was already starting to bleed against her skin. ôWhy do you think the commercials say they wonÆt melt in your hands, when they always do?ö

ôBecause everyone lies,ö Zephyr replied.

 

All teenagers knew this was true. The process of growing up was nothing more than figuring out what doors hadnÆt yet been slammed in your face. For years, TrixieÆs own parents had told her that she could be anything, have anything, do anything. That was why sheÆd been so eager to grow up-until she got to adolescence and hit a big, fat wall of reality. As it turned out, she couldnÆt have anything she wanted. You didnÆt get to be pretty or smart or popular just because you wanted it. You didnÆt control your own destiny; you were too busy trying to fit in. Even now, as she stood here, there were a million parents setting their kids up for heartbreak.

Zephyr stared out over the railing. ôThis is the third time IÆve cut English this week.ö

In French class, Trixie was missing a quiz on le subjonctif. Verbs, apparently,

had moods too: They had to be conjugated a whole different way if they were used in clauses to express want, doubt, wishes, judgment. She had memorized the red-flag phrases last night: It is doubtful that. ItÆs not clear that. It seems that. It may be that. Even though. No matter what. Without.

She didnÆt need a stupid leton to teach her something sheÆd known for years: Given anything negative or uncertain, there were rules that had to be followed.

If he had the choice, Daniel would draw a villain every time.

 

There just wasnÆt all that much you could do with heroes. They came with a set of traditional standards: square jaw, overdeveloped calves, perfect teeth.

They stood half a foot taller than your average man. They were anatomical marvels, intricate displays of musculature. They sported ridiculous knee-high boots that no one without superhuman strength would be caught dead wearing.

On the other hand, your average bad guy might have a face shaped like an onion, an anvil, a pancake. His eyes could bulge out or recess in the folds of his skin. His physique might be meaty or cadaverous, furry or rubberized, or covered with lizard scales. He could speak in lightning, throw fire, swallow mountains. A villain let your creativity out of its cage.

The problem was, you couldnÆt have one without the other. There couldnÆt be a bad guy unless there was a good guy to create the standard. And there couldnÆt be a good guy until a bad guy showed just how far off the path he might stray.

Today Daniel sat hunched at his drafting table, procrastinating. He twirled his mechanical pencil; he kneaded an eraser in his palm. He was having a hell of a time turning his main character into a hawk. He had gotten the wingspan right, but he couldnÆt seem to humanize the face behind the bright eyes and beak.

Daniel was a comic book penciler. While Laura had built up the academic credentials to land her a tenured position at Monroe College, heÆd worked out of the home with Trixie at his feet as he drew filler chapters for DC Comics. His style got him noticed by Marvel, which asked him numerous times to come work in NYC on Ultimate X-Men, but Daniel put his family before his career. He did

graphic art to pay the mortgage-logos and illustrations for corporate newsletters- until last year, just before his fortieth birthday, when Marvel signed him to work from home on a project all his own.

He kept a picture of Trixie over his workspace-not just because he loved her, but because for this particular graphic novel-The Tenth Circle-she was his inspiration. Well, Trixie and Laura. LauraÆs obsession with Dante had provided the bare-bones plot of the story; Trixie had provided the impetus. But it was Daniel who was responsible for creating his main character-Wildclaw-a hero that this industry had never seen.

Historically, comics had been geared toward teenage boys. Daniel had pitched Marvel a different concept: a character designed for the demographic group of adults who had been weaned on comic books yet who now had the spending power theyÆd lacked as adolescents. Adults who wanted sneakers endorsed by Michael Jordan and watched news programs that looked like MTV segments and played Tetris on a Nintendo DS during their business-class flights. Adults who would immediately identify with WildclawÆs alter ego, Duncan: a fortysomething father who knew that getting old was hell, who wanted to keep his family safe, whose powers controlled him, instead of the other way around.

The narrative of the graphic novel followed Duncan, an ordinary father searching for his daughter, who had been kidnapped by the devil into DanteÆs circles of hell. When provoked, through rage or fear, Duncan would morph into Wildclaw-literally becoming an animal. The catch was this: Power always involved a loss of humanity. If Duncan turned into a hawk or a bear or a wolf to elude a dangerous creature, a piece of him would stay that way. His biggest fear was that if and when he did find his missing daughter, she would no longer recognize who heÆd become in order to save her.

Daniel looked down at what he had on the page so far, and sighed. The problem wasnÆt drawing the hawk-he could do that in his sleep-it was making sure the reader saw the human behind it. It was not new to have a hero who turned into an animal-but Daniel had come by the concept honestly. HeÆd grown up as the only white boy in a native Alaskan village where his mother was a schoolteacher and his father was simply gone. In Akiak, the Yupiit spoke freely of children who went to live with seals, of men who shared a home with black bears. One woman had married a dog and given birth to puppies, only to peel back the fur to see they were actually babies underneath. Animals were

simply nonhuman people, with the same ability to make conscious decisions, and humanity simmered under their skins. You could see it in the way they sat together for meals, or fell in love, or grieved. And this went both ways: Sometimes, in a human, there would turn out to be a hidden bit of a beast.

DanielÆs best and only friend in the village was a YupÆik boy named Cane, whose grandfather had taken it upon himself to teach Daniel how to hunt and fish and everything else that his own father should have. For example, how after killing a rabbit, you had to be quiet, so that the animalÆs spirit could visit. How at fish camp, youÆd set the bones of the salmon free in the river, whispering Ataam taikina. Come back again.

Daniel spent most of his childhood waiting to leave. He was a kassÆaq, a white kid, and this was reason enough to be teased or bullied or beaten. By the time he was TrixieÆs age, he was getting drunk, damaging property, and making sure the rest of the world knew better than to fuck with him. But when he wasnÆt doing those things, he was drawing-characters who, against all odds, fought and won. Characters he hid in the margins of his schoolbooks and on the canvas of his bare palm. He drew to escape, and eventually, at age seventeen, he did.

Once Daniel left Akiak, he never looked back. He learned how to stop using his fists, how to put rage on the page instead. He got a foothold in the comics industry. He never talked about his life in Alaska, and Trixie and Laura knew better than to ask. He became a typical suburban father who coached soccer and grilled burgers and mowed the lawn, a man youÆd never expect had been accused of something so awful that heÆd tried to outrun himself.

Daniel squeezed the eraser he was kneading and completely rubbed out the hawk heÆd been attempting to draw. Maybe if he started with Duncan-the-man, instead of Wildclaw-the-beast? He took his mechanical pencil and started sketching the loose ovals and scribbled joints that materialized into his unlikely hero. No spandex, no high boots, no half mask: DuncanÆs habitual costume was a battered jacket, jeans, and sarcasm. Like Daniel, Duncan had shaggy dark hair and a dark complexion. Like Daniel, Duncan had a teenage daughter. And like Daniel, everything Duncan did or didnÆt do was linked to a past that he refused to discuss.

When you got right down to it, Daniel was secretly drawing himself.

JasonÆs car was an old Volvo that had belonged to his grandmother before she died. The seats had been reupholstered in pink, her favorite color, by his grandfather for her eighty-fifth birthday. Jason had told Trixie he used to think about changing them back to their original flesh tone, but how could you mess with that kind of love?

Hockey practice had ended fifteen minutes ago. Trixie waited in the cold, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket, until Jason came out of the rink. His enormous hockey bag was slung over his shoulder, and he was laughing as he walked beside Moss.

Hope was a pathological part of puberty, like acne and surging hormones. You might sound cynical to the world, but that was just a defense mechanism, cover- up coating a zit, because it was too embarrassing to admit that in spite of the bum deals you kept getting, you hadnÆt completely given up.

When Jason noticed her, Trixie tried to pretend she didnÆt see the look that ghosted over his face-regret, or maybe resignation. She concentrated instead on the fact that he was walking toward her alone. ôHey,ö she said evenly. ôCan you give me a ride home?ö

He hesitated, long enough for her to die inside all over again. Then he nodded and unlocked the car. She slid into the passenger seat while Jason stowed his gear, turned over the ignition, and blasted the heater. Trixie thought up a thousand questions-How was practice? Do you think itÆll snow again? Do you miss me?-but she couldnÆt speak. It was too much, sitting there on the pink seats, just a foot away from Jason, the way sheÆd sat beside him in this car a hundred times before.

He pulled out of the parking spot and cleared his throat. ôYou feeling better?ö Than what? she thought.

ôYou left psych this morning,ö Jason reminded her.

 

That class seemed like forever ago. Trixie tucked her hair behind her ear. ôYeah,ö she said, and glanced down. Trixie thought of how she used to grasp the stick shift, so that when Jason reached for it, he would automatically be holding

her hand. She slid her palm beneath her thigh and gripped the seat so she wouldnÆt do anything stupid.

ôWhat are you doing here, anyway?ö Jason said.

 

ôI wanted to ask you something.ö Trixie took a deep breath for courage. ôHow do you do it?ö

ôDo what?ö

 

ôAll of it. You know. Go to class and practice. Make it through the day. Act likeàlike none of it mattered.ö

Jason swore beneath his breath and pulled the car over. Then he reached across the seat and brushed his thumb over her cheek; until then, she hadnÆt been aware she was crying. ôTrix,ö he sighed, ôit mattered.ö

By now, the tears were coming faster. ôBut I love you,ö Trixie said. There was no easy switch that she could flip to stem the flow of feelings, no way to drain the memories that pooled like acid in her stomach because her heart no longer knew what to do with them. She couldnÆt blame Jason; she didnÆt like herself like this, either. But she couldnÆt go back to being the girl sheÆd been before she met him; that girl was gone. So where did that leave her?

Jason was wavering, she could tell. When he reached over the console to pull her into his arms, she tucked her head against his neck and rounded her mouth against the salt of his skin. Thank you, she murmured, to God or Jason or maybe both.

His words stirred the hair beside her ear. ôTrixie, youÆve got to stop. ItÆs over.ö

The sentence-and thatÆs exactly what it was, in every sense of the word-fell between them like a guillotine. Trixie disengaged herself, wiping her eyes on the puffy sleeve of her coat. ôIf itÆs us,ö she whispered, ôhow come you get to decide?ö

When he didnÆt answer-couldnÆt answer-she turned and stared out the front window. As it turned out, they were still in the parking lot. They hadnÆt gotten anywhere at all.

The entire way home, Laura planned the way she was going to break the news to Seth. As flattering as it was to have a twentysomething man find a thirty- eight-year-old woman attractive, it was also wrong: Laura was his professor; she was married; she was a mother. She belonged in a reality made up of faculty meetings and papers being published and think tanks conducted at the home of the dean of humanities, not to mention parent-teacher conferences at TrixieÆs school and worries about her own metabolism slowing down and whether she could save money on her cellular service if she switched companies. She told herself that it did not matter that Seth made her feel like summer fruit about to drop from a vine, something she could not remember experiencing anytime in the last decade with Daniel.

Doing something wrong, it turned out, packed a heady adrenaline rush. Seth was dark and uneven and unpredictable and-oh, God, just thinking about him was making her drive too fast on this road. On the other hand, LauraÆs husband was the most solid, dependable, mild-mannered man in all of Maine. Daniel never forgot to put out the recycling bin; he set the coffee to brew the night before because she was a bear when she didnÆt have any in the morning; he never once complained about the fact that it had taken a good decade longer than heÆd liked to make a name for himself in the comics industry because he was the stay-at-home parent. Sometimes, ridiculously, the more perfect he was the angrier she got, as if his generosity existed only to highlight her own selfishness. But then, she had only herself to blame for that-wasnÆt she the one whoÆd given him the ultimatum, whoÆd said he had to change?

The problem was (if she was going to be honest with herself) that when she asked him to change, she was focusing on what she thought she needed. SheÆd forgotten to catalog all the things sheÆd lose. What she had loved most about Seth-the thrill of doing something forbidden, the understanding that women like her did not connect with men like him-was exactly what had once made her fall for Daniel.

She had toyed with the idea of telling Daniel about the affair, but what good would that do, except hurt him? Instead, she would overcompensate. She would kill him with kindness. She would be the best wife, the best mother, the most attentive lover. She would give him back what she hoped he never realized had been missing.

Even Dante said that if you walked through hell, you could climb your way to paradise.

In the rearview mirror, Laura saw a carnival of flashing lights. ôGod damn,ö she muttered, pulling over as the police cruiser slid neatly behind her Toyota.

A tall officer walked toward her, silhouetted by the headlights of his vehicle. ôGood evening, maÆam, did you know you were speeding?ö

Apparently not, thought Laura.

ôIÆm going to need your license andàProfessor Stone? Is that you?ö Laura peered up at the officerÆs face. She couldnÆt place it, but he was

young enough; she might have taught him. She offered her most humble expression. Had he gotten a high enough grade in her class to keep her from getting a ticket?

ôBernie Aylesworth,ö he said, smiling down at Laura. ôI took your Dante class my senior year, back in 2001. Got shut out of it the year before.ö

She knew she was a popular teacher-her Dante course was rated even higher than the Intro to Physics lectures where Jeb Wetherby shot monkeys out of cannons to teach projectile motion. The Unauthorized Guide to Monroe College named her the prof students most wanted to take out for a beer. Had Seth read that? she thought suddenly.

ôIÆm just gonna give you a warning this time,ö Bernie said, and Laura wondered where he had been six months ago, when she truly needed one. He passed her a crisp piece of paper and smiled. ôSo where were you hurrying off to?ö

Not to, she thought, just back. ôHome,ö she told him. ôI was headed home.ö She waited until he was back in the cruiser to put on her signal-a penitent motion if ever there was one-and pulled into the gentle bend of the road. She drove well within the speed limit, her eyes focused ahead, as careful as you have to be when you know someone is watching.

ôIÆm leaving,ö Laura said the minute she walked through the door. Daniel looked up from the kitchen counter, where he was chopping broccoli in preparation for dinner. On the stove, chicken was simmering in garlic.

ôYou just got here,ö he said.

 

ôI know.ö Laura lifted the lid on the skillet, breathed in. ôSmells really good. I wish I could stay.ö

He could not pinpoint what was different about her, but he thought it had to do with the fact that when sheÆd just said she wanted to be home, he believed her- most of the time, if she apologized for leaving, it was only because it was expected. ôWhatÆs going on?ö he asked.

She turned her back to Daniel and began to sort through the mail. ôThat departmental thing I told you about.ö

She had not told him; he knew she hadnÆt told him. She unwound her scarf and shrugged out of her coat, draped them over a chair. She was wearing a black suit and Sorel boots, which were tracking snow in small puddles all over the kitchen floor. ôHowÆs Trixie?ö

ôSheÆs in her room.ö

 

Laura opened the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of water. ôThe crazy poet is trying to stage a coup,ö she said. ôSheÆs been talking to the tenured professors. I donÆt think she knows that-ö Suddenly, there was a crash, and Daniel turned in time to see the glass explode against the tile floor. Water spread in a puddle, seeping beneath the edge of the refrigerator. ôDamn it!ö Laura cried, kneeling to pick up the pieces.

ôIÆve got it,ö Daniel said, tossing down paper towels to absorb the spill. ôYouÆve got to slow down. YouÆre bleeding.ö

Laura glanced down at the gash on the pad of her thumb as if it belonged to someone else. Daniel reached for her and wrapped her hand in a clean dish towel. They knelt inches apart on the tile floor, watching her blood soak through the checkered fabric.

Daniel couldnÆt remember the last time he and Laura had been this close to

each other. He couldnÆt remember a lot of things, like the sound of his wifeÆs breathing when she gave herself over to sleep, or the half smile that slipped out like a secret when something took her by surprise. He had tried to tell himself that Laura was busy, the way she always got at the beginning of a trimester. He did not ask if it could be anything more than that, because he did not want to hear the answer.

ôWe need to take care of that,ö Daniel said. The bones of her wrist were light and fine in his hand, delicate as china.

Laura tugged herself free. ôIÆm fine,ö she insisted, and she stood up. ôItÆs a scratch.ö For a moment she stared at him, as if she knew, too, that there was another entire conversation going on here, one they had chosen not to have.

ôLaura.ö Daniel got to his feet, but she turned away. ôI really have to go change,ö she said.

Daniel watched her leave, heard her footsteps on the stairs overhead. You already have, he thought.

ôYou didnÆt,ö Zephyr said.

 

Trixie pushed her sleeves up and stared down at the cuts on her arms, a red web of regret. ôIt seemed like a good idea at the time,ö she said. ôI started walking, and I wound up at the rinkàI figured it was a sign. If we could just talk- ö

 

ôTrixie, right now Jason doesnÆt want to talk. He wants to take out a restraining order.ö Zephyr sighed. ôYou are so Fatal Attraction.ö

ôFatal what?ö

 

ôItÆs an old movie. DonÆt you ever watch anything that doesnÆt have Paul Walker in it?ö

Trixie tucked the phone between her shoulder and her ear and carefully unwound the screw neck of the X-Acto knife that sheÆd taken from her

fatherÆs office. The blade came out, a tiny silver trapezoid. ôIÆd do anything to get him back.ö Closing her eyes, Trixie scored the blade over her left arm. She sucked in her breath and imagined she was opening up a vent, allowing some of the enormous pressure to ease.

ôAre you going to complain about this until we graduate?ö Zephyr asked. ôBecause if thatÆs the case, then IÆm taking matters into my own hands.ö

What if her father knocked on the door right now? What if anyone, even Zephyr, found out that she was doing stuff like this? Maybe it wasnÆt relief she was feeling, but shame. Both made you burn from the inside out.

ôSo, do you want my help?ö Zephyr asked.

 

Trixie clapped her hand over the cut, stanching the flow. ôHello?ö Zephyr said. ôAre you still there?ö

Trixie lifted her hand. The blood was rich and bright against her palm. ôYeah,ö she sighed. ôI guess I am.ö

ôGood timing,ö Daniel said, as he heard TrixieÆs footsteps pounding down the stairs. He set two plates on the kitchen table and turned around to find her waiting in her coat, carrying a backpack. Her cascade of hair spilled out from beneath a striped stocking cap.

ôOh,ö she said, blinking at the food. ôZephyr invited me for a sleepover.ö ôYou can go after you eat.ö

Trixie bit her lower lip. ôHer mom thinks IÆm coming for dinner.ö

 

Daniel had known Zephyr since she was seven. He used to sit in the living room while she and Trixie performed the cheerleading moves theyÆd made up during an afternoon of play, or lip-synched to the radio, or presented tumbling routines. He could practically still hear them doing a hand-clapping game: The spades go eeny-meeny pop zoombinià

Last week, Daniel had walked in with a bag of groceries to find someone unfamiliar in the kitchen, bent over a catalog. Nice ass, he thought, until she straightened and turned out to be Zephyr. ôHey, Mr. Stone,ö sheÆd said. ôTrixieÆs in the bathroom.ö

She hadnÆt noticed that he went red in the face, or that he left the kitchen before his own daughter returned. He sat on the couch with the grocery bag in his hands, the ice cream inside softening against his chest, as he speculated whether there were other fathers out there making the same mistake when they happened upon Trixie.

ôWell,ö he said now, ôIÆll just save the leftovers.ö He stood up, fishing for his car keys.

ôOh, thatÆs okay. I can walk.ö ôItÆs dark out,ö Daniel said.

Trixie met his gaze, challenging. ôI think I can manage to get to a house three blocks away. IÆm not a baby, Dad.ö

Daniel didnÆt know what to say. She was a baby, to him. ôThen maybe before you go to ZephyrÆs you could go vote, join the army, and rent us a caràoh, hang on, thatÆs right. You canÆt.ö

Trixie rolled her eyes, took off her hat and gloves, and sat down. ôI thought you were eating at ZephyrÆs.ö

ôI will,ö she said. ôBut I donÆt want you to have to eat all by yourself.ö

 

Daniel sank into the chair across from her. He had a sudden flashback of Trixie in ballet class, the two of them struggling to capture her fine hair in a netted bun before the session began. He had always been the sole father present; other menÆs wives would rush forward to help him figure out how to secure the bobby pins, how to slick back the bangs with hair spray.

At her first and only ballet performance, Trixie had been the lead reindeer, drawing out the sleigh that held the Sugar Plum Fairy. She wore a white leotard and an antler headband and had a painted red nose. Daniel hadnÆt taken his

eyes off her, not for any of the three minutes and twenty-two seconds that she stood on that stage.

He didnÆt want to take his eyes off her now, but part of this new routine of adolescence meant a portion of the dance took place offstage.

ôWhat are you guys going to do tonight?ö Daniel asked.

 

ôI donÆt know. Rent a movie off the dish, I guess. What are you going to do?

ö

 

ôOh, the same thing I always do when IÆm alone in the house. Dance around

naked, call the psychic hotline, cure cancer, negotiate world peace.ö Trixie smiled. ôCould you clean my room too?ö

ôDonÆt know if IÆll have time. It depends on whether the North Koreans are being cooperative.ö He pushed his food around his plate, took a few bites, and then dumped the rest into the trash. ôOkay, youÆre officially free.ö

She bounced up and grabbed her pack, heading toward the front door. ôThanks, Daddy.ö

ôAny time,ö Daniel said, but the words turned up at the end, as if he were asking her for minutes that were no longer hers to give.

She wasnÆt lying. Not any more than her father had when Trixie was little and he said one day theyÆd get a dog, although they didnÆt. She was just telling him what he wanted-needed-to hear. Everyone always said the best relationships between parents and kids involved open communication, but Trixie knew that was a joke. The best relationships were the ones where both sides went out of their way to make sure the other wasnÆt disappointed.

She wasnÆt lying, not really. She was going to ZephyrÆs house. And she did plan to sleep over.

But ZephyrÆs mother had gone to visit her older brother at Wesleyan College for the weekend, and Trixie wasnÆt the only one whoÆd been invited for the

evening. A bunch of people were coming, including some hockey players.

 

Like Jason.

 

Trixie ducked behind the fence at Mrs. ArgobathÆs house, opened up her backpack, and pulled out the jeans that were so low rise she had to go commando. SheÆd bought them a month ago and had hidden them from her father, because she knew heÆd have a heart attack if he saw her wearing them. Shimmying out of her sweatpants and underwear-Jesus, it was cold out-she skimmed on the jeans. She rummaged for the items sheÆd stolen from her motherÆs closet-they were the same size now. Trixie had wanted to borrow the killer black-heeled boots, but she couldnÆt find them. Instead, Trixie had settled for a chain-link belt and a sheer black blouse her mother had worn one year over a velvet camisole to a faculty Christmas dinner. The sleeves werenÆt see- through enough that you could see the Ace bandage sheÆd wrapped around the cuts on her arm, but you could totally tell that all she had on underneath was a black satin bra.

She zipped up her coat again, jammed on her hat, and started walking. Trixie honestly wasnÆt sure sheÆd be able to do what Zephyr had suggested. Make him come to you, Zephyr had said. Get him jealous.

Maybe if she was hammered enough, or totally stoned.

Now there was a thought. When you were high, you were hardly yourself. Then again, maybe it would be easier than she expected. Being someone else-

anyone else, even for one night-would beat being Trixie Stone.

A human heart breaks harder when itÆs dropped from a greater height. Seth lay on the sheets of his futon, the ones that smelled of the cigarettes he rolled and-he loved this-of Laura. He still felt her words like the recoil from a shotgun. ItÆs over.

Laura had gone to pull herself together in the bathroom. Seth knew there was a hairline fracture between duty and desire; that you might think you were walking on one side of it and then find yourself firmly entrenched on the other. He just also had believed-stupidly-that it wasnÆt that way for them. HeÆd

believed that even with the age difference, he could be LauraÆs future. He hadnÆt counted on the chance that she might want her past instead.

ôI can be whatever you want me to be,ö heÆd promised. Please, he had said, half question, half command.

When the doorbell rang, he nearly didnÆt answer. This was the last thing he needed right now. But the bell rang again, and Seth opened the door to find the kid standing in the shadows. ôLater,ö Seth said, and he started to shut the door.

A twenty-dollar bill was pressed into his hand. ôLook,ö Seth said with a sigh, ôIÆm out.ö

ôYouÆve got to have something.ö Two more twenties were pushed at him.

 

Seth hesitated. He hadnÆt been lying-he really didnÆt have any weed-but it was hard to turn down sixty bucks when you had eaten ramen noodles every night that week. He wondered how much time he had before Laura came out of the bathroom. ôWait here,ö he said.

He kept his stash in the belly of an old guitar with half its strings missing. The battered case had travel stamps on it, from Istanbul and Paris and Bangkok, and a bumper sticker that said, IF YOU CAN READ THIS, GET THE FUCK AWAY.

The first time Laura had visited his apartment heÆd come back from digging up a bottle of wine to find her strumming the remaining strings, the guitar still cradled inside its open case. Do you play? she had asked.

He had frozen, but only for a moment. He took the case, snapped it shut, and put it off to the side. Depends on the game, he had answered.

Now he reached into the sound hole and rummaged around. He considered his sidelight vocation philosophically: Grad school cost a fortune; his tech job at the vetÆs office barely paid his rent; and selling pot wasnÆt much different from buying a six-pack for a bunch of teenagers. It wasnÆt like he went around selling coke or heroin, which could really mess you up. But he still didnÆt want Laura to know this about him. He could tell you how she felt about politics or affirmative action or being touched along the base of her delicate spine, but he didnÆt know what sheÆd say if she discovered that he was dealing.

Seth found the vial he was looking for. ôThis is powerful shit,ö he warned, passing it outside.

ôWhat does it do?ö

 

ôIt takes you away,ö Seth answered. He heard the water stop running in the bathroom. ôDo you want it or not?ö

The kid took the vial and shrank back into the night. Seth shut the door just as Laura walked out of the bathroom, her eyes red and her face swollen.

Immediately, she froze. ôWho were you talking to?ö

 

Although Seth would have gladly crowed to the world that he loved Laura, she had too much at stake to lose-her job, her family. He should have known that someone trying so hard to keep from being noticed would never really be able to see him.

ôNo one,ö Seth said bitterly. ôYour little secretÆs still safe.ö

 

He turned away so that he would not have to bear witness as she left him. He heard the door open, felt the gasp of cold air. ôYouÆre not the one IÆm ashamed of,ö Laura murmured, and she walked out of his life.

Zephyr was handing out tubes of lipstick-hot pink, Goth black, scarlet, plum.

She pressed one into TrixieÆs hand. It was gold, and Trixie turned it upside down to read the name: All That Glitters. ôYou know what to do, right?ö Zephyr murmured.

Trixie did. SheÆd never played Rainbow before, sheÆd never had to. SheÆd always been with Jason instead.

As soon as Trixie had arrived at ZephyrÆs, her friend had laid out the guidelines for TrixieÆs surefire success that night. First, look hot. Second, drink whenever, whatever. Third-and most important-do not break the two-and-a-half- hour rule. That much time had to pass at the party before Trixie was allowed to talk to Jason. In the meantime, Trixie had to flirt with everyone but him.

According to Zephyr, Jason expected Trixie to still be pining for him. When the opposite happened-when he saw other guys checking Trixie out and telling him

heÆd blown it-it would shock him into realizing his mistake.

 

However, Jason hadnÆt showed up yet. Zephyr told Trixie just to carry on with points one and two of the plan, so that sheÆd be good and wasted by the time Jason arrived and saw her enjoying herself. To that end, Trixie had spent the night dancing with anyone who wanted to, and by herself when she couldnÆt find a partner. She drank until the horizon swam. She fell down across the laps of boys she could not care less about and let them pretend she liked it.

She looked at her reflection in the plate-glass window and applied the gold lipstick. It made her look like a model in an MTV video.

There were three games that had been making the rounds at parties recently.

Daisy-chaining meant having sex like a conga line-youÆd do it with a guy, whoÆd do it with some girl, whoÆd do it with another guy, and so on, until you made your way back to the beginning. During Stoneface, a bunch of guys sat at a table with their pants pulled down and their expressions wiped clean of emotion, while a girl huddled underneath giving one of them a blow job-and they all had to try to guess the lucky recipient.

Rainbow was a combination of the two. A dozen or so girls were given different colored lipsticks before having oral sex with the guys, and the boy who sported the most colors at the end of the night was the winner.

An upperclassman that Trixie didnÆt know threaded his fingers through ZephyrÆs and tugged her forward. Trixie watched him sit on the couch, watched her wilt like a flower at his feet. She turned away, her face flaming.

It doesnÆt mean anything, Zephyr had said. It only hurts if you let it.

ôHey.ö

 

Trixie turned around to find a guy staring at her. ôUm,ö she said. ôHi.ö ôYou want toàgo sit down?ö

He was blond, where Jason had been so dark. He had brown eyes, not blue ones. She found herself studying him not in terms of who he was, but who he

wasnÆt.

 

She imagined what would happen if Jason walked in the door and saw her going at it with someone. She wondered if heÆd recognize her right away. If the stake through his heart would hurt as much as the one Trixie felt every time she saw him with Jessica Ridgeley.

Taking a deep breath, she led this boy-what was his name? did it even matter?

-toward a couch. She reached for a beer on the table beside them and chugged the entire thing. Then she knelt between the boyÆs legs and kissed him. Their teeth scraped.

She reached down and unbuckled his belt, looking down long enough to register that he wore boxers. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like if the bass in the music could beat through the pores of her skin.

His hand tangled in her hair, drawing her down, head to a chopping block. She smelled the musk of him and heard the groan of someone across the room and he was in her mouth and she imagined the flecks of gold on her lips ringing him like fairy dust.

Gagging, Trixie wrenched herself away and rocked back on her heels. She could still taste him, and she scrambled out of the pulsing living room and out the front door just in time to throw up in Mrs. Santorelli-WeinsteinÆs hydrangea bush.

When you fooled around without the feelings attached, it might not mean anythingàbut then again, neither did you. Trixie wondered if there was something wrong with her, for not being able to act like Zephyr-cool and nonchalant, like none of this mattered anyway. Is that really what guys wanted? Or was it just what the girls thought the guys wanted?

Trixie wiped a shaking hand across her mouth and sat down on the front steps.

In the distance, a car door slammed. She heard a voice that haunted her each moment before she fell asleep: ôCome on, Moss. SheÆs a freshman. Why donÆt we just call it a night?ö

Trixie stared at the sidewalk until Jason came into view, haloed by a streetlight as he walked beside Moss toward ZephyrÆs front door.

She spun around, took the lipstick out of her pocket, and reapplied a fresh coat. It sparkled in the dark. It felt like wax, like a mask, like none of this was real.

Laura had called to say that since she was on campus, she was going to stay there and catch up on some grading. She might even just crash overnight in her office.

You could work at home, Daniel said, when what he really meant was, Why does it sound like youÆve been crying?

No, IÆll get more done here, Laura answered, when what she really meant was, Please donÆt ask.

Love you, Daniel said, but Laura didnÆt.

 

When your significant other was missing, it wasnÆt the same bed. There was a void on the other side, a cosmic black hole, one that you couldnÆt roll too close to without falling into a chasm of memories. Daniel lay with the covers drawn up to his chin, the television screen still glowing green.

He had always believed that if someone in this marriage was going to cheat, it would have been himself. Laura had never done anything wayward, had never even gotten a damn traffic ticket. On the other hand, he had a long history of behavior that would have surely landed him in jail eventually, had he not fallen in love instead. He assumed you could hide infidelity, like a wrinkle in your clothing stuffed underneath a belt line or a cuff, a flaw you knew existed but could conceal from the public. Instead, cheating had its own smell, one that clung to LauraÆs skin even after sheÆd stepped out of the shower. It took Daniel a while longer to recognize this sharp lemon scent for what it was: a late and unexpected confidence.

At dinner a few nights ago, Trixie had read them a logic problem from her psych homework: A woman is at the funeral of her mother. There, she meets a man she doesnÆt know and has never met, who she thinks is her dream partner. But because of the circumstances, she forgets to ask for his number, and she canÆt find him afterward. A few days later, she kills her own sister. Why?

Laura guessed that the sister had been involved with the man. Daniel thought it might be something to do with an inheritance. Congratulations, Trixie had said, neither one of you is a psychopath. The reason she murdered her sister was because she hoped the guy would show up at that funeral, too. Most serial killers who had been asked this question had given the right answer.

It was later, while he was lying in bed with Laura sleeping soundly beside him, that Daniel came up with a different explanation. According to Trixie, the woman at the funeral had fallen in love. And like any accelerant, that would change the equation. Add love, and a person might do something crazy. Add love, and all the lines between right and wrong were bound to disappear.

It was two-thirty in the morning, and Trixie was bluffing.

 

By now, the party had wound down. Only four people remained: Zephyr and Moss and Trixie and Jason. Trixie had managed to avoid finishing out the Rainbow game by playing Quarters in the kitchen instead with Moss and Jason. When Zephyr found her there, she had pulled Trixie aside, furious. Why was Trixie being such a prude? WasnÆt this whole night supposed to be about making Jason jealous? And so Trixie had marched back to Moss and Jason, and suggested the four of them play strip poker.

They had been at it long enough for the stakes to be important. Jason had folded a while ago; he stood against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the rest of the game develop.

Zephyr laid out her cards with a flourish: two pairs-threes and jacks. On the couch across from her, Moss tipped his hand and grinned. ôI have a straight.ö

Zephyr had already taken off her shoes, her socks, and her pants. She stood up and started to peel off her shirt. She walked toward Moss in her bra, draping her T-shirt around his neck and then kissing him so slowly that all the pale skin on his face turned bright pink.

When she sat back down, she glanced at Trixie, as if to say, ThatÆs how you do it.

ôStack the deck,ö Moss said. ôI want to see if sheÆs really a blonde.ö

Zephyr turned to Trixie. ôStack the deck. I want to see if heÆs really a guy.ö ôHey, Trixie, what about you?ö Moss asked.

TrixieÆs head was cartwheeling, but she could feel JasonÆs eyes on her. Maybe this was where she was supposed to go in for the kill. She looked to Zephyr, hoping for a cue, but Zephyr was too busy hanging on Moss to pay attention to her.

Oh, my God, it was brilliant.

 

If the goal of this entire night was to get Jason jealous, the surest way to do it would be to come on to his best friend.

Trixie stood up and tumbled right into MossÆs lap. His arms came around her, and her cards spilled onto the coffee table: two of hearts, six of diamonds, queen of clubs, three of clubs, eight of spades. Moss started to laugh. ôTrixie, thatÆs the worst hand IÆve ever seen.ö

ôYeah, Trix,ö Zephyr said, staring. ôYouÆre asking for it.ö

 

Trixie glanced at her. She knew, didnÆt she, that the only reason she was flirting with Moss was to make Jason jealous? But before she could telegraph this with some kind of ESP, Moss snapped her bra strap. ôI think you lost,ö he said, grinning, and he sat back to see what piece of clothing she was going to take off.

Trixie was down to her black bra and Ace bandage and her low-rise jeans-the ones she was wearing without underwear. She wasnÆt planning on parting with any of those items. But she had a plan-she was going to remove her earrings. She lifted her left hand up to the lobe, only to realize that sheÆd forgotten to put them on. The gold hoops were sitting on her dresser, in her bedroom, just where sheÆd left them.

Trixie had already removed her watch, and her necklace, and her barrette.

SheÆd even cut off her macramT anklet. A flush rose up her shoulders-her bare shoulders-onto her face. ôI fold.ö

ôYou canÆt fold after the game,ö Moss said. ôRules are rules.ö

Jason pushed away from the wall and walked closer. ôGive her a break,

Moss.ö

 

ôI think sheÆd rather have something elseàö

 

ôIÆm out,ö Trixie said, her voice skating the thin edge of panic. She held her hands crossed in front of herself. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would burst into her palm. Suddenly, this seemed even worse than Rainbow, because the anonymity was gone. Here, if she acted like a slut, everyone knew her by name.

ôIÆll pinch-strip for her,ö Zephyr suggested, leaning into Moss.

 

But at that moment, Trixie looked at Jason and remembered why she had come to ZephyrÆs in the first place. ItÆs worth it, she thought, if it brings him back. ôIÆll do it,ö she said. ôBut just for a second.ö

Turning her back to the three of them, she slipped the straps of her bra down her arms and felt her breasts come free. She took a deep breath and spun around.

Jason was staring down at the floor. But Moss was holding up his cell phone, and before Trixie could understand why, heÆd snapped a picture of her.

She fastened her bra and lunged for the phone. ôGive me that!ö He stuffed it in his pants. ôCome and get it, baby.ö

Suddenly Trixie found herself being pulled off Moss. The sound of JasonÆs fist hitting Moss made her cringe. ôJesus Christ, lay off!ö Moss cried. ôI thought you said you were finished with her.ö

Trixie grabbed for her blouse, wishing that it was something flannel or fleece that would completely obliterate her. She held it in front of her and ran into the bathroom down the hall. Zephyr followed, coming into the tiny room and closing the door behind her.

Shaking, Trixie slipped her hands into the sleeves of the blouse. ôMake them go home.ö

ôBut itÆs just getting interesting,ö Zephyr said.

Trixie looked up, stunned. ôWhat?ö

 

ôWell, for GodÆs sake, Trixie. So he had a camera phone, big fucking deal. It was a joke.ö

ôWhy are you taking his side?ö

 

ôWhy are you being such an asshole?ö

 

Trixie felt her cheeks grow hot. ôThis was your idea. You told me that if I did what you said, IÆd get Jason back.ö

ôYeah,ö Zephyr shot back. ôSo why were you all over Moss?ö

 

Trixie thought of the paper clips on ZephyrÆs backpack. Random hookups werenÆt random, no matter what you told yourself. Or your best friend.

There was a knock on the door, and then Moss opened it. His lip was split, and he had a welt over his left eye. ôOh, my God,ö Zephyr said. ôLook at what he did to you.ö

Moss shrugged. ôHeÆs done worse during a scrimmage.ö

 

ôI think you need to lie down,ö she said. ôPreferably with me.ö As she tugged Moss out of the bathroom and upstairs, she didnÆt look back.

Trixie sat down on the lid of the toilet and buried her face in her hands.

Distantly, she heard the music being turned off. Her temples throbbed, and her arm where sheÆd cut it earlier. Her throat was dry as leather. She reached for a half-empty can of Coke on the sink and drank it. She wanted to go home.

ôHey.ö

 

Trixie glanced up to find Jason staring down at her. ôI thought you left.ö ôI wanted to make sure you were all right. You need a ride?ö

Trixie wiped her eyes, a smear of mascara coming off on the heel of her hand.

She had told her father she would be staying overnight, but that was before her fight with Zephyr. ôThat would be great,ö she said, and then she began to cry.

He pulled her upright and into his arms. After tonight, after everything that had happened and how stupid sheÆd been, all she wanted was a place where she fit. Everything about Jason was right, from the temperature of his skin to the way that her pulse matched his. When she turned her face into the bow of his neck, she pressed her lips against his collarbone: not quite a kiss, not quite not one.

She thought, hard, about lifting her face up to his before she did it. She made herself remember what Moss had said: I thought you were done with her.

When Jason kissed her, he tasted of rum and of indecision. She kissed him back until the room spun, until she couldnÆt remember how much time had passed. She wanted to stay like this forever. She wanted the world to grow up around them, a mound in the landscape where only violets bloomed, because that was what happened in a soil too rich for its own good.

Trixie rested her forehead against JasonÆs. ôI donÆt have to go home just yet,ö she said.

Daniel was dreaming of hell. There was a lake of ice and a run of tundra. A dog tied to a steel rod, its nose buried in a dish of fish soup. There was a mound of melting snow, revealing candy wrappers, empty Pepsi cans, a broken toy. He heard the hollow thump of a basketball on the slick wooden boardwalk and the tail of a green tarp rattling against the seat of the snow machine it covered. He saw a moon that hung too late in the sky, like a drunk unwilling to leave the best seat at the bar.

At the sound of the crash, he came awake immediately to find himself still alone in bed. It was three thirty-two A.M. He walked into the hall, flipping light switches as he passed. ôLaura,ö he called, ôis that you?ö

The hardwood floors felt cold beneath his bare feet. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary downstairs, yet by the time he reached the kitchen he had nearly convinced himself that he was about to come face-to-face with an intruder. An old wariness rose in him, a muscle memory of fight or flight that heÆd thought heÆd long forgotten.

There was no one in the cellar, or the half bath, or the dining room. The telephone still slept on its cradle in the living room. It was in the mudroom that

he realized Trixie must have come home early: Her coat was here, her boots kicked off on the brick floor.

ôTrixie?ö he called out, heading upstairs again.

 

But she wasnÆt in her bedroom, and when he reached the bathroom, the door was locked. Daniel rattled it, but there was no response. He threw his entire weight against the jamb until the door burst free.

Trixie was shivering, huddled in the crease made by the wall and the shower stall. ôBaby,ö he said, coming down on one knee. ôAre you sick?ö But then Trixie turned in slow motion, as if he were the last person sheÆd ever expected to see. Her eyes were empty, ringed with mascara. She was wearing something black and sheer that was ripped at the shoulder.

ôOh, Daddy,ö she said, and started to cry. ôTrixie, what happened?ö

She opened her mouth to speak, but then pressed her lips together and shook her head.

ôYou can tell me,ö Daniel said, gathering her into his arms as if she were small again.

Her hands were knotted together between them, like a heart that had broken its bounds. ôDaddy,ö she whispered. ôHe raped me.ö

2

S he had kissed him back. They must have both fallen asleep for a while, because Trixie woke up with him leaning over her, his lips against her neck. SheÆd felt her skin burn where he touched her.

She was jerked back to the present as her father reached for the controls of the heater on the dashboard. ôAre you too hot?ö

Trixie shook her head. ôNo,ö she said. ôItÆs okay.ö But it wasnÆt, not anymore, not by a long shot.

Daniel fiddled with the knob for another moment. This was the nightmare that sank its teeth into every parentÆs neck. Your child is hurt. How quickly can you make it better?

What if you canÆt?

 

Beneath the tires, he heard the name that he couldnÆt get out of his head, not since the moment heÆd found Trixie in the bathroom.

Who did this to you? Jason. Jason Underhill.

In a tornado of pure fury, Daniel had grabbed the first thing he could lay hold of-a soap dish-and hurled it into the bathroom mirror. Trixie had started shrieking, shaking so hard it took him five minutes to calm her down. He didnÆt know whoÆd been more shocked at the outburst: Trixie, whoÆd never seen him like this, or Daniel himself, whoÆd forgotten. After that, heÆd been careful which questions he asked his daughter. It wasnÆt that he didnÆt want to talk to her; he was just afraid to hear her answer, and even more afraid he would again do the wrong thing. He had never learned the protocol for this. It went beyond comfort; it went beyond parenting. It meant transforming all the rage he felt right now-enough to breathe fire and blow out the windshield-into words that spread like balm, invisible comfort for wounds too broad to see.

Suddenly, Daniel braked hard. The logging truck in front of them was weaving over the median line of the divided highway. ôHeÆs going to kill someone,ö Daniel said, and Trixie thought, Let it be me. She felt numb from the waist down, a mermaid encased in ice. ôWill Mom meet us there?ö

ôI hope so, baby.ö

 

It was after her father had wrapped her in a blanket and rocked her and told her they were going to the hospital, when Trixie was still crying softly for her mother, that her father admitted Laura wasnÆt home. But itÆs three-thirty in the morning, Trixie had said. Where did she go? There had been a moment where the pain had stopped belonging to Trixie and started to belong to her father

instead, but then heÆd turned away to get her another blanket, and that was when Trixie realized she wasnÆt the only casualty of the night.

The logging truck veered sharply to the left. HOW AM I DOING? read the bumper sticker on its back door, the one that encouraged motorists to report reckless driving to an 800 number. I am doing fine, Daniel thought. I am hale and whole, and next to me the person I love most in this world has broken into a thousand pieces.

Trixie watched the side of the logging truck as her father accelerated and passed it, holding down his horn. It sounded too loud for this hour of the morning. It seemed to rip the sky in half. She covered her ears, but even then she could still hear it, like a scream that started from inside.

Weaving back into the right-hand lane of the highway, Daniel stole a glance at Trixie across the front seat. She was curled into a ball. Her face was pale. Her hands were hidden in her sleeves. Daniel bet she didnÆt even know she was crying.

SheÆd forgotten her coat, and Daniel realized this was his fault. He should have reminded her. He should have brought one of his own.

Trixie could feel the weight of her fatherÆs worry. Who knew that the words you never got around to saying could settle so heavy? Suddenly, she remembered a blown-glass candy dish she had broken when she was eleven, an heirloom that had belonged to her motherÆs grandmother. She had gathered all the pieces and had glued them together seamlessly-and she still hadnÆt been able to fool her mother. She imagined the same would be true, now, of herself.

If this had been an ordinary day, Daniel thought, he would have been getting Trixie up for school about now. HeÆd yell at her when she spent too much time in the bathroom doing her hair and tell her she was going to be late. HeÆd put a cereal bowl out for her on the breakfast table, and sheÆd fill it with Life.

From the moment it was over until the moment she entered her own home, Trixie had said only two words, uttered as she got out of his car. Thank you.

Daniel watched the logging truck recede in his rearview mirror. Danger came in different packages, at different points in a lifetime. There were grapes and marbles and other choking hazards. There were trees too tall for climbing. There

were matches and scooters and kitchen knives left lying on the counter. Daniel had obsessed about the day Trixie would be able to drive. He could teach her how to be the most defensive driver on the planet, but he couldnÆt vouch for the moron truckers who hadnÆt slept for three days, who might run a red light. He couldnÆt keep the drunk from having one more before he got behind the wheel of his car to head home.

Out the passenger window, Trixie watched the scenery stream by without registering a single image. She couldnÆt stop wondering: If she had not kissed him back, would it never have happened?

The phone rang ten times in LauraÆs office, a room the size of a walk-in closet, but Daniel couldnÆt seem to hang up. He had tried everything, everywhere. Laura was not answering the phone in the office; she was not at home; her cell automatically rolled over to the voice message system. She had disconnected herself, on purpose.

Daniel had made excuses for his wife on his own behalf, but he couldnÆt make them for TrixieÆs sake. Because for the first time in his life, he didnÆt think he could be everything his daughter needed right now.

He cursed out loud and called LauraÆs office again to leave a message. ôItÆs Daniel. ItÆs four in the morning. IÆve got Trixie at Stephens Memorial, in the ER. She wasàshe was raped last night.ö He hesitated. ôPlease come.ö

Trixie wondered if this was what it felt like to be shot. If, even after the bullet went through flesh and bone, you would look down at yourself with detachment, assessing the damage, as if it wasnÆt you who had been hit but someone else you were asked to appraise. She wondered if numbness qualified as a chronic ache.

Sitting here, waiting for her father to come back from the restroom, Trixie cataloged her surroundings: the squeak of the nurseÆs white shoes, the urgent chatter of a crash cart being rolled across linoleum, the underwater-green cinder block of the walls and the amoeba shapes of the chairs where they had been told to wait. The smell of linen and metal and fear. The garland and stockings hung

behind the triage nurse, the afterthought of a Christmas tree that sat next to the wire box holding patient charts. Trixie didnÆt just notice all these things, she absorbed them, and she decided she was saturating herself with sensation to make up for the thirty minutes she had blocked out of her consciousness.

She realized, with a start, that she had already begun to divide her life into before and after.

Hi, youÆve reached Laura Stone, her voice said. Leave me a message and IÆll get back to you.

Leave me.

 

IÆll get back to you.

 

Daniel hung up again and walked back inside the hospital, where cell phones were prohibited. But when he got back to the waiting area, Trixie was gone. He approached the triage nurse. ôWhich room is my daughter in? Trixie Stone?ö

The nurse glanced up. ôIÆm sorry, Mr. Stone. I know sheÆs a priority case, but weÆre short staffed and-ö

ôShe hasnÆt been called in yet?ö Daniel said. ôThen where is she?ö He knew he shouldnÆt have left her alone, knew even as she was nodding at him when she asked if sheÆd be all right by herself for a moment that she hadnÆt heard him at all. Backing away from the horseshoe desk, he started through the double doors of the ER, calling TrixieÆs name.

ôSir,ö the nurse said, getting to her feet, ôyou canÆt go in there!ö ôTrixie?ö Daniel yelled, as patients stared at him from the spaces between

privacy curtains, their faces pale or bloodied or weak. ôTrixie!ö

 

An orderly grabbed his arm; he shook the massive man off. He turned a corner, smacking into a resident in her ghost-white coat before he came to a dead end. Whirling about, he continued to call out for Trixie, and then-in the interstitial space between the letters of her name-he heard Trixie calling for him.

He followed the thread of her voice through the maze of corridors and finally saw her. ôIÆm right here,ö he said, and she turned to him and burst into tears.

ôI got lost,ö she sobbed against his chest. ôI couldnÆt breathe. They were staring.ö

ôWho was?ö

 

ôAll the people in the waiting room. They were wondering what was wrong with me.ö

Daniel took both of her hands. ôThereÆs nothing wrong with you,ö he said, that first lie a fissure crack in his heart.

A woman wearing a trowelÆs layer of cosmetics approached. ôTrixie Stone?ö she said. ôMy nameÆs Janice. IÆm a sexual assault advocate. IÆm here to answer questions for you and your family, and to help you understand whatÆs going to be happening.ö

Daniel couldnÆt get past the makeup. If this woman had been called in for Trixie, how much time had been lost applying those false eyelashes, that glittery blush? How much faster might she have come?

ôFirst things first,ö Janice said, her eyes on Trixie. ôThis wasnÆt your fault.ö Trixie glanced at her. ôYou donÆt even know what happened.ö

ôI know that no one deserves to be raped, no matter who she is and what sheÆs been doing,ö Janice said. ôHave you taken a shower yet?ö

Daniel wondered how on earth she could even think this. Trixie was still wearing the same torn blouse, had the same raccoon circles of mascara under her eyes. She had wanted to shower-that was why, when heÆd found her, she was in the bathroom-but Daniel knew enough to keep her from doing it. Evidence. The word had swum in his mind like a shark.

ôWhat about the police?ö Daniel heard, and he was stunned to realize heÆd been the one to say it.

Janice turned. ôThe hospital automatically reports any sexual assault of a

minor to the police,ö she said. ôWhether or not Trixie wants to press charges is up to her.ö

She will press charges against that son of a bitch, Daniel thought, even if I have to talk her into it.

And on the heels of that: If he forced Trixie to do something she didnÆt want to, then how was he any different from Jason Underhill?

As Janice outlined the specifics of the upcoming examination, Trixie shook her head and folded her arms around herself. ôI want to go home,ö she said, in the smallest of voices. ôIÆve changed my mind.ö

ôYou need to see a doctor, Trixie. IÆll stay with you, the whole time.ö She turned to Daniel. ôIs there a Mrs. Stoneà?ö

Excellent question, Daniel thought, before he could remember not to. ôSheÆs on her way,ö he said. Maybe this was not even a lie by now.

Trixie grabbed onto his arm. ôWhat about my father? Can he come in with me?ö

Janice looked from Daniel to Trixie and then back again. ôItÆs a pelvic exam,ö she said delicately.

The last time Daniel had seen Trixie naked, she had been eleven and about to take a bubble bath. He had walked into the bathroom, thinking she was only brushing her teeth, and together they had stared at her blossoming body in the reflection of the mirror. After that, he was careful to knock on doors, to draw an invisible curtain of distance around her for privacy.

When he was a kid in Alaska, he had met YuÆpik Eskimos who hated him on sight, because he was a kassÆaq. It didnÆt matter that he was six or seven, that he hadnÆt been the particular Caucasian who had cheated that person out of land or reneged on a job or any of a hundred other grievances. All they saw was that Daniel was white, and by association, he was a magnet for their anger. He imagined, now, what it would be like to be the only male in the room during a sexual assault examination.

ôPlease, Daddy?ö

Behind the fear in TrixieÆs eyes was the understanding that even with this stranger, she would be alone, and she couldnÆt risk that again. So Daniel took a deep breath and headed down the hall between Trixie and Janice. Inside the room, there was a gurney; he helped Trixie climb onto it. The doctor entered almost immediately, a small woman wearing scrubs and a white coat. ôHi, Trixie,ö she said, and if she seemed surprised to see a father in the room, instead of a mother, she said nothing. She came right up to Trixie and squeezed her hand. ôYouÆre already being very brave. All IÆm going to ask you to do is keep that up.ö

She handed a form to Daniel and asked him to sign it, explaining that because Trixie was a minor, a parent or guardian had to authorize the collection and release of information. She took TrixieÆs blood pressure and pulse and made notes on her clipboard. Then she began to ask Trixie a series of questions.

WhatÆs your address? How old are you?

What day did the assault occur? What approximate time?

 

What was the gender of the perpetrator? The number of perpetrators? Daniel felt a line of sweat break out under the collar of his shirt.

Have you douched, bathed, urinated, defecated since the assault?

 

Have you vomited, eaten or drunk, changed clothes, brushed your teeth?

 

He watched Trixie shake her head no to each of these. Each time before she spoke, she would glance at Daniel, as if he had the answer in his eyes.

Have you had consensual intercourse in the last five days?

 

Trixie froze, and this time, her gaze slid away from his. She murmured something inaudible. ôSorry,ö the doctor said. ôI didnÆt quite get that?ö

ôThis was the first time,ö Trixie repeated.

 

Daniel felt the room swell and burst. He was vaguely aware of excusing

himself, of TrixieÆs face-a white oval that bled at the edges. He had to try twice before he could maneuver his fingers in a way that would open the latch of the door.

Outside, he balled his hand into a fist and struck it against the cinder-block wall. He pummeled the cement again and again. He did this even as the tears came and a nurse led him away, to wash the blood off his knuckles and to bandage the scrapes on his palm. He did this until he knew Trixie wasnÆt the only one hurting.

Trixie wasnÆt where everyone thought she was. She might have physically been in the examination room, but mentally she was floating, hovering in the top left corner of the ceiling, watching the doctor and that other woman minister to the poor, sad, broken girl who used to be her.

She wondered if they knew that their patient was a husk, a shell left behind by a snail because home didnÆt fit anymore. YouÆd think someone whoÆd been to medical school would be able to hear through a stethoscope that somebody was empty inside. Trixie watched herself step onto a sheet of white paper with stiff, jerky movements. She listened as Dr. Roth asked her to remove her clothes, explaining that there might be evidence on the fabric that the detectives could use. ôWill I get them back?ö Trixie heard herself say.

ôIÆm afraid not,ö the doctor answered.

 

ôYour dad is going to run home and get you something to wear,ö Janice added.

Trixie stared down at her motherÆs sheer blouse. SheÆs going to kill me, Trixie thought, and then she almost laughed-would her mother really be paying attention to the freaking blouse when she found out what had happened? With slow movements, Trixie mechanically unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it off. Too late, she remembered the Ace bandage around her wrist.

ôWhat happened there?ö Dr. Roth asked, gently touching the metal pins holding the wrap in place.

Trixie panicked. What would the doctor say if she knew Trixie had taken to

carving her own arm up? Could she get thrown into a psych ward for that? ôTrixie,ö Dr. Roth said, ôare there bruises under there?ö

She looked down at her feet. ôTheyÆre more like cuts.ö

 

When Dr. Roth began to unravel the bandage on her left wrist, Trixie didnÆt fight her. She thought about what it would be like in an institution. If, in the aftermath of all this, it might not be such a bad thing to be sealed away from the real world and totally over-medicated.

Dr. RothÆs gloved hands skimmed over a cut, one so new that Trixie could see the skin still knitting together. ôDid he use a knife?ö

Trixie blinked. She was still so disconnected from her body that it took her a moment to understand what the doctor was implying, and another moment after that to understand that she had just been given a way out.

ôIàI donÆt think so,ö Trixie said. ôI think he scratched me when I was fighting.ö

Dr. Roth wrote something down on her clipboard, as Trixie kept getting undressed. Her jeans came next, and then she stood shivering in her bra and panties. ôWere you wearing that pair of underwear when it happened?ö the doctor asked.

Trixie shook her head. SheÆd put them on, along with a big fat sanitary napkin, once she saw that she was bleeding. ôI wasnÆt wearing underwear,ö Trixie murmured, and immediately she realized how much that made her sound like a slut. She glanced down at the floor, at the see-through blouse. Was that why it had happened?

ôLow-rise jeans,ö Janice commiserated, and Trixie nodded, grateful that she hadnÆt been the one to have to explain.

Trixie couldnÆt remember ever being so tired. The examination room was runny at the edges, like a breakfast egg that hadnÆt been cooked quite long enough. Janice handed her a hospital johnny, which was just as good as being naked with the way it was hanging open in the back. ôYou can take a seat,ö Dr. Roth said.

The blood samples were next. It was just like when theyÆd had to pair up in eighth-grade science to try to analyze their own blood type. Trixie had nearly passed out at the sight of the blood, and her teacher had sent her to the nurse to breathe into a paper bag for a half hour, and she was so mortified that sheÆd called her father and said she was sick even though physically she was feeling much better. She and her father had had a Monopoly tournament, and like always, Trixie bought Park Place and Boardwalk and set up hotels and creamed her father.

This time, though, when the needle went in, Trixie watched from above. She didnÆt feel the prick, she didnÆt feel woozy. She didnÆt feel anything at all, of course, because it wasnÆt her.

When Dr. Roth turned off the lights in the room, Janice stepped forward. ôThe doctorÆs going to use a special light now, a Woods lamp. It wonÆt hurt.ö

It could have been a thousand needles-Trixie knew she still wouldnÆt feel it. But instead, this turned out to be like a tanning booth, except creepier. The light glowed ultraviolet, and when Trixie glanced down at her own bare body, it was covered with purple lines and blotches that hadnÆt been visible before. Dr. Roth moistened a long cotton swab and touched it to a spot on her shoulder. She left it on the counter to air-dry, and as it did, Trixie watched her write on the paper sleeve that the swab had been packaged in: Suspected saliva from right shoulder.

The doctor took swabs from the inside of her cheek and off her tongue. She gently combed TrixieÆs hair over a paper towel, folding up the comb inside the towel when she was finished. Dr. Roth slipped another towel underneath her, using a different comb to work through her pubic hair. Trixie had to turn away-it was that embarrassing to watch. ôAlmost done,ö Janice murmured.

Dr. Roth pulled a pair of stirrups from the end of the examination table. ôHave you ever been to a gynecologist, Trixie?ö she asked.

Trixie had an appointment, scheduled for next February, with her motherÆs doctor. ItÆs a health thing, her mother had assured her, which was just fine because Trixie wasnÆt planning on discussing her sex life out loud, especially not with her mother. Months ago, when the appointment had been made, Trixie hadnÆt even ever kissed a guy.

ôYouÆre going to feel a little pressure,ö Dr. Roth said, folding TrixieÆs legs

into the stirrups, a human origami that left her stark and open.

 

In that instant, Trixie felt what was left of her spirit sinking down from where it had been watching near the ceiling, to take dark root in her beaten body. She could feel JaniceÆs hand stroking her arm, could feel the doctorÆs rubber glove parting the heart of her. For the first time since sheÆd entered the hospital, she was completely, violently aware of who she was and what had been done to her.

There was cold steel, and a rasp of flesh. A push from the outside, as her body struggled to keep the speculum out. Trixie tried to kick out with one foot, but she was being held down at the thighs and then there was pain and force and you are breaking me in two.

ôTrixie,ö Janice said fiercely. ôTrixie, honey, stop fighting. ItÆs okay. ItÆs just the doctor.ö

Suddenly the door burst open and Trixie saw her mother, lion-eyed and determined. ôTrixie,ö Laura said, two syllables that broke in the center.

Now that Trixie could feel, she wished she couldnÆt. The only thing worse than not feeling anything was feeling everything. She started shaking uncontrollably, an atom about to split beneath its own compounded weight; and then she found herself anchored in her motherÆs embrace, their hearts beating hard against each other as the doctor and Janice offered to give them a moment of privacy.

ôWhere were you?ö Trixie cried, an accusation and a question all at once. She started to sob so hard she could not catch her breath.

LauraÆs hands were on the back of TrixieÆs neck, in her hair, around the bound of her ribs. ôI should have been home,ö her mother said. ôIÆm sorry. IÆm so sorry.ö

Trixie wasnÆt sure if her mother was apologizing, or just acknowledging her own errors. She should have been home. Maybe then Trixie wouldnÆt have chanced lying about going to ZephyrÆs; maybe she never would have had the opportunity to steal the sheer blouse. Maybe she would have spent the night in her own bed. Maybe the worst hurt she would have had to nurse was another razor stripe, a self-inflicted wound.

Her anger surprised her. Maybe none of this had been her motherÆs fault, but Trixie pretended it was. Because a mother was supposed to protect her child.

Because if Trixie was angry, there was no room left for being scared. Because if it was her motherÆs mistake, then it couldnÆt be hers.

Laura folded her arms around Trixie so tight that there was no room for doubt between them. ôWeÆll get through this,ö she promised.

ôI know,ö Trixie answered.

 

They were both lying, and Trixie thought maybe that was the way it would be, now. In the wake of a disaster, the last thing you needed to do was set off another bomb; instead, you walked through the rubble and told yourself that it wasnÆt nearly as bad as it looked. Trixie bit down on her lip. After tonight, she couldnÆt be a kid anymore. After tonight, there was no more room in her life for honesty.

Daniel was supremely grateful to have been given a job. ôShe needs a change of clothes,ö Janice had said. He was worried about not getting back in time before Trixie was ready, but Janice promised that they would be a while yet.

He drove back home from the hospital as quickly as heÆd driven to it, just in case.

By the time he reached Bethel, morning had cracked wide open. He drove by the hockey rink and watched it belch out a steady stream of tiny Mites, each followed by a parent-Sherpa lugging an outsized gear bag. He passed an old man skating down the ice of his driveway in his bedroom slippers, out to grab the newspaper. He wove around the parked rigs of hunters culling the woods for winter deer.

His own house had been left unlocked in the hurry to leave it. The light on the stove hood-the one heÆd kept on last night in case Laura came home late-was still burning, although there was enough sunshine to flood the entire kitchen.

Daniel turned it off and then headed upstairs to TrixieÆs room.

 

Years ago, when sheÆd told him she wanted to fly like the men and women in his comic book drawings, he had given her a sky in which to do it. TrixieÆs

walls and ceiling were covered with clouds; the hardwood floors were an ethereal cirrus swirl. Somehow, as Trixie got older, she hadnÆt outgrown the murals. They seemed to compliment her, a girl too vibrant to be contained by walls. But right now, the clouds that had once seemed so liberating made Daniel feel like he was falling. He anchored himself by holding on to the furniture, weaving from bed to dresser to closet.

He tried to remember what Trixie liked to wear on weekends when it was snowing, when the single event on the docket was to read the Sunday paper and doze on the couch, but the only outfit he could picture was the one she had been dressed in when heÆd found her last night. Gilding the lily, thatÆs what Laura had called it when Trixie and Zephyr got into her makeup drawer as kids and then paraded downstairs looking like the worst prostitutes in the Combat Zone. Once, he remembered, theyÆd come with their mouths pale as corpses and asked Laura why she had white lipstick. ThatÆs not lipstick, sheÆd said, laughing, thatÆs concealer. It hides zits and dark circles, all the things you donÆt want people to see. Trixie had only shaken her head: But why wouldnÆt you want people to see your lips?

Daniel opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a bell-sleeved shirt that was tiny enough to have fit Trixie when she was eight. Had she ever worn this in public?

He sank down onto the floor, holding the shirt, wondering if all this had been his own fault. HeÆd forbidden Trixie to buy certain clothes, like the pants she had had on last night, in fact, and that she must have purchased and hidden from him. You saw outfits like those in fashion magazines, outfits so revealing they bordered on porn, in DanielÆs opinion. Women glanced at those photo spreads and wished they looked that way, men glanced at them and wished for women who looked that way, and the sad reality was that most of those models were not women at all, but girls about TrixieÆs age.

Girls who might wear something to a party thinking it was sexy, without considering what it would mean if a guy thought that too.

He had assumed that a kid who slept with stuffed animals would not also be wearing a thong, but now it occurred to Daniel that long before any comic book penciler had conceived of Copycat or The Changeling or Mystique, shape- shifters existed in the form of teenage girls. One minute you might find your

daughter borrowing a cookie sheet to go sledding in the backyard, and the next sheÆd be online IMing a boy. One minute sheÆd lean over to kiss you good night, the next sheÆd tell you she hated you and couldnÆt wait to go away to college. One minute sheÆd be putting on her motherÆs makeup, the next sheÆd be buying her own. Trixie had morphed back and forth between childhood and adolescence so easily that the line between them had gone blurry, so indistinct that Daniel had simply given up trying for a clearer vision.

He dug way into the back of one of TrixieÆs drawers and pulled out a pair of shapeless fleece sweatpants, then a long-sleeved pink T-shirt. With his eyes closed, he fished in her underwear drawer for panties and a bra. As he hurried back to the hospital, he remembered a game he and Trixie used to play when they were stuck in traffic at the Maine tolls, trying to come up with a superhero power for every letter of the alphabet. Amphibious, bulletproof, clairvoyant.

Danger sensitive, electromagnetic. Flight. Glow-in-the-dark. Heat vision. Invincibility.

Jumping over tall buildings. Kevlar skin. Laser sight. Mind control. Never- ending life. Omniscience.

Pyrokinesis. Quick reflexes. Regeneration. Superhuman strength. Telepathy.

 

Underwater breathing. Vanishing. Weather control. X-ray vision. Yelling loud.

Zero gravity.

 

Nowhere in that list was the power to keep your child from growing up. If a superhero couldnÆt do it, how could any ordinary man?

There was a knock on the examination room door. ôItÆs Daniel Stone,ö Laura heard. ôI, um, have TrixieÆs clothes.ö

Before Janice could reach the door, Laura opened it. She took in DanielÆs disheveled hair, the shadow of beard on his face, the storm behind his eyes, and thought for a moment she had fallen backward fifteen years.

ôYouÆre here,ö he said.

ôI got the message on my cell.ö She took the stack of clothing from his hands and carried it over to Trixie. ôIÆm just going to talk to Daddy for a minute,ö Laura said, and as she moved away, Janice stepped forward to take her place.

Daniel was waiting outside the door for Laura. ôJason did this?ö she turned to him, fever in her eyes. ôI want him caught. I want him punished.ö

ôTake a number.ö Daniel ran a hand down his face. ôHow is she?ö

 

ôNearly finished.ö Laura leaned against the wall beside him, a foot of space separating them.

ôBut how is she?ö Daniel repeated.

 

ôLucky. The doctor said there wasnÆt any internal injury.ö ôWasnÆt sheàshe was bleeding.ö

ôOnly a tiny bit. ItÆs stopped now.ö Laura glanced up at Daniel. ôYou never told me she was sleeping at ZephyrÆs last night.ö

ôShe got invited after you left.ö ôDid you call ZephyrÆs mother to-ö

ôNo,ö Daniel interrupted. ôAnd you wouldnÆt have, either. SheÆs gone to ZephyrÆs a hundred times before.ö His eyes flashed. ôIf youÆre going to accuse me of something, Laura, just do it.ö

ôIÆm not accusing you-ö

 

ôPeople in glass houses,ö Daniel murmured. ôWhat?ö

He moved away from the wall and approached her, backing her into a corner. ôWhy didnÆt you answer when I called your office?ö

Excuses rose inside Laura like bubbles: I was in the restroom. I had taken a sleeping pill. I accidentally turned the ringer off. ôI donÆt think now is the time- ö

ôIf this isnÆt the time,ö Daniel said, his voice aching, ômaybe you could give me a number at least. A place I can reach you, you know, in case Trixie gets raped again.ö

Laura stood perfectly still, immobilized by equal parts shame and anger. She thought of the deepest level of hell, the lake of ice that only froze harder the more you tried to work yourself free.

ôExcuse me?ö

 

Grateful for a distraction, Laura turned toward the voice. A tall, sad-eyed man with sandy hair stood behind her, a man whoÆd most likely heard every word between her and Daniel. ôIÆm sorry. I donÆt mean to interrupt. IÆm looking for Mr. and Mrs. Stone?ö

ôThatÆs us,ö Laura said. In name, at least.

 

The man held out a badge. ôIÆm Detective Mike Bartholemew. And IÆd really like to speak to your daughter.ö

Daniel had been inside the Bethel police station only once, when heÆd chaperoned TrixieÆs second-grade class there on a field trip. He remembered the quilt that hung in the lobby, stars sewn to spell out PROTECT AND SERVE, and the booking room, where the whole class had taken a collective grinning mug shot. He had not seen the conference room until this morning-a small, gray cubicle with a reverse mirrored window that some idiot contractor had put in backward, so that from inside, Daniel could see the traffic of cops in the hallway checking their reflections.

He focused on the winding wheels of the tape recorder. It was easier than concentrating on the words coming out of TrixieÆs mouth, an exhaustive description of the previous night. She had already explained how, when she left home, she changed into a different outfit. How there was a posse of players from the hockey team present when she arrived at ZephyrÆs, and how, by the end of the evening, it was only the four of them.

One parent was allowed in with Trixie when she gave her statement. Because Laura had been at the hospital exam-or maybe because of what Daniel had said

to her in the hall-she had decided that he should be the one to go. It was only after he was inside that he realized this was more of a trial than an advantage. He had to sit very still and listen to TrixieÆs story in excruciating detail, smiling at her in encouragement and telling her she was doing great, when what he really wanted was to grab the detective and ask him why the hell he hadnÆt locked up Jason Underhill yet.

He wondered how, in just an hourÆs time, heÆd regressed back to being the kind of person heÆd been a lifetime ago-someone for whom feeling came before thought, for whom reason was a postscript. He wondered if this happened to all fathers: as their daughters grew up, they slid backward.

Bartholemew had brewed coffee. HeÆd brought in a box of tissues, which he put near Trixie, just in case. Daniel liked thinking that Bartholemew had been through this before. He liked knowing that someone had.

ôWhat were you drinking?ö the detective asked Trixie.

 

She was wearing the pink shirt and sweatpants that Daniel had brought, plus his coat. HeÆd forgotten to bring hers back, even when he went home again. ôCoke,ö Trixie said. ôWith rum.ö

ôWere you using any drugs?ö

 

She looked down at the table and shook her head.

 

ôTrixie,ö the detective said. ôYouÆre going to have to speak up.ö ôNo,ö she answered.

ôWhat happened next?ö

 

Daniel listened to her describe a girl he didnÆt know, one who lap-danced and played strip poker. Her voice flattened under the weight of her bad judgment. ôAfter Zephyr went upstairs with Moss, I figured everyone was gone. I was going to go home, but I wanted to sit down for a minute, because I had a really bad headache. And it turned out Jason hadnÆt left. He said he wanted to make sure I was all right. I started to cry.ö

ôWhy?ö

Her face contorted. ôBecause we broke up a couple of weeks ago. And being that close to him againàit hurt.ö

DanielÆs head snapped up. ôBroke up?ö

 

Trixie turned at the same time the detective stopped the tape. ôMr. Stone,ö Bartholemew said, ôIÆm going to have to ask you to remain silent.ö He nodded at Trixie to continue.

She let her gaze slide beneath the table. ôWeàwe wound up kissing. I fell asleep for a little while, I guess, because when I woke up, we werenÆt near the bathroom anymoreàwe were on the carpet in the living room. I donÆt remember how we got there. That was when heàwhen he raped me.ö

The last drink that Daniel had had was in 1991, the day before he convinced Laura that he was worth marrying. But before that, heÆd had plenty of firsthand knowledge about the faulty reasoning and slurred decisions that swam at the bottom of a bottle. HeÆd had his share of mornings where he woke up in a house he could not recall arriving at. Trixie might not remember how she got into the living room, but Daniel could tell her exactly how it had happened.

Detective Bartholemew looked squarely at Trixie. ôI know this is going to be difficult,ö he said, ôbut I need you to tell me exactly what happened between you two. Like whether either of you removed any clothing. Or what parts of your body he touched. What you said to him and what he said to you. Things like that.ö

Trixie fiddled with the zipper of DanielÆs battered leather jacket. ôHe tried to take off my shirt, but I didnÆt want him to. I told him that it was ZephyrÆs house and that I didnÆt feel right fooling around there. He said I was breaking his heart. I felt bad after that, so I let him unhook my bra and touch me, you knowàmy breasts. He was kissing me the whole time, and that was the good part, the part I wanted, but then he put his hand down my pants. I tried to pull his hand away, but he was too strong.ö Trixie swallowed. ôHe said, æDonÆt tell me you donÆt want this.Æ ö

Daniel gripped the edge of the table so hard that he thought he would crack the plastic. He took a deep breath in through his mouth and held it. He thought of all the ways it would be possible to kill Jason Underhill.

ôI tried to get away, but heÆs bigger than I am, and he pushed me down again. It was like a game to him. He held my hands up over my head and he pulled down my pants. I said I wanted him to stop and he didnÆt. And then,ö Trixie said, stumbling over the words. ôAnd then he pushed me down hard and he raped me.ö

There was a bullet, Daniel thought, but that would be too easy. ôHad you ever had sex before?ö

Trixie glanced at Daniel. ôNo,ö she answered. ôI started screaming, because it hurt so much. I tried to kick him. But when I did, it hurt more, so I just stayed still and waited for it to be over.ö

Drowning, Daniel thought. Slowly. In a sewer.

 

ôDid your friend hear you screaming?ö Detective Bartholemew asked. ôI guess not,ö Trixie said. ôThere was music on, pretty loud.ö

No-a rusty knife. A sharp cut to the gut. Daniel had read about men whoÆd had to live for days, watching their insides being eaten out by infection.

ôDid he use a condom?ö

 

Trixie shook her head. ôHe pulled out before he finished. There was blood on the carpet, and on me, too. He was worried about that. He said he didnÆt mean to hurt me.ö

Maybe, Daniel mused, he would do all of these things to Jason Underhill.

Twice.

 

ôHe got up and found a roll of paper towels so I could clean myself up. Then he took some rug cleaner from under the kitchen sink, and he scrubbed the spot on the carpet. He said we were lucky it wasnÆt ruined.ö

And what about Trixie? What magical solution would take away the stain heÆd left on her forever?

ôMr. Stone?ö

Daniel blinked, and he realized that he had become someone else for a moment-someone he hadnÆt been for years-and that the detective had been speaking to him. ôSorry.ö

ôCould I see you outside?ö

 

He followed Bartholemew into the hallway of the police station. ôLook,ö the detective said, ôI see this kind of thing a lot.ö

This was news to Daniel. The last rape he could remember in their small town happened over a decade ago and was perpetrated by a hitchhiker.

ôA lot of girls think theyÆre ready to have sexàbut then change their mind, after the fact.ö

It took Daniel a minute to find his voice. ôAre you sayingàthat my daughterÆs lying?ö

ôNo. But I want you to understand that even if Trixie is willing to testify, you might not get the outcome youÆre hoping for.ö

ôSheÆs fourteen, for GodÆs sake,ö Daniel said.

 

ôKids younger than that are having sex. And according to the medical report, there wasnÆt significant internal trauma.ö

ôShe wasnÆt hurt enough?ö

 

ôIÆm just saying that given the details-the alcohol, the strip poker, the former relationship with Jason-rape could be a hard sell to a jury. The boyÆs going to say it was consensual.ö

Daniel clenched his jaw. ôIf a murder suspect told you he was innocent, would you just let him walk away?ö

ôItÆs not quite the same-ö

 

ôNo, itÆs not. Because the murder victimÆs dead and canÆt give you any information about what really happened. As opposed to my daughter, the one whoÆs inside there telling you exactly how she was raped, while you arenÆt

fucking listening to her.ö He opened the door to the conference room to see Trixie with her arms folded on the table, her head resting on her hands.

ôCan we go home?ö she asked, groggy.

 

ôYes,ö Daniel said. ôThe detective can call us if he needs anything else.ö He anchored his arm around Trixie. They were halfway down the hall when Daniel turned around again to face Bartholemew. In the reflection of the backward mirror, he could see their faces, white ovals that hovered like ghosts. ôYou have any kids?ö he asked.

The detective hesitated, then shook his head.

 

ôI didnÆt think so,ö Daniel said, and shepherded Trixie through the door.

At home, Laura stripped the sheets off TrixieÆs bed and remade it with fresh ones. She found a plaid flannel quilt in the cedar chest in the attic and used that, instead of TrixieÆs usual quilt. She picked up the clothes that were tossed on the floor and straightened the books on the nightstand and tried to turn the room into something that would not remind Trixie of yesterday.

At the last minute, Laura walked toward a shelf and pulled down the stuffed moose that Trixie had slept with until she was ten. Bald in some spots and missing one eye, it had been retired, but Trixie hadnÆt quite been able to bring herself to put it into a garage sale pile. Laura settled this squarely between the pillows, as if it might be just that easy to take Trixie back to childhood.

Then she hauled the laundry downstairs and began to stir it into the washing machine. It was while she was waiting for the barrel to fill with water that she spilled bleach on her skirt, one of her work skirts, part of an expensive suit.

Laura watched the color leach from the wool, a scar in the shape of a tear. She swore, then tried to reverse the damage by holding the hem of the skirt under running water in the sink. Finally, defeated, she sank down in front of the humming belly of the Kenmore and burst into tears.

Had she been so busy keeping her own secret that she didnÆt have the time or the inclination to dissolve TrixieÆs? What if, instead of seeing Seth, Laura had been here every night? What if sheÆd quizzed her on her French vocabulary, or

carried a cup of hot chocolate to her room, or invited her to sit on the couch and make fun of the hairstyles on an old sitcom? What if Laura had given Trixie a reason to stay home?

She knew, on some level, that it would not have worked that way. Just because Laura felt like playing nbermother did not mean Trixie would choose to join the game: At her age, a motherÆs touch couldnÆt compare to the brush of a boyÆs hand down the valley of your spine. Laura forced herself to picture Jason UnderhillÆs face. He was a good-looking boy-a tangle of black hair, aquamarine eyes, an athleteÆs body. Everyone in Bethel knew him. Even Laura, who wasnÆt a devotee of hockey, had seen JasonÆs name splashed all over the sports pages of the newspaper. When Daniel had worried about an older boy dating Trixie, Laura had been the one to tell him to relax. She saw kids nearly that age every single day, and she knew that Jason was a catch. He was smart, polite, and crazy about Trixie, sheÆd told Daniel. What more could you want for your daughterÆs first crush?

But now, when she thought of Jason Underhill, she considered how persuasive those blue eyes might be. How strong an athlete was. She started to twist her thinking, boring it deep as a screw, so that it would truly take hold.

If all the blame could be pinned on Jason Underhill, then it wasnÆt LauraÆs fault.

Trixie had been awake now for twenty-eight hours straight. Her eyes burned, and her head was too heavy, and her throat was coated with the residue of the story sheÆd been telling over and over. Dr. Roth had given her a prescription for Xanax, telling her that no matter how exhausted Trixie was, she was most likely going to find it difficult to sleep, and that this was perfectly normal.

She had, finally, wonderfully, been able to take a shower. She stayed in long enough to use an entire bar of soap. She had tried to scrub down there, but she couldnÆt get all the way inside where she still felt dirty. When the doctor had said there was no internal trauma, Trixie had nearly asked her to check again. For a moment, sheÆd wondered if sheÆd dreamed the whole thing, if it had never really happened.

ôHey,ö her father said, poking his head into her bedroom door. ôYou ought to

be in bed.ö

 

Trixie pulled back the covers-her mother had changed her sheets-and crawled inside. Before, getting into bed had been the highlight of her day; sheÆd always imagined it like some kind of cloud or gentle nest where she could just let go of all the stress of acting cool and looking perfect and saying the right things. But now, it loomed like a torture device, a place where sheÆd close her eyes and have to replay what had happened over and over, like a closed-circuit TV.

Her mother had left her old stuffed moose on top of the pillows. Trixie squeezed it against her chest. ôDaddy?ö she asked. ôCan you tuck me in?ö

He had to work at it, but he managed to smile. ôSure.ö

 

When Trixie was little, her father had always left her a riddle to fall asleep on, and then heÆd give her the answer at breakfast. What gets bigger the more you take away from it? A hole. WhatÆs black when you buy it, red when you use it, and gray when you throw it away? Charcoal.

ôCould you maybe talk to me for a little while?ö Trixie asked.

 

It wasnÆt that she wanted to talk, really. It was that she didnÆt want to be left alone in this room with only herself for company.

TrixieÆs father smoothed back her hair. ôDonÆt tell me youÆre not exhausted.ö

DonÆt tell me you donÆt want this, Jason had said.

 

She suddenly remembered one of her fatherÆs nighttime riddles: The answer is yes, but what I mean is no. What is the question?

And the solution: Do you mind?

 

Her father notched the covers beneath her chin. ôIÆll send Mom in to say good night,ö he promised, and he reached over to turn off the lamp.

ôLeave it on,ö Trixie said, panicking. ôPlease.ö

 

He stopped abruptly, his hand hovering in the air. Trixie stared at the bulb,

until she couldnÆt see anything but the kind of brilliant light everyone says comes for you when youÆre about to die.

The absolute worst job, if you asked Mike Bartholemew, was having to go tell a parent that his or her kid had been in a fatal car crash or had committed suicide or ODÆd. There just werenÆt words to hold up that kind of pain, and the recipient of the news would stand there, staring at him, certain sheÆd heard wrong. The second absolute worst job, in his opinion, was dealing with rape victims. He couldnÆt listen to any of their statements without feeling guilty for sharing the same gender as the perp. And even if he could collect enough evidence to merit a trial, and even if there was a conviction, you could bet it wouldnÆt be for very long. In most cases, the victim was still in therapy when the rapist got done serving his sentence.

The thing that most people didnÆt understand, if they werenÆt in his line of work, was that a rape victim and a victim of a fatal accident were both gone, forever. The difference was that the rape victim still had to go through the motions of being alive.

He climbed the stairs over the smoothie bar to the interim apartment heÆd rented after the divorce, the one he swore heÆd live in for only six months but that had turned out to be his home for six years. It wasnÆt furnished-the less appealing it was, the easier Mike figured it would be to get motivated to leave it- but he had a futon that he usually left open as a bed, and a beanbag chair and a TV that he left running 24/7 so that Ernestine would have something to listen to when he was at work.

ôErnie?ö he called out as soon as his keys turned in the lock. ôIÆm back.ö She wasnÆt on the futon, where heÆd left her when the call came in this

morning. Mike stripped off his tie and walked toward the bathroom. He drew

back the shower curtain to find the potbellied pig asleep in the bottom of the tub. ôMiss me?ö he asked.

The pig opened one eye and grunted.

 

ôYou know, the only reason I came home was to take you for a walk,ö Mike said, but the pig had fallen back asleep.

He had a warrant in his pocket-TrixieÆs statement, plus the presence of semen, was enough probable cause to arrest Jason Underhill. He even knew where the kid was, just like everyone in the town who was following the high school hockey teamÆs stellar exploits. But he had to come home first to let Ernie out. At least thatÆs what heÆd told himself.

Do you have any kids? Daniel Stone had asked.

 

Mike turned off the television and sat in silence for a few moments. Then he went to the one closet in the apartment and pulled down a cardboard box.

Inside the box was a pillow from MikeÆs daughterÆs bed, one that heÆd stuffed into an enormous plastic evidence bag. He broke the ziplocked seal and inhaled deeply. It hardly smelled like her anymore at all, in spite of the great care he had taken.

Suddenly, Ernestine came running. She skidded across the floor, scrambling over to the futon where Mike sat. Her snout went into the plastic bag with the pillow, and Mike wondered if she could scent something he couldnÆt. The pig looked up at Mike.

ôI know,ö he said. ôI miss her, too.ö

Daniel sat in the kitchen with a bottle of sherry in front of him. He hated sherry, but it was the only liquid with alcoholic content in this house right now. He had already burned through half the bottle, and it was a large one, something Laura liked to use when she made stir-fry chicken. He didnÆt feel drunk, though. He only felt like a failure.

Fatherhood was the entire foundation Daniel had reinvented himself upon.

When he thought about being a parent, he saw a babyÆs hand spread like a star on his chest. He saw the tightness between the kite and the spool of string that held it. Finding out that heÆd fallen short of his responsibility for protecting his daughter made him wonder how heÆd gone so long fooling himself into believing he had truly changed.

The part of himself that heÆd thought heÆd exorcised turned out to have been only lying in the shallow grave where old personalities went to be

discarded. With the sherry lighting his way, Daniel could see that now. He could feel anger building like steam.

The new Daniel, the father Daniel, had answered the detectiveÆs questions and trusted the police to do what they were supposed to, because that was the best way to ensure the safety of his child. But the old Danielàwell, he never would have trusted anyone else to complete a job that rightfully belonged to him. He would have fought back in revenge, kicking and screaming.

In fact, he often had.

 

Daniel stood up and shrugged on his jacket just as Laura walked into the kitchen. She took one look at the bottle of sherry on the table, and then at him. ôYou donÆt drink.ö

Daniel stared at her. ôDidnÆt,ö he corrected. ôWhere are you going?ö

He didnÆt answer her. He didnÆt owe her an explanation. He didnÆt owe anyone anything. This was not about payment, it was about payback.

Daniel opened the door and hurried out to his truck. Jason Underhill would be at the town rink, right now, getting dressed for the Saturday afternoon game.

Because Trixie asked, Laura waited for her to fall asleep. She came downstairs in time to see Daniel leave, and he didnÆt have to tell her where he was headed. Even worse, Laura wasnÆt sure she would have stopped him.

Biblical justice was antiquated, or so she had been taught. You couldnÆt hack off the hand of a thief; you couldnÆt stone a murderer to death. A more advanced society took care of its justice in a courtroom-something Laura had advocated until about five hours ago. A trial might be more civilized, but emotionally, it couldnÆt possibly pack as much satisfaction.

She tried to imagine what Daniel might do if he found Jason, but she couldnÆt. It had been so long since Daniel had been anything but quiet and mild-mannered that she had completely forgotten the shadow that had once

clung to him, so dark and unpredictable that sheÆd had to come closer for a second glance. Laura felt the same way she had last Christmas when sheÆd hung one of TrixieÆs baby shoes on the tree as an ornament: wistful, aware that her daughter had once been tiny enough to fit into this slipper but unable to hold that picture in her head along with the one in front of her eyes-a teenage Trixie dancing around the balsam in her bare feet, stringing white lights in her wake.

She tried to sit down with a book, but she reread the same page four times. She turned on the television but could not find the humor in any canned jokes.

A moment later, she found herself at the computer, Googling the word rape. There were 10,900,000 hits, and immediately that made Laura feel better.

Strength in numbers: She was not the only mother whoÆd felt this way; Trixie

was not the only victim. The Web sites rooted this godawful word, and all the suffocating aftershocks that hung from it like Spanish moss.

She started clicking: One out of every six American women has been the victim of an attempted or a completed rape in her lifetime, adding up to 17.7 million people.

Sixty-six percent of rape victims know their assailant. Forty-eight percent are raped by a friend.

Twenty percent of rapes take place at the home of a friend, neighbor, or relative.

More than half occur within a mile of the victimÆs home.

 

Eighty percent of rape victims are under age thirty. Girls between ages sixteen and nineteen are four times more likely than the general population to be victims of sexual assault.

Sixty-one percent of rapes are not reported to the police. If a rape is reported, thereÆs a 50.8 percent chance that an arrest will be made. If an arrest is made, thereÆs an 80 percent chance of prosecution. If thereÆs a prosecution, thereÆs a 58 percent chance of felony conviction. If thereÆs a felony conviction, thereÆs a 69 percent chance that the rapist will actually spend time in jail. Of the 39 percent of rapes that are reported to police, then, thereÆs only a 16.3 percent chance that the rapist will wind up in prison. If you factor in all the

unreported rapes, 94 percent of rapists walk free.

 

Laura stared at the screen, at the cursor blinking on one of the multiple percent signs. Trixie was one of these numbers now, one of these percents. She wondered how it was that sheÆd never truly studied this statistical symbol before: a figure split in two, a pair of empty circles on either side.

Daniel had to park far away from the entrance to the municipal rink, which wasnÆt surprising on a Saturday afternoon. High school hockey games in Bethel, Maine, drew the same kind of crowds high school football did in Midwestern communities. There were girls standing in the lobby, fixing their lipstick in the reflection of the plate-glass windows, and toddlers weaving through the denim forest of grown-up legs. The grizzled man who sold hot dogs and nachos and Swiss Miss cocoa had taken up residence behind the kitchenette and was singing Motown as he ladled sauerkraut into a bun.

Daniel walked through the crowd as if he were invisible, staring at the proud parents and spirited students who had come to cheer on their hometown heroes. He followed the swell of the human tide through the double doors of the lobby, the ones that opened into the rink. He didnÆt have a plan, really. What he wanted was to feel Jason UnderhillÆs flesh under his fists. To smack his head up against the wall and scare him into contrition.

Daniel was just about to swing inside the home teamÆs locker room when the door opened beneath his hand. He flattened himself up against the boards in time to see Detective Bartholemew leading Jason Underhill out. The kid was still wearing his hockey gear, in his stocking feet, carrying his skates in one hand.

His face was flushed and his eyes were trained on the rubber mats on the floor. The coach followed close behind, yelling, ôIf itÆs just a chat, damn it, you could wait till after the game!ö

Gradually, the people in the stands noticed JasonÆs departure and grew quiet, unsure of what they were watching. One man-JasonÆs father, presumably- pushed down from the bleachers and started running toward his son.

Daniel stood very still for a moment, certain that Bartholemew hadnÆt seen him, until the detective turned back and looked him straight in the eye. By now the crowd was buzzing with speculation; the air around DanielÆs ears was

pounding like a timpani-but for that moment, the two men existed in a vacuum, acknowledging each other with the smallest of nods and the quiet understanding that each of them would do what he had to.

ôYou went to the rink, didnÆt you,ö Laura said, as soon as Daniel stepped through the door.

He nodded and busied himself with unzipping his coat, hanging it carefully on one of the pegs in the mudroom.

ôAre you going to tell me what happened?ö

 

Vengeance was a funny thing: You wanted the satisfaction of knowing it had occurred, but you never wanted to actually hear the words out loud, because then youÆd have to admit to yourself that youÆd wanted proof, and that somehow made you baser, less civilized. Daniel found himself staring at Laura as he sank to the stairs. ôShouldnÆt I be asking you that?ö he said quietly.

Just that quickly, this had become a different conversation, a train run off its course. Laura stepped back as if heÆd struck her, and bright spots of color rose on her cheeks. ôHow long have you known?ö

Daniel shrugged. ôA while, I guess.ö ôWhy didnÆt you say anything?ö

He had asked himself the same question in the last few days a hundred times over. HeÆd pretended not to see all the late nights, the disconnections, because then heÆd have been forced to make a choice: Could you really love someone who was capable of falling in love with somebody else?

But there had been a point in his relationship with Laura where Daniel had been irredeemable, and she had believed he could change. Did he owe her any less? And for that matter, if he let his anger and his shame get the best of him and threw her out of the house, wouldnÆt he be acting on adrenaline, the way he used to when he lost control?

It was this simple: If he couldnÆt forgive Laura-if he let himself be consumed

by this-he was behaving like the kind of man he used to be.

 

But he did not have the words to say all this. ôIf IÆd said something about it,ö Daniel said, ôthen you would have told me it was true.ö

ôItÆs over, if that means anything.ö

 

He looked up at Laura, his gaze narrow. ôBecause of Trixie?ö

 

ôBefore.ö She moved across the brick floor, her arms folded across her chest, and stood in a shaft of fading light. ôI broke it off the night that sheàthat Trixieàö Her sentence unraveled at its edge.

ôWere you fucking him the night our daughter was raped?ö ôJesus, Daniel-ö

ôWere you? Is that why you didnÆt answer the phone when I was trying to tell you about Trixie?ö A muscle tightened along the column of DanielÆs throat. ôWhatÆs his name, Laura? I think you owe me that much. I think I ought to know who you wanted when you stopped wanting me.ö

Laura turned away from him. ôI want to stop talking about this.ö

 

Suddenly, Daniel was on his feet, pinning Laura against the wall, his body a fortress, his anger an electric current. He grabbed LauraÆs upper arms and shook her so hard that her head snapped back and her eyes went wide with fear. He threw her own words back at her: ôWhat you want,ö he said, his voice raw. ôWhat you want?ö

Then Laura shoved at him, stronger than heÆd given her credit for being. She circled him, never losing eye contact, a lion tamer unwilling to turn her back on the beast. It was enough to bring Daniel to his senses. He stared down at his hands-the ones that had seized her-as if they belonged to someone else.

In that instant, he was standing again in the spring bog behind the school in Akiak, striped with mud and blood, holding his fists high. During the fight, heÆd broken two ribs, he had lost a tooth, he had opened a gash over his left eye. He was weaving, but he wasnÆt about to give in to the pain. Who else, Daniel had challenged, until one by one, their hot black gazes fell to the ground

like stones.

 

Shaken, Daniel tried to shove the violence back from wherever it had spilled, but it was like repacking a parachute-part of it trailed between him and Laura, a reminder that the next time he jumped off that cliff of emotion, he might not wind up safe. ôI didnÆt mean to hurt you,ö he muttered. ôIÆm sorry.ö

Laura bowed her head, but not before he saw the tears in her eyes. ôOh, Daniel,ö she said. ôMe too.ö

Trixie slept through Jason UnderhillÆs unofficial interrogation in the lobby of the hockey rink, and the moment shortly thereafter when he was officially taken into custody. She slept while the secretary at the police department took her lunch break and called her husband on the phone to tell him whoÆd been booked not ten minutes before. She slept as that man told his coworkers at the paper mill that Bethel might not win the Maine State hockey championship after all, and why. She was still sleeping when one of the millworkers had a beer on the way home that night with his brother, a reporter for the Augusta Tribune, who made a few phone calls and found out that a warrant had indeed been sworn out that morning, charging a minor with gross sexual assault. She slept while the reporter phoned the Bethel PD pretending to be the father of a girl whoÆd been in earlier that day to give a statement, asking if heÆd left a hat behind. ôNo, Mr. Stone,ö the secretary had said, ôbut IÆll call you if it turns up.ö

Trixie continued to sleep while the story was filed, while it was printed. She stayed asleep while the paper was bound with string and sent off in newspaper vans, tossed from the windows of the delivery boysÆ ratty Hondas. She was asleep still the next morning when everyone in Bethel read the front page. But by then, they already knew why Jason Underhill had been summoned away from a Bethel High School hockey game the previous day. They knew that Roy Underhill had hired his son a Portland lawyer and was telling anyone whoÆd listen that his son had been framed. And even though the article was ethical enough never to refer to her by name, everyone knew that it was Trixie Stone, still asleep, who had set this tragedy in motion.

Because Jason was seventeen, the district court judge was sitting as a juvenile

judge. And because Jason was seventeen, the courtroom was closed to spectators. Jason was wearing the brand-new blazer and tie his mother had bought him for college interviews. HeÆd gotten a haircut. His attorney had made sure of that, said sometimes a judgeÆs decisions could hinge on something as frivolous as whether or not he could see your eyes.

Dutch Oosterhaus, his lawyer, was so smooth that every now and then Jason was tempted to look at the floor as he walked by, to see if heÆd left a slick trail. He wore shoes that squeaked and the kind of shirts that required cuff links. But his father said Dutch was the best in the state and that heÆd be able to make this mess go away.

Jason didnÆt know what the hell Trixie was trying to pull. They had been going at it, full force-consensual, Dutch called it. If that was how she communicated no, then it was a foreign language Jason had never learned.

And yet. Jason tried to hide the way his hands were shaking under the table. He tried to look confident and maybe a little bit pissed off, when in fact he was so scared he felt like he could throw up at any moment.

The district attorney made him think of a shark. She had a wide, flat face and blond hair that was nearly white, but it was the teeth that did it-they were pointy and large and looked like theyÆd be happy to rip into a person. Her name was Marita Soorenstad, and she had a brother whoÆd been a legend about ten years ago on the Bethel hockey team, although it hadnÆt seemed to soften her any toward Jason himself. ôYour Honor,ö she said, ôalthough the State isnÆt asking for the defendant to be held at a detention facility, there are several conditions weÆd ask for. WeÆd like to make sure that he has no contact with the victim or her family. WeÆd prefer that he enter a drug and alcohol treatment program.

With the exception of the academic school day, the State would like to request that the defendant not be allowed to leave his house-which would include attending sporting events.ö

The judge was an older man with a bad comb-over. ôIÆm going to pick and choose the conditions of release, Mr. Underhill. If you violate any of them, youÆre going to be locked up in Portland. You understand?ö

Jason swallowed hard and nodded.

 

ôYou are not to have any contact with the victim or her family. You are to be

in bed, alone, by ten P.M. You will steer clear of alcohol and drugs, and will begin mandatory substance abuse counseling. But as for the StateÆs request for house arrestàIÆm disinclined to agree to that. No need to ruin the BuccaneersÆ chance for a repeat state championship when there will be plenty of other people around the rink in a supervisory context.ö He closed the folder. ôWeÆre adjourned.ö

Behind him, Jason could hear his mother weeping. Dutch started packing up his files and stepped across the aisle to speak to the Shark. Jason thought of Trixie, kissing him first that night at ZephyrÆs. He thought of Trixie hours before that, sobbing in his car, saying that without him, her life was over.

Had she been planning, even then, to end his?

Two days after being sexually assaulted, Trixie felt her life crack, unequally, along the fault line of the rape. The old Trixie Stone used to be a person who dreamed of flying and wanted, when she got old enough, to jump out of a plane and try it. The new Trixie couldnÆt even sleep with the light off. The old Trixie liked wearing Tshirts that hugged her tight; the new Trixie went to her fatherÆs dresser for a sweatshirt that she could hide beneath. The old Trixie sometimes showered twice a day, so that she could smell like the pear soap that her mother always put in her Christmas stocking. The new Trixie felt dirty, no matter how many times she scrubbed herself. The old Trixie felt like part of a group. The new Trixie felt alone, even when she was surrounded by people. The old Trixie would have taken one look at the new Trixie and dismissed her as a total loser.

There was a knock on her door. That was new, too-her father used to just stick his head in, but even heÆd become sensitive to the fact that she jumped at her own shadow. ôHey,ö he said. ôYou feel up to company?ö

She didnÆt, but she nodded, thinking he meant himself, until he pushed the door wider and she saw that woman Janice, the sexual assault advocate whoÆd been at the hospital with her. She was wearing a sweater with a jack-oÆ-lantern on it, although it was closer to Christmas, and enough eyeshadow to cover a battalion of super-models. ôOh,ö Trixie said. ôItÆs you.ö

She sounded rude, and there was something about that that made a little spark flare under her heart. Being a bitch felt surprisingly good, a careful compromise

that nearly made up for the fact that she couldnÆt ever be herself again.

 

ôIÆll just, um, let you two talk,ö TrixieÆs father said, and even though she tried to send him silent urgent messages with her eyes to keep him from leaving her alone with this woman, he couldnÆt hear her SOS.

ôSo,ö Janice said, after he closed the door. ôHow are you holding up?ö Trixie shrugged. How had she not noticed at the hospital how much this

womanÆs voice annoyed her? Like a Zen canary.

ôI guess youÆre still sort of overwhelmed. ThatÆs perfectly normal.ö ôNormal,ö Trixie repeated sarcastically. ôYeah, thatÆs exactly how IÆd

describe myself right now.ö ôNormalÆs relative,ö Janice said.

If it was relative, Trixie thought, then it was the crazy uncle that nobody could stand to be around at family functions, the one who talked about himself in the third person and ate only blue foods and whom everyone else made fun of on the way home.

ôItÆs a whole bunch of baby steps. YouÆll get there.ö

 

For the past forty-eight hours, Trixie had felt like she was swimming underwater. She would hear people talking and it might as well have been Croatian for all that she could understand the words. When it got to be too quiet, she was sure that she heard JasonÆs voice, soft as smoke, curling into her ear.

ôIt gets a little easier every day,ö Janice said, and Trixie all of a sudden hated her with a passion. What the hell did Janice know? She wasnÆt sitting here, so tired that the insides of her bones ached. She didnÆt understand how even right now, Trixie wished she could fall asleep, because the only thing she had to look forward to was the five seconds when she woke up in the morning and hadnÆt remembered everything, yet.

ôSometimes it helps to get it all out,ö Janice suggested. ôPlay an instrument.

Scream in the shower. Write it all down in a journal.ö

The last thing Trixie wanted to do was write about what had happened, unless she got to burn it when she was done.

ôLots of women find it helpful to join a survivorsÆ groupàö

 

ôSo we can all sit around and talk about how we feel like shit?ö Trixie exploded. Suddenly she wanted Janice to crawl back from whatever hole good Samaritans came from. She didnÆt want to make believe that she had a snowballÆs chance in hell of fitting back into her room, her life, this world. ôYou know,ö she said, ôthis has been real, but I think IÆd rather contemplate suicide or something fun like that. I donÆt need you checking up on me.ö

ôTrixie-ö

 

ôYou have no idea what I feel like,ö Trixie shouted. ôSo donÆt stand here and pretend weÆre in this together. You werenÆt there that night. That was just me.ö

Janice stepped forward, until she was close enough for Trixie to touch. ôIt was 1972 and I was fifteen. I was walking home and I took a shortcut through the elementary school playground. There was a man there and he said heÆd lost his dog. He wanted to know if IÆd help him look. When I was underneath the slide, he knocked me down and raped me.ö

Trixie stared at her, speechless.

 

ôHe kept me there for three hours. The whole time, all I could think about was how I used to play there after school. The boys and the girls always kept to separate sides of the jungle gym. We used to dare each other. WeÆd run up to the boysÆ side, and then back to safety.ö

Trixie looked down at her feet. ôIÆm sorry,ö she whispered. ôBaby steps,ö Janice said.

 

That weekend, Laura learned that there are no cosmic referees. Time-outs do not get called, not even when your world has taken a blow that renders you senseless. The dishwasher still needs to be emptied and the hamper overflows

with dirty clothes and the high school buddy you havenÆt spoken to in six months calls to catch up, not realizing that you cannot tell her whatÆs been going on in your life without breaking down. The twelve students in your class section still expect you to show up on Monday morning.

Laura had anticipated hunkering down with Trixie, protecting her while she licked her wounds. However, Trixie wanted to be by herself, and that left Laura wandering a house that was really DanielÆs domain. They were still dancing around each other, a careful choreography that involved leaving a room the moment he entered, lest they have to truly communicate.

ôIÆm going to take a leave of absence from the college,ö she had told Daniel on Sunday, when he was reading the newspaper. But hours later, when they were lying on opposite sides of the bed-that tremendous elephant of the affair snug between them-he had brought it up again. ôMaybe you shouldnÆt,ö he said.

She had looked at him carefully, not sure what he was trying to imply. Did he not want her around 24/7, because it was too uncomfortable? Did he think she cared more about her career than her daughter?

ôMaybe it will help Trixie,ö he added, ôif she sees that itÆs business as usual.ö

Laura had looked up at the ceiling, at a watermark in the shape of a penguin. ôWhat if she needs me?ö

ôThen IÆll call you,ö Daniel replied coolly. ôAnd you can come right home.ö His words were a slap-the last time heÆd called her, she hadnÆt answered.

The next morning, she fished for a pair of stockings and one of her work skirts. She packed a breakfast she could eat in the car and she left Trixie a note. As she drove, she became aware of how the more distance she put between herself and her home, the lighter she felt-until by the time she reached the gates of the college, she was certain that the only thing anchoring her was her seat belt.

When Laura arrived at her classroom, the students were already clustered around the table, involved in a heated discussion. SheÆd missed this easy understanding of who she was, where she belonged, the comfort of intellectual

sparring. Snippets of the conversation bled into the hallway. I heard from my cousin, who goes to the high schoolàcrucifiedàhad it coming. For a moment Laura hesitated outside the door, wondering how she could have been nanve enough to believe this horrible thing had happened to Trixie, when in truth it had happened to all three of them. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the room, and twelve pairs of eyes turned to her in utter silence.

ôDonÆt stop on my account,ö she said evenly.

 

The undergraduates shifted uncomfortably. Laura had so badly wanted to settle into the comfort zone of academia-a place so fixed and immutable that Laura would be assured she could pick up just where she left off-but to her surprise, she no longer seemed to fit. The college was the same; so were the students. It was Laura herself whoÆd changed.

ôProfessor Stone,ö one of the students said, ôare you okay?ö

 

Laura blinked as their faces swam into focus before her. ôNo,ö she said, suddenly exhausted by the thought of having to deceive anyone else anymore. ôIÆm not.ö Then she stood up-leaving her notes, her coat, and her baffled class- and walked into the striking snow, heading back to where she should have been all along.

ôDo it,ö Trixie said, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

 

She was at Live and Let Dye, a salon within walking distance of her home that catered to the blue-haired set and that, under normal circumstances, she wouldnÆt have been caught dead in. But this was her first venture out of the house, and in spite of the fact that Janice had given her father a pamphlet about how not to be overprotective, he was reluctant to let Trixie go too far. ôIf youÆre not back in an hour,ö her father had said, ôIÆm coming after you.ö

She imagined him, even now, waiting by the bay window that offered the best view of their street, so that heÆd see her the minute she came back into view.

But sheÆd made it this far, and she wasnÆt going to let the outing go to waste. Janice had said that when it came to making a decision, she should make a list of pros and cons-and as far as Trixie could tell, anything that made her forget the girl she used to be could only be a good thing.

ôYouÆve got quite a tail here,ö the ancient hairdresser said. ôYou could donate it to Locks of Love.ö

ôWhatÆs that?ö

 

ôA charity that makes wigs for cancer patients.ö

 

Trixie stared at herself in the mirror. She liked the idea of helping someone who might actually be worse off than she was. She liked the idea of someone who was worse off than she was, period.

ôOkay,ö Trixie said. ôWhat do I have to do?ö

 

ôWe take care of it,ö the hairdresser said. ôYou just give me your name, so that the charity can send you a nice thank-you card.ö

If sheÆd been thinking clearly-which, letÆs face it, she wasnÆt-Trixie would have made up an alias. But maybe the staff at Live and Let Dye didnÆt read the newspapers, or ever watch anything but The Golden Girls, because the hairdresser didnÆt bat a fake eyelash when Trixie told her who she was. She fastened a string around TrixieÆs waist-length hair and tied it to a little card printed with her name. Then she held up the scissors. ôSay good-bye,ö the hairdresser said.

Trixie drew in her breath at the first cut. Then she noticed how much lighter she felt without all that hair to weigh her down. She imagined what it would be like to have her hair so short that she could feel the wind rushing past the backs of her ears. ôI want a buzz cut,ö Trixie announced.

The hairdresser faltered. ôDarlinÆ,ö she said, ôthatÆs for boys.ö ôI donÆt care,ö Trixie said.

The hairdresser sighed. ôLet me see if I can make us both happy.ö

 

Trixie closed her eyes and felt the hairdresserÆs scissors chatter around her head. Hair tumbled down in soft strawberry tufts, like the feathers of a bird shot out of the sky. ôGood-bye,ö she whispered.

They had bought the king-sized bed when Trixie was three and spent more time running from nightmares in her own bed straight into the buffer zone of their own. It had seemed a good idea at the time. Back then, they had still been thinking about having more kids, and it seemed to say married with a finality that you couldnÆt help but admire. And yet, they had fallen in love in a dormitory bed, on a twin mattress. They had slept so close to each other that their body heat would rise each night like a spirit on the ceiling, and theyÆd wake up with the covers kicked off on the floor. Given that, it was amazing to think that with all the space between them now, they were still too close for comfort.

Daniel knew that Laura was still awake. She had come home from the college almost immediately after sheÆd left, and she hadnÆt given him an explanation why. As for Daniel, sheÆd spoken to him only sporadically, economic transactions of information: had Trixie eaten (no); did she say anything else (no); did the police call (no, but Mrs. Walstone from the end of the block had, as if this was any of her business). Immediately, sheÆd thrown herself into a tornado of activity: cleaning the bathrooms, vacuuming underneath the couch cushions, watching Trixie come back through the door with that hatchet job of a haircut and swallowing her shock enough to suggest a game of Monopoly. It was, he realized, as if she was trying to make up for her absence these past few months, as if sheÆd judged herself and meted out a sentence.

Now, lying in bed, he wondered how two people could be just a foot of distance away from each other but a million miles apart. ôThey knew,ö Laura said.

ôWho?ö

 

ôEveryone. At school.ö She rolled toward him, so that in the plush dark he could make out the green of her eyes. ôThey all were talking about it.ö

Daniel could have told her that none of this would go away, not until he and Laura and even Trixie could get past it. He had learned this when he was eleven years old, and CaneÆs grandfather took him on his first moose hunt. At dusk, theyÆd set out on the Kuskokwim River in the small aluminum boat. Daniel was dropped off at one bend, Cane at another, to cover more ground.

He had huddled in the willows, wondering how long it would be before Cane

and his grandfather came back, wondering if they ever would. When the moose stepped delicately out of the greenery-spindled legs, brindled back, bulbous nose-DanielÆs heart had started to race. HeÆd lifted his rifle and thought, I want this, more than anything.

At that moment, the moose slipped into the wall of willows and disappeared. On the ride home, when Cane and his grandfather learned what had happened,

they muttered kassÆaq and shook their heads. DidnÆt Daniel know that if you

thought about what you were hunting while you were hunting it, you might as well be telegraphing to the animal that you were there?

At first, Daniel had shrugged this off as YupÆik Eskimo superstition-like having to lick your bowl clean so you wouldnÆt slip on ice, or eating the tails of fish to become a fast runner. But as he grew older, he learned that a word was a powerful thing. An insult didnÆt have to be shouted at you to make you bleed; a vow didnÆt have to be whispered to you to make you believe. Hold a thought in your head, and that was enough to change the actions of anyone and anything that crossed your path.

ôIf we want things to be normal,ö Daniel said, ôwe have to act like weÆre already there.ö

ôWhat do you mean?ö

 

ôMaybe Trixie should go back to school.ö

 

Laura came up on an elbow. ôYou must be joking.ö

 

Daniel hesitated. ôJanice suggested it. It isnÆt much good to sit around here all day, reliving what happened.ö

ôSheÆll see him, in school.ö

 

ôThereÆs a court order in place; Jason canÆt go near her. She has as much right to be there as he does.ö

There was a long silence. ôIf she goes back,ö Laura said finally, ôit has to be because she wants to.ö

Daniel had the sudden sense that Laura was speaking not only of Trixie but also herself. It was as if TrixieÆs rape was a constant fall of leaves they were so busy raking away they could ignore the fact that beneath them, the ground was no longer solid.

The night pressed down on Daniel. ôDid you bring him here? To this bed?ö LauraÆs breathing caught. ôNo.ö

ôI picture him with you, and I donÆt even know what he looks like.ö ôIt was a mistake, Daniel-ö

ôMistakes are something that happen by accident. You didnÆt walk out the door one morning and fall into some guyÆs bed. You thought about it, for a while. You made that choice.ö

The truth had scorched DanielÆs throat, and he found himself breathing hard. ôI made the choice to end it, too. To come back.ö

ôAm I supposed to thank you for that?ö He flung an arm across his eyes, better to be blind.

LauraÆs profile was cast in silver. ôDo youàdo you want me to move out?ö

 

He had thought about it. There was a part of him that did not want to see her in the bathroom brushing her teeth, or setting the kettle on the stove. It was too ordinary, a mirage of a marriage. But there was another part of him that no longer remembered who he used to be without Laura. In fact, it was because of her that heÆd become the kind of man he now was. It was like any other dual dynamic that was part and parcel of his art: You couldnÆt have strength without weakness; you couldnÆt have light without dark; you couldnÆt have love without loss. ôI donÆt think it would be good for Trixie if you left right now,ö Daniel said finally.

Laura rolled over to face him. ôWhat about you? Would it be good for you?ö Daniel stared at her. Laura had been inked onto his life, as indelible as any

tattoo. It wouldnÆt matter if she was physically present or not; he would carry

her with him forever. Trixie was proof of that. But heÆd folded enough loads of laundry during Oprah and Dr. Phil to know how infidelity worked. Betrayal was a stone beneath the mattress of the bed you shared, something you felt digging into you no matter how you shifted position. What was the point of being able to forgive, when deep down, you both had to admit youÆd never forget?

When Daniel didnÆt respond to her, Laura rolled onto her back. ôDo you hate me?ö

ôSometimes.ö

 

ôSometimes I hate myself, too.ö

 

Daniel pretended that he could hear TrixieÆs breathing, even and untroubled, through the bedroom wall. ôWas it really so bad? The two of us?ö

Laura shook her head. ôThen why did you do it?ö

For a long time, she did not answer. Daniel assumed sheÆd fallen asleep. But then her voice pricked on the edges of the stars strung outside the window. ôBecause,ö she said, ôhe reminded me of you.ö

Trixie knew that at the slightest provocation, she could stand up and walk out of class and head down to the office for refuge without any teacher even blinking. She had been given her fatherÆs cell phone. Call me anytime, he said, and I will be there before you hang up. She had stumbled through an awkward conversation with the school principal, who phoned to tell her that he would certainly do his best to make Bethel High a haven of safety for her. To that end, she was no longer taking psych with Jason; she had an independent study instead in the library. She could write a report on anything. Right now, she was thinking of a topic: Girls Who Would Rather Disappear.

ôIÆm sure that Zephyr and your other friends will be happy to see you,ö her father said. Neither of them mentioned that Zephyr hadnÆt called, not once, to see how she was doing. Trixie tried to convince herself that was because Zephyr felt guilty, with the fight theyÆd had and what had happened afterward as a

direct result. She didnÆt explain to her father that she didnÆt really have any other friends in the ninth grade. SheÆd been too busy filling her world with Jason to maintain old relationships, or to bother starting new ones.

ôWhat if IÆve changed my mind?ö Trixie asked softly.

Her father looked at her. ôThen IÆll take you home. ItÆs that easy, Trix.ö She glanced out the car window. It was snowing, a fine fat-flaked dusting that

hung in the trees and softened the edges of the landscape. The cold seeped through the stocking cap she wore-who knew her hair had actually kept her so warm? She kept forgetting sheÆd cut it all off in all the smallest ways: when she looked in the mirror and got the shock of her life, when she tried to pull a long nonexistent ponytail out from beneath the collar of her coat. To be honest, she looked horrible-the short cap of hair made her eyes look even bigger and more anxious; the severity of the cut was better suited to a boy-but Trixie liked it. If people were going to stare, she wanted to know it was because she looked different, not because she was different.

The gates of the school came into view through the windshield wipers, the student parking lot to the right. Under the cover of snow, the cars looked like a sea of beached whales. She wondered which one was JasonÆs. She imagined him inside the building already, where heÆd been for two whole days longer than her, sowing the seeds of his side of the story that by now, surely, had grown into a thicket.

Her father pulled to the curb. ôIÆll walk you in,ö he said.

 

All live wires inside Trixie tripped. Could there be anything that screamed out loser! more than a rape victim who had to be walked into school by her daddy? ôI can do it myself,ö she insisted, but when she went to unbuckle her seat belt she found that her mind couldnÆt make her fingers do the work they needed to.

Suddenly she felt her fatherÆs hands on the fastenings, the harness coming free. ôIf you want to go home,ö he said gently, ôthatÆs okay.ö

Trixie nodded, hating the tears that welled at the base of her throat. ôI know.ö It was stupid to be scared. What could possibly happen inside that school that

was any worse than what already had? But you could reason with yourself all

day and still have butterflies in your stomach.

 

ôWhen I was growing up in the village,ö TrixieÆs father said, ôthe place we lived was haunted.ö

Trixie blinked. She could count on one hand the number of times in her life that her father had talked about growing up in Alaska. There were certain remnants of his childhood that labeled him as different-like the way, if it got too loud, heÆd have to leave the room, and the obsession he had with conserving water even though they had an endless supply through their home well. Trixie knew this much: Her father had been the only white boy in a native YupÆik Eskimo village called Akiak. His mother, who raised him by herself, had taught school there. He had left Alaska when he was eighteen, and he swore heÆd never go back.

ôOur house was attached to the school. The last person whoÆd lived in it was the old principal, whoÆd hanged himself from a beam in the kitchen. Everyone knew about it. Sometimes, in the school, the audiovisual equipment would turn on even when it was unplugged. Or the basketballs lying on the floor of the gym would start to bounce by themselves. In our house, drawers would fly open every now and then, and sometimes you could smell aftershave, out of nowhere.ö TrixieÆs father looked up at her. ôThe Yupiit are afraid of ghosts.

Sometimes, in school, IÆd see kids spit into the air, to check if the ghost was close enough to steal their saliva. Or theyÆd walk around the building three times so that the ghost couldnÆt follow them back to their own homes.ö

He shrugged. ôThe thing isàI was the white kid. I talked funny and I looked funny and I got picked on for that on a daily basis. I was terrified of that ghost just like they were, but I never let anyone know it. That way, I knew they might call me a lot of awful namesàbut one of them wasnÆt coward.ö

ôJasonÆs not a ghost,ö Trixie said quietly.

 

Her father tugged her hat down over her ears. His eyes were so dark she could see herself shining in them. ôWell, then,ö he said, ôI guess youÆve got nothing to be afraid of.ö

Daniel nearly ran after Trixie as she navigated the slippery sidewalk up to the

front of the school. What if he was wrong about this? What if Janice and the doctors and everyone else didnÆt know how cruel teenagers could be? What if Trixie came home even more devastated?

Trixie walked with her head down, bracing against the cold. Her green jacket was a stain against the snow. She didnÆt turn back to look at him.

When she was little, Daniel had always waited for Trixie to enter the school building before he drove away. There was too much that could go wrong: She might trip and fall; she could be approached by a bully; she might be teased by a pack of girls. HeÆd liked to imagine that just by keeping an eye on her, he could imbue her with the power of safety, much like the way heÆd draw it onto one of his comics panels in a wavy, flowing force field.

The truth was, though, that Daniel had needed Trixie far more than Trixie had ever needed him. Without realizing it, sheÆd put on a show for him every day: hopping, twirling, spreading her arms and taking a running leap, as if she thought that one of these mornings she might actually get airborne. HeÆd watch her and heÆd see how easy it was for kids to believe in a world different from the one presented to them. Then heÆd drive home and translate that stroke by stroke onto a fresh page.

He could remember wondering how long it would take for reality to catch up to his daughter. He could remember thinking: The saddest day in the world will be the one when she stops pretending.

Daniel waited until Trixie slipped through the double doors of the school, and then pulled carefully away from the curb. He needed a load of sand in the back of his pickup to keep it from fishtailing in the snow. Whatever it took, right now, to keep his balance.

3

T rixie knew the story behind her real name, but that didnÆt mean she hated it any less. Beatrice Portinari had been DanteÆs one true love, the woman whoÆd inspired him to write a whole batch of epic poems. Her mother the classics

professor had single-handedly filled out the birth certificate when her father (whoÆd wanted to name his newborn daughter Sarah) was in the bathroom.

Dante and Beatrice, though, were no Romeo and Juliet. Dante met her when he was only nine and then didnÆt see her again until he was eighteen. They both married other people and Beatrice died young. If that was everlasting love, Trixie didnÆt want any part of it.

When Trixie had complained to her father, he said Nicolas Cage had named his son Kal-el, SupermanÆs Kryptonian name, and that she should be grateful. But Bethel High was brimming with Mallorys, Dakotas, Crispins, and Willows. Trixie had spent most of her life pulling the teacher aside on the first day of school, to make sure she said Trixie when she read the attendance sheet, instead of Beatrice, which made the other kids crack up. There was a time in fourth grade when she started calling herself Justine, but it didnÆt catch on.

Summer Friedman was in the main office with Trixie, signing into school late.

She was tall and blonde, with a perpetual tan, although Trixie knew for a fact sheÆd been born in December. She turned around, clutching her blue hall pass. ôSlut,ö she hissed at Trixie as she walked past.

ôBeatrice?ö the secretary said. ôThe principalÆs ready for you.ö

 

Trixie had been in the principalÆs office only once, when she made honor roll during the first quarter of freshman year. SheÆd been sent during homeroom, and the whole time sheÆd been shaking, trying to figure out what sheÆd done wrong. Principal Aaronsen had been waiting with a Cookie Monster grin on his face and his hand extended. ôCongratulations, Beatrice,ö he had said, and heÆd handed her a little gold honor roll card with her own disgusting name printed across it.

ôBeatrice,ö he said again this time, when she went into his office. She realized that the guidance counselor, Mrs. Gray, was waiting there for her too. Did they think that if she saw a man alone she might freak out? ôItÆs good to have you back,ö Mr. Aaronsen said.

ItÆs good to be back. The lie sat too sour on TrixieÆs tongue, so she swallowed it down again.

The principal was staring at her hair, or lack of it, but he was too polite to say

anything. ôMrs. Gray and I just want you to know that our doors are open any time for you,ö the principal said.

TrixieÆs father had two names. She had discovered this by accident when she was ten and snooping in his desk drawers. Wedged into the back of one, behind all the smudged erasers and tubes of mechanical pencil leads, was a photograph of two boys squatting in front of a cache of fish. One of the boys was white, one was native. On the back was written: Cane & Wass, fish camp. Akiak, Alaska- 1976.

Trixie had taken the photo to her father, whoÆd been out mowing the lawn.

Who are these people? she had asked.

 

Her father had turned off the lawn mower. TheyÆre dead.

 

ôIf you feel the slightest bit uncomfortable,ö Principal Aaronsen was saying. ôIf you just want a place to catch your breathàö

Three hours later, TrixieÆs father had come looking for her. The one on the right is me, heÆd said, showing her the photo again. And thatÆs Cane, a friend of mine.

Your nameÆs not Wass, Trixie had pointed out.

 

Her father had explained that the day after heÆd been born and named, a village elder came to visit and started calling him Wass-short for Wassilie-after her husband, whoÆd fallen through the ice and died a week before. It was perfectly normal for a YupÆik Eskimo who had recently died to take up residence in a newborn. Villagers would laugh when they met Daniel as a baby, saying things like, Oh, look. Wass has come back with blue eyes! or Maybe thatÆs why Wass took that English as a Second Language class!

For eighteen years, heÆd been known as Daniel to his white mother and as Wass to everyone else. In the YupÆik world, he told Trixie, souls get recycled. In the YupÆik world, no one ever really gets to leave.

ôàa policy of zero tolerance,ö the principal said, and Trixie nodded, although she hadnÆt really been listening.

The night after her father told Trixie about his second name, she had a

question ready when he came to tuck her in. How come when I first asked, you said those boys were dead?

Because, her father answered, they are.

 

Principal Aaronsen stood up, and so did Mrs. Gray, and that was how Trixie realized that they intended to accompany her to class. Immediately she panicked. This was way worse than being walked in by her father; this was like having fighter jets escort a plane into a safe landing: Was there any person at the airport who wouldnÆt be watching out the windows and trying to guess what had happened on board?

ôUm,ö Trixie said, ôI think IÆd kind of like to go by myself.ö

 

It was almost third period, which meant sheÆd have time to go to her locker before heading to English class. She watched the principal look at the guidance counselor. ôWell,ö Mr. Aaronsen said, ôif thatÆs what you want.ö

Trixie fled the principalÆs office, blindly navigating the maze of halls that made up the high school. Class was still in session, so it was quiet-the faint jingle of a kid with a bathroom pass, the muted click of high heels, the wheezy strains of the wind instruments upstairs in the band room. She twisted the combination on her own locker, 40-22-38. Hey, Jason had said, a lifetime ago. ArenÆt those BarbieÆs measurements?

Trixie rested her forehead against the cool metal. All she had to do was sit in class for another four hours. She could fill her mind with Lord of the Flies and A

= πr2 and the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. She didnÆt have to talk to anyone if she didnÆt want to. All of her teachers had been briefed. She would be an army of one.

When she pulled open the door of her locker, a sea of snakes poured out of the narrow cubby, spilling over her feet. She reached down to pick one up. Eight small foil squares, accordion-pleated at the perforations.

Trojan, Trixie read. Twisted Pleasure Lubricated Latex Condoms.

ôTheyÆre all having sex,ö Marita Soorenstad said, tilting her head and

pouring the last of the lime-colored powder into her mouth. In the fifteen minutes that Mike Bartholemew had been sitting with the assistant district attorney, sheÆd consumed three Pixy Stix. ôTeenage girls want guys to be attracted to them, but no oneÆs taught them how to deal with the emotions that come with that stuff. I see this all the time, Mike. Teenage girls wake up to find someone having sex with them, and they donÆt say a word.ö She crushed the paper straw in her fist and grimaced. ôSome judge told me these were a godsend when he was trying to quit smoking. But I swear all IÆm getting is a sugar high and a green tongue.ö

ôTrixie Stone said no,ö the detective pointed out. ôItÆs in her statement.ö ôAnd Trixie Stone was drinking. Which the defense attorney will use to call

her judgment into question. Oosterhaus is going to say that she was intoxicated,

and playing strip poker, and saying yes yes yes all the way up till afterward, which is about when she decided to say no. HeÆs going to ask her what time it was when she said it and how many pictures were on the walls of the room and what song was playing on the stereo and whether the moon was in Scorpio- details she wonÆt be able to remember. Then heÆll say that if she canÆt remember particulars like this, how on earth could she be sure of whether she told Jason to stop?ö Marita hesitated. ôIÆm not saying that Trixie Stone wasnÆt raped, Mike. IÆm just telling you that not everyone is going to see it as clearly.ö

ôI think the family knows that,ö Bartholemew said.

 

ôThe family never knows that, no matter what they say.ö Marita opened the file on Trixie Stone. ôWhat the hell else did they think their kid was out doing at two in the morning?ö

Bartholemew pictured a car overturned on the side of the road, the rescue crews clustered around the body that had been thrown through the windshield. He imagined the EMT who pulled up the sleeve of his daughterÆs shirt and saw the bruises and needle marks along the map of her veins. He wondered if that tech had looked at HollyÆs long-sleeved shirt, worn on the hottest night of July, and asked himself what this girlÆs parents had been thinking when they saw her leave the house in it.

The answer to this question, and to MaritaÆs: We werenÆt thinking. We didnÆt let ourselves think, because we didnÆt want to know.

Bartholemew cleared his throat. ôThe Stones thought their daughter was having a parent-supervised sleepover at a friendÆs house.ö

Marita ripped open a yellow Pixy Stix. ôGreat,ö she said, upending the contents into her mouth. ôSo TrixieÆs already lied once.ö

Even though parents donÆt want to admit it, school isnÆt about what a kid absorbs while sheÆs sitting at a cramped desk, but what happens around and in spite of that. ItÆs the five minutes between bells when you find out whose house is hosting the party that evening; itÆs borrowing the right shade of lip gloss from your friend before you have French with the cute guy who moved here from Ohio; itÆs being noticed by everyone else and pretending you are above that sort of celebrity.

Once all this social interaction was surgically excised from TrixieÆs school day, she noticed how little she cared about the academic part. In English, she focused on the printed text in her book until the letters jumped like popcorn in a skillet. From time to time she would hear a snide comment: What did she do to her hair? Only once did someone have the guts to actually speak to her in class. It was in phys ed, during an indoor soccer game. A girl on her own team had come up to her after the teacher called a time-out. ôSomeone who got raped for real,ö sheÆd whispered, ôwouldnÆt be out here playing soccer.ö

The part of the day that Trixie was most dreading was lunch. In the cafeteria, the mass of students split like amoebas into socially polarized groups. There were the drama kids and the skateboarders and the brains. There were the Sexy Seven-a group of girls who set the schoolÆs unwritten fashion rules, like what months you should wear shorts to school and how flip-flops were totally passT. There were the caffies, who hung out all morning drinking java with their friends until the voc-tech bus came to ferry them to classes on hairstyling and child care. And then there was the table where Trixie used to belong-the one with the popular kids, the one where Zephyr and Moss and a carefree knot of hockey players hung out pretending they didnÆt know that everyone else was looking at them and saying they were so fake, when in reality those same kids went home and wished that their own group of friends could be as cool.

Trixie bought herself french fries and chocolate milk-her comfort lunch, for

when she screwed up on a test or had period cramps-and stood in the middle of the cafeteria, trying to find a place for herself. Since Jason had broken up with Trixie, sheÆd been sitting somewhere else, but Zephyr had always joined her in solidarity. Today, though, she could see Zephyr sitting at their old table. One sentence rose from the collective din: ôShe wouldnÆt dare.ö

Trixie held her plastic tray like a shield. She finally moved toward the Heater Hos, congregating near the radiator. They were girls who wore white pants with spandex in them and had boyfriends who drove raised I-Rocs; girls who got pregnant at fifteen and then brought the ultrasounds to school to show off.

One of them-a ninth-grader in what looked like her ninth month-smiled at Trixie, and the action was so unexpected, she nearly stumbled. ôThereÆs room,ö the girl said, and she slid her backpack off the table so that Trixie could sit down.

A lot of kids at Bethel High made fun of the Heater Hos, but Trixie never had.

She found them too depressing to be the butt of jokes. They seemed to be so nonchalant about throwing their lives away-not that their lives were the kind that anyone would have wanted in the first place, but still. Trixie had wondered if those belly-baring Tshirts they wore and the pride they took in their situation were just for show, a way to cover up how sad they really were about what had happened to them. After all, if you acted like you really wanted something even when you didnÆt, you just might convince yourself along with everyone else.

Trixie ought to know.

 

ôI asked Donna to be ElvisÆs godmother,ö one of the girls said.

ôElvis?ö another answered. ôI thought you were going to name him Pilot.ö ôI was, but then I thought, what if heÆs born afraid of heights? That would

suck for him.ö

 

Trixie dipped a french fry into a pool of ketchup. It looked weak and watery, like blood. She wondered how many hours it had been since sheÆd talked out loud. If you didnÆt use your voice, ever, would it eventually shrivel up and dry away? Was there a natural selection involved in not speaking up?

ôTrixie.ö

She looked up to see Zephyr sliding into the seat across from her. Trixie couldnÆt contain her relief-if Zephyr had come over here, she couldnÆt be mad anymore, could she? ôGod, IÆm glad to see you,ö Trixie said. She wanted to make a joke, to let Zephyr know it was okay to treat her like she wasnÆt a freak, but she couldnÆt think of a single thing to say.

ôI would have called,ö Zephyr said, ôbut IÆve sort of been grounded until IÆm forty.ö

Trixie nodded. It was enough, really, that Zephyr was sitting here now. ôSoàyouÆre okay, right?ö

ôYeah,ö Trixie said. She tried to remember what her father had said that morning: If you think youÆre fine, youÆll start to believe it.

ôYour hairàö

She ran her palm over her head and smiled nervously. ôCrazy, isnÆt it?ö Zephyr leaned forward, shifting uncomfortably. ôLook, what you didàwell, it

worked. No question-you got Jason back.ö ôWhat are you talking about?ö

ôYou wanted payback for getting dumped, and you got it. But TrixieàitÆs one thing to teach someone a lessonàand a whole different thing to get him arrested.

DonÆt you think you can stop now?ö

 

ôYou thinkàö TrixieÆs scalp tightened. ôYou think I made this up?ö

 

ôTrix, everyone knows you wanted to hook up with him again. ItÆs kind of hard to rape someone whoÆs willing.ö

ôYouÆre the one who came up with the plan! You said I should make him jealous! But I never expectedàI didnÆtàö TrixieÆs voice was as thin as a wire, vibrating. ôHe raped me.ö

A shadow fell across the table as Moss approached. Zephyr looked up at him and shrugged. ôI tried,ö she said.

He pulled Zephyr out of her chair. ôCome on.ö

 

Trixie stood up, too. ôWeÆve been friends since kindergarten. How could you believe him over me?ö

Something in ZephyrÆs eyes changed, but before she could speak, Moss slid an arm around her shoulders, anchoring her to his side. So, Trixie thought. ItÆs like that.

ôNice hair, G.I. Ho,ö Moss said as they walked off.

 

It had gotten so quiet in the cafeteria that even the lunch ladies seemed to be watching. Trixie sank down into her seat again, trying not to notice the way that everyone was staring at her. There was a one-year-old she used to babysit for who liked to play a game: HeÆd cover his face with his hands and youÆd say, ôWhereÆs Josh?ö She wished it was that simple: Close your eyes, and youÆd disappear.

Next to her, one of the Heater Hos cracked her bubble gum. ôI wish Jason Underhill would rape me,ö she said.

Daniel had made coffee for Laura.

 

Even after what she had done, even after all the words that fell between them like a rain of arrows, he had still done this for her. It might not have been anything more than habit, but it brought her to the verge of tears.

She stared at the carafe, its swollen belly steaming with French roast. It occurred to Laura that in all the years they had been married, she could literally not remember it being the other way around: Daniel had been a student of her likes and dislikes; in return, Laura had never even signed up for the proverbial course. Was it complacency that had made her restless enough to have an affair? Or was it because she hadnÆt wanted to admit that even had she applied herself, she would not be as good a wife as Daniel was a husband?

She had come into the kitchen to sit down at the table, spread out her notes, prepare for her afternoon class. Today, thank God, was a lecture, an impersonal group where she got to do all the talking, not a smaller class where she might

have to face the questions of students again. In her hands was a book, open to the famous DorT illustration for Canto 29, where Virgil-DanteÆs guide through

hell-berated his curiosity. But now that Laura could smell the grounds, inhale that aromatic steam, she couldnÆt for the life of her remember what she was going to say about this drawing to her students.

Explaining hell took on a whole new meaning when youÆd been recently living smack in the middle of it, and Laura envisioned her own face on the sketch, instead of DanteÆs. She took a sip of her coffee and imagined drinking from the River Lethe, which ran back to its source, taking all your sins with it.

There was a fine line between love and hate, you heard that clichT all the time. But no one told you that the moment you crossed it would be the one you least expected. YouÆd fall in love and crack open a secret door to let your soul mate in. You just never expected such closeness, one day, to feel like an intrusion.

Laura stared down at the picture. With the exception of Dante, nobody chose to go willingly to hell. And even Dante would have lost his way if he hadnÆt found a guide whoÆd already been through hell and come out the other side.

Reaching up to the cabinet, Laura took out a second mug and poured another cup of coffee. In all honesty, she had no idea if Daniel took it with milk or sugar or both. She added a little of each, the way she liked to drink it.

She hoped that was a start.

In the latest issue of Wizard magazine, on the list of top ten comic book artists, Daniel was ranked number nine. His picture was there, eight notches below Jim LeeÆs number one smiling face. Last month, Daniel had been number ten; it was the growing anticipation for The Tenth Circle that was fueling his fame.

It was actually Laura who had told Daniel when he was becoming famous.

TheyÆd gone to a Christmas party at Marvel in New York, and when they entered the room, they were separated in the crush. Later, she told him that as he walked through the crowd, she could hear everyone talking in his wake. Daniel, she had said, people definitely know you.

When heÆd first been given a test story to draw, years ago-a godawful piece that took place inside a cramped airplane-heÆd worried about things that he never would have given a second thought to now: having F lead in his pencil instead of something too soft, testing the geometry of arches, mapping the feel of a ruler in his hand. If anything, he had drawn more from the gut when he was starting out-emotional art, instead of cerebral. The first time heÆd penciled Batman for DC Comics, for example, heÆd had to reimagine the hero.

DanielÆs rendition had a certain length ear and a certain width belt that had little to do with the historical progression of art on that character and far more to do with poring over the comic as a kid, and remembering how Batman had looked at his coolest.

Today, though, drawing wasnÆt bringing him any joy or relief. He kept thinking about Trixie and where she would be at this hour of the day and if it was a good thing or a bad thing that she hadnÆt called him yet to say how it was going. Ordinarily, if Daniel was restless, heÆd get up and walk around the house, or even take a run to jog his brain and recover his lost muse. But Laura was home-she had no classes until this afternoon-and that was enough to keep him holed up in his office. It was easier to face down a blank page than to pull from thin air the right words to rebuild a marriage.

His task today was to draw a series of panels in hell with adultery demons- sinners who had lusted for each other in life, and in death couldnÆt be separated from each other. The irony of having to draw this, given his own situation, had not been lost on Daniel. He imagined a male and a female torso, each growing out of the same root of a body. He pictured one wing on each of their backs. He saw claws that would reach in to steal a heroÆs heart, because that was exactly how it felt.

He was cheating today, drawing the action sequences, because they were the most engaging. He always jumped around the story, to keep himself from overdoing it on the first panel he drew. But just in case he started running out of time on a deadline, it was easier to draw straight lines and buildings and roads than to dynamically draw a figure.

Daniel began sketching the outline of an ungainly, birdlike creature, half man and half woman. He roughed in a wing-no, too bat-like. He was just blowing the eraser rubbings off the Miraweb paper when Laura walked into his office, holding a cup of coffee.

He set down his pencil and leaned back in his chair. Laura rarely visited him in his office. Most of the time, she wasnÆt home. And when she was, it was always Daniel seeking her out, instead of the other way around.

ôWhat are you drawing?ö she asked, peering down at the panels. ôNothing good.ö

ôWorried about Trixie?ö

 

Daniel rubbed a hand down his face. ôHow couldnÆt I be?ö

 

She sank down at his feet, cross-legged. ôI know. I keep thinking I hear the phone ring.ö She glanced down at her coffee cup, as if she was surprised to find herself clutching it. ôOh,ö she said. ôI brought this for you.ö

She never brought him coffee before. He didnÆt even really like coffee. But there was Laura with her hand outstretched, offering the steaming mug-and in that instant, Daniel could imagine her fingers reaching like a dagger between his ribs. He could see how a wing that grew from between her shoulder blades might sweep over the muscles of her trapezius, wrapping over her arm like a shawl.

ôDo me a favor?ö he asked, taking the mug from her. He grabbed a quilt that he kept on the couch in his office and leaned down to pull it around Laura.

ôGod,ö she said. ôI havenÆt modeled for you in years.ö

 

When he was just starting out, heÆd pose her a hundred different ways: in her bra and panties holding a water gun; tossed halfway off the bed; hanging upside down from a tree in the yard. He would wait for the moment when that familiar skin and structure stopped being Laura and became, instead, a twist of sinew and a placement of bone, one he could translate anatomically into a character sprawled just the same way on the page.

ôWhatÆs the quilt for?ö Laura asked, as he picked up his pencil and started to draw.

ôYou have wings.ö ôAm I an angel?ö

Daniel glanced up. ôSomething like that,ö he said.

 

The moment Daniel stopped obsessing about drawing the wing, it took flight.

He drew fast, the lines pouring out of him. This quick, art was like breath. He couldnÆt have told you why he placed the fingers at that angle instead of the more conventional one, but it made the figure seem to move across the panel. ôLift the blanket up a little, so it covers your head,ö he instructed.

Laura obliged. ôThis reminds me of your first story. Only drier.ö DanielÆs first paid gig had been a Marvel fill-in for the Ultimate X-Men

series. In the event that a regular artist didnÆt make deadline, his stand-alone

piece would be used without breaking the continuity of the ongoing saga.

 

HeÆd been given a story about Storm as a young child, harnessing the weather. In the name of research, he and Laura had driven to the shore during a thunderstorm, with Trixie still in her infant seat. They left the sleeping baby in the car and then sat on the beach in the pouring rain with a blanket wrapped around their shoulders, watching the lightning write notes on the sand.

Later that night, on his way back to the car, Daniel had tripped over the strangest tube of glass. It was a fulgurite, Laura told him, sand fused the moment it was struck by lightning. The tube was eight inches long, rough on the outside and smooth through its long throat. Daniel had tucked it into the side of TrixieÆs car seat, and even today it was still delicately displayed on her bookshelf.

It had amazed him: that utter transformation, the understanding that radical change could come in a heartbeat.

Finally, Daniel finished drawing. He put down his pencil, flexed his hand, and glanced down at the page: This was good; this was better than good. ôThanks,ö he said, standing up to take the blanket off LauraÆs shoulders.

She stood, too, and grabbed two corners of the quilt. They folded it in silence, like soldiers with a casketÆs flag. When they met in the middle, Daniel went to take the blanket from her, but Laura didnÆt let go. She slid her hands along its folded seam until they rested on top of DanielÆs, and then she lifted her face shyly and kissed him.

He didnÆt want to touch her. Her body pressed against his through the buffer of the quilt. But instinct broke over him, a massive wave, and he wrapped his arms so tightly around Laura he could feel her struggling to breathe. His kiss was hungry, violent, a feast for what heÆd been missing. It took a moment, and then she came to life beneath him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer, consuming him in a way he could not ever remember her doing before.

Before.

 

With a groan, Daniel dragged his mouth from hers, buried his face in the curve of her neck. ôAre you thinking about him?ö he whispered.

Laura went utterly still, and her arms fell away. ôNo,ö she said, her cheeks bright and hot.

Between them on the floor, the quilt was now a heap. Daniel saw a stain on it that he hadnÆt noticed before. He bent down and gathered it into his arms. ôWell, I am.ö

LauraÆs eyes filled with tears, and a moment later she walked out of his office. When he heard the door close, Daniel sank down into his chair again. He kept brushing up against the fact that his wife had cheated on him. It was a little like a scar on a polished wooden table-youÆd try to see the rest of the gleaming surface, but your eyes and your fingers would be drawn to the pitted part, the one thing that kept it from being perfect.

It was two-fifteen; only another half hour until he picked up Trixie at school.

Only a half hour until she could serve as the cushion that kept him and Laura from rubbing each other raw.

But in a half hour, lightning could strike. Wives could fall in love with men who werenÆt their husbands. Girls could be raped.

Daniel buried his face in his hands. Between his splayed fingers, he could see the figure heÆd sketched. Half of a demon, she was wrapped in her own single wing. She was the spitting image of Laura. And she was reaching for a heart Daniel couldnÆt draw, because heÆd forgotten its dimensions years ago.

Jason was missing practice. He sat in the swanky law offices of Yargrove, Bratt & Oosterhaus, wondering what drills Coach was putting the team through. They had a game tomorrow against Gray-New Gloucester, and he was on the starting line.

Trixie had come back to school today. Jason hadnÆt seen her-someone had made damn sure of that-but Moss and Zephyr and a dozen other friends had run into her. Apparently, sheÆd practically shaved her head. HeÆd wondered, on the drive down to Portland, what it would have been like if he had crossed paths with Trixie. The judge at the arraignment had said that was enough cause to have Jason sent to a juvy prison, but he must have meant Jason would be in trouble if he sought Trixie outànot if Fate tossed her in his path.

Which is sort of what had happened in the first place.

 

He still couldnÆt believe that this was real, that he was sitting in a lawyerÆs office, that he had been charged with rape. He kept expecting his alarm clock to go off any minute now. HeÆd drive to school and catch Moss in the hallway and say, Man, you wouldnÆt believe the nightmare I had.

Dutch Oosterhaus was talking to his parents, who were wearing their church clothes and were looking at Dutch as if he were Jesus incarnate. Jason knew his parents were paying the lawyer with money theyÆd scrimped together to send him for a PG year at a prep school, so that heÆd have a better chance of making a Division I college hockey team. Gould Academy scouts had already come to watch him play; theyÆd said he was as good as in.

ôShe was crying,ö Dutch said, rolling a fancy pen between his fingers. ôShe was begging you to get back together with her.ö

ôYeah,ö Jason replied. ôShe didnÆtàshe didnÆt take the breakup very well.

There were times I thought she was losing it. You know.ö

 

ôDo you know if Trixie was seeing a psychiatrist?ö Dutch made a note to himself. ôShe might even have talked to a rape crisis counselor. We can subpoena those records for evidence of mental instability.ö

Jason didnÆt know what Trixie was up to, but heÆd never thought she was crazy. Until Friday nightÆs party, Trixie had been so easy to read that it set her apart from the dozens of girls heÆd hooked up with who were in it for the status

or the sex or the head games. It was nuts-and this wasnÆt something heÆd ever admit to his friends-but the best part about being with Trixie had not been the fact that she was, well, hot. It had been knowing that even if heÆd never been an athlete or an upperclassman or popular, she still would have wanted to be with him.

HeÆd liked her, but he hadnÆt really loved her. At least he didnÆt think he had. There were no lightning bolts across his vision when he saw her across a room, and his general feeling when he was with her was one of comfort, not of blood boiling and fire and brimstone. The reason heÆd broken up with her was, ironically, for her own good. He knew that if heÆd asked Trixie to drop everything and follow him across the earth, sheÆd do it; if the roles were reversed, though, he wouldnÆt. They were at different places in that same relationship, and like anything thatÆs out of alignment, they were destined to crash sooner or later. By taking care of it early-gently, Jason liked to think-he was only trying to keep Trixie from getting her heart broken even harder.

He certainly felt bad about doing it, though. Just because he didnÆt love Trixie didnÆt mean he didnÆt like her.

And as for the other, well. He was a seventeen-year-old guy, and you didnÆt throw away something that was handed to you on a silver platter.

ôWalk me through what happened after you found her in ZephyrÆs bathroom?ö

Jason scrubbed his hands over his head, making his hair stand on end. ôI offered her a ride home, and she said yes. But then she started crying. I felt bad for her, so I kind of hugged her.ö

ôHugged her? How?ö

 

Jason lifted up his arms and folded them awkwardly around himself. ôLike that.ö

ôWhat happened next?ö

 

ôShe came on to me. She kissed me.ö ôWhat did you do?ö Dutch asked.

Jason stole a glance at his mother, whose cheeks were candy-apple red with embarrassment. He couldnÆt believe that he had to say these things in front of her. SheÆd be saying Rosaries for a week straight on his behalf. ôI kissed her back. I mean, it was like falling into an old habit, you know? And she clearly was interested-ö

ôDefine that,ö Dutch interrupted.

 

ôShe took off her own shirt,ö Jason said, and his mother winced. ôShe unbuckled my belt and went down on me.ö

Dutch wrote another note on his pad. ôShe initiated oral sex?ö ôYeah.ö

ôDid you reciprocate?ö ôNo.ö

ôDid she say anything to you?ö

 

Jason felt himself getting hot beneath the collar of his shirt. ôShe said my name a lot. And she kept talking about doing this in someoneÆs living room. But it wasnÆt like she was freaked out about it-it was more like it was exciting for her, hooking up in someone elseÆs house.ö

ôDid she tell you she was interested in having intercourse?ö

 

Jason thought for a second. ôShe didnÆt tell me she wasnÆt,ö he replied. ôDid she ask you to stop?ö

ôNo,ö Jason said.

 

ôDid you know she was a virgin?ö

 

Jason felt all the thoughts in his head solidify into one hard, black mass, as he understood that heÆd been played the fool. ôYeah,ö he said, angry. ôBack in October. The first time we had sex.ö

Trixie looked like sheÆd been fighting a war. The minute she threw herself into the truck beside Daniel, he was seized with the urge to storm into the school and demand retribution from the student body that had done this to her. He imagined himself raging through the halls, and then, quickly, shook the vision out of his mind. The last thing Trixie needed, after being raped, was to see that violence could beget more violence.

ôDo you want to talk about it?ö he said after they had driven for a few moments.

Trixie shook her head. She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible.

Daniel pulled off the road. He reached over the console to awkwardly draw Trixie into his arms. ôYou donÆt have to go back,ö he promised. ôEver.ö Her tears soaked through his flannel shirt. He would teach Trixie at home, if he had to. He would find her a tutor. He would pick up the whole family and move.

Janice, the sexual assault advocate, had warned him against just that. She said that fathers and brothers always wanted to protect the victim after the fact, because they felt guilty about not doing it right the first time. But if Daniel fought TrixieÆs battles, she might never figure out for herself how to be strong again.

Well, fuck Janice. She didnÆt have a daughter whoÆd been raped. And even if she did, it wasnÆt Trixie.

Suddenly there was the sound of glass breaking, as a car drove by and the boys inside threw a six-pack of empty beer bottles at the truck. ôWhore!ö The word was yelled through open windows. Daniel saw the retreating taillights of a Subaru. The backseat passenger reached through his window to high-five the driver.

Daniel let go of Trixie and stepped out of the car onto the shoulder of the road. Beneath his shoes, glass crunched. The bottles had scratched the paint on the door of the truck, had shattered under his tires. The word theyÆd called his daughter still hung in the air.

He had an artistÆs vision-of Duncan, his hero, turning into Wildclawàthis time in the shape of a jaguar. He imagined what it would be like to run faster

than the wind, to race around the tight corner and leap through the narrow opening of the driverÆs side window. He pictured the car, careening wildly. He smelled their fear. He went for blood.

Instead, Daniel leaned down and picked up the biggest pieces of glass. He carefully cleared a path, so that he could get Trixie back home.

The night that Trixie met Jason, sheÆd had the flu. Her parents had been at some fancy shindig at Marvel headquarters in New York City, and she was spending the night at ZephyrÆs house. Zephyr had wangled her way into an upperclass party that evening, and it had been all the two of them could talk about. But no sooner had school let out than Trixie started throwing up.

ôI think IÆm going to die,ö Trixie had told Zephyr. ôNot before you hang out with seniors,ö Zephyr said.

They told ZephyrÆs mother that they were going to study for an algebra test with Bettina Majuradee, the smartest girl in ninth grade, who in reality wouldnÆt have given them the time of day. They walked two miles to the house party, which was being held by a guy named Orson. Twice, Trixie had to double up at the side of the road and barf into some bushes. ôActually, this is cool,ö Zephyr had told her. ôTheyÆre going to think youÆre already trashed.ö

The party was a writhing, pulsing mass of noise and bodies and motion. Trixie moved from a quartet of gyrating girls to a table of faceless guys playing the drinking game Beirut, to a posse of kids trying to make a pyramid out of empty cans of Bud. Within fifteen minutes, she felt feverish and dizzy and headed to the bathroom to be sick.

Five minutes later, she opened up the door and started down the hallway, intent on finding Zephyr and leaving. ôDo you believe in love at first sight,ö a voice asked, ôor should I ask you to walk by me again?ö

Trixie glanced down to find a guy sitting on the floor, his back to the wall. He was wearing a T-shirt so faded she couldnÆt read the writing on it. His hair was jet-black, and his eyes were the color of ice, but it was his smile-lopsided, as if it had been built on a slope-that made her heart hitch.

ôI donÆt think IÆve seen you before,ö he said. Trixie suddenly lost the power of conversation. ôIÆm Jason.ö

ôIÆm sick,ö Trixie blurted out, cursing herself the minute she heard the words. Could she sound any stupider if she tried?

But Jason had just grinned, off-kilter, again. ôWell, then,ö heÆd said, and started it all. ôI guess I need to make you feel better.ö

Zephyr Santorelli-Weinstein worked at a toy store. She was affixing UPC codes for prices onto the feet of stuffed animals when Mike Bartholemew arrived to talk to her. ôSo,ö he said, after introducing himself. ôIs now a good time?ö He looked around the store. There were science kits and dress-up clothes and Legos, marble chutes and paint-your-own beanbag chair kits and baby dolls that cried on command.

ôI guess,ö Zephyr said.

 

ôYou want to sit down?ö But the only place to sit was a little kid-sized tea table, set with Madeline china and plastic cupcakes. Bartholemew could imagine his knees hitting his chin or, worse, getting down and never getting back up again.

ôIÆm good,ö Zephyr said. She put down the gun that affixed the UPC labels and folded her arms around a fluffy polar bear.

Bartholemew looked at her stretch button-down shirt and stacked heels, her eye makeup, her scarlet nail polish, the toy in her arms. He thought, This is exactly the problem. ôI appreciate you talking to me.ö

ôMy motherÆs making me do it.ö

 

ôGuess she wasnÆt thrilled to find out about your little party.ö

 

ôSheÆs less thrilled that you turned the living room into some kind of crime

scene.ö

 

ôWell,ö Bartholemew said, ôit is one.ö

 

Zephyr snorted. She picked up the sticker gun and started tagging the animals again.

ôI understand that you and Trixie Stone have been friends for a while.ö ôSince we were five.ö

ôShe mentioned that just before the incident occurred, you two were having an argument.ö He paused. ôWhat were you fighting about?ö

She looked down at the counter. ôI donÆt remember.ö

 

ôZephyr,ö the detective said, ôif youÆve got details for me, it might help corroborate your friendÆs story.ö

ôWe had a plan,ö Zephyr sighed. ôShe wanted to make Jason jealous. She was trying to get him back, to hook up with him. That was the whole point. Or at least thatÆs what she told me.ö

ôWhat do you mean?ö

 

ôWell, I guess she meant to screw Jason in more ways than one.ö ôDid she say she intended to have intercourse that night?ö

ôShe told me she was willing to do whatever it took,ö Zephyr said. Bartholemew looked at her. ôDid you see Trixie and Jason having sex?ö ôIÆm not into peep shows. I was upstairs.ö

ôAlone?ö

 

ôWith a guy. Moss Minton.ö ôWhat were you doing?ö

Zephyr glanced up at the detective. ôNothing.ö ôWere you and Moss having sex?ö

ôDid my mother ask you to ask me that?ö she said, narrowing her eyes. ôJust answer the question.ö

ôNo, all right?ö Zephyr said. ôWe were going to. I mean, I figured we were going to. But Moss passed out first.ö

ôAnd you?ö

 

She shrugged. ôI guess I fell asleep eventually, too.ö ôWhen?ö

ôI donÆt know. Two-thirty? Three?ö

 

Bartholemew looked at his notes. ôCould you hear the music in your bedroom?ö

Zephyr stared at him dully. ôWhat music?ö

ôThe CDs you were playing during your party. Could you hear that upstairs?ö ôNo. By the time we got upstairs, someone had turned them off.ö Zephyr

gathered the stack of stuffed animals, holding them in her arms like a bounty, and walked toward an empty shelf. ôThatÆs why I figured Jason and Trixie had gone home.ö

ôDid you hear Trixie scream for help?ö

 

For the first time since heÆd started speaking to her, Bartholemew saw Zephyr at a loss for words. ôIf IÆd heard that,ö Zephyr said, her voice wavering the tiniest bit, ôI would have gone downstairs.ö She set the bears down side by side, so that they were nearly touching. ôBut the whole night, it was dead quiet.ö

Until Laura met Daniel, she had never done anything wrong. SheÆd gotten

straight AÆs in school. SheÆd been known to pick up other peopleÆs litter. SheÆd never had a cavity.

She was a graduate student at ASU, dating an MBA named Walter who had already taken her to three jewelry stores to get her feedback on engagement rings. Walter was attractive, secure, and predictable. On Friday nights, they always went out to dinner, switched their entrees halfway through the meal, and then went to see a movie. They alternated picking the films. Afterward, over coffee, they talked about the quality of the acting. Then Walter would drive her back to her apartment in Tempe and after a bout of predictable sex heÆd go home because he didnÆt like to sleep in other peopleÆs beds.

One Friday, when they went to the movie theater, it was closed because of a burst water main. She and Walter decided to walk down Mill Avenue instead, where on warm nights buskers littered the streets with their violin cases and their impromptu juggling.

There were several artists too, sketching in pencil, sketching in charcoal, making caricatures with Magic Markers that smelled like licorice. Walter gravitated toward one man, bent over his pad. The artist had black hair that reached down to the middle of his back and ink all over his hands. Behind him was a makeshift cardboard stand, onto which heÆd pinned dynamic drawings of Batman and Superman and Wolverine. ôThese are amazing,ö Walter said, and Laura had thought at the time that sheÆd never seen him get so excited about something. ôI used to collect comics as a kid.ö

When the artist looked up, he had the palest blue eyes, and they were focused on Laura. ôTen bucks for a sketch,ö he said.

Walter put his arm around Laura. ôCan you do one of her?ö

 

Before she knew it, sheÆd been seated on an overturned milk crate. A crowd gathered to watch as the sketch took shape. Laura glanced over at Walter, wishing that he hadnÆt suggested this. She startled when she felt the artistÆs fingers curl around her chin, turning her face forward again. ôDonÆt move,ö he warned, and she could smell nicotine and whiskey.

He gave the drawing to Laura when he was finished. She had the body of a superhero-muscular and able-but her hair and face and neck were all her own. A galaxy swirled around her feet. There were people sketched into the background-

the crowd that had gathered. WalterÆs face was nearly off the edge of the page. Beside the figure of Laura, however, was a man who looked just like the artist. ôSo that youÆll be able to find me one day,ö he said, and she felt as if a storm had blown up inside her.

Laura looked at Walter, holding out his ten-dollar bill. She lifted her chin. ôWhat makes you think IÆll be looking?ö

The artist grinned. ôWishful thinking.ö

 

When they left Mill Avenue, Laura told Walter it was the worst sketch sheÆd ever seen-her calves werenÆt that big, and sheÆd never be caught dead wearing thigh-high boots. She planned to go home and throw it in the trash. But instead, that night, Laura found herself staring at the bold strokes of the artistÆs signature: Daniel Stone. She examined the picture more closely and noticed what she hadnÆt the first time around: In the folds of the cape the man had drawn were a few lines darker than the rest, which clearly spelled out the word MEET.

In the toe of the left boot was ME.

 

She scrutinized the sketch, scanning the crowd for more of the message. She found the letters AT on the rings of the planet in the upper left corner. And in the collar of the shirt worn by the man who looked like Walter was the word HELL.

It felt like a slap in the face, as if he knew sheÆd be reading into the drawing heÆd made. Angry, Laura buried the sketch in her kitchen trash can. But she tossed and turned all night, deconstructing the language in the art. You wouldnÆt say meet me at hell; youÆd say meet me in hell. In suggested submersion, at was an approach to a place. Had this not been a rejection, then, but an invitation?

The next day, she pulled the sketch out from the trash, and sat down with the Phoenix area phone book.

Hell was at 358 Wylie Street.

 

She borrowed a magnifying glass from an ASU biology lab but couldnÆt find any more clues in the drawing regarding a time or date. That afternoon, once she finished her classes, Laura made her way to Wylie Street. Hell turned out to be a narrow space between two larger buildings-one a head shop with bongs in the

window, the other a XXX video store. The jammed little frontage had no windows, just a graffiti-riddled door. In lieu of a formal sign, there was a plank with the name of the establishment hand-lettered in blue paint.

Inside, the room was thin and long, able to accommodate a bar and not much else. The walls were painted black. In spite of the fact that it was three in the afternoon, there were six people sitting at the bar, some of whom Laura could not assign to one gender or the other. As the sunlight cracked through the open doorway, they turned to her, squinting, moles coming up from the belly of the earth.

Daniel Stone sat closest to the door. He raised one eyebrow and stubbed out his cigarette on the wood of the bar. ôHave a seat.ö

She held out her hand. ôIÆm Laura Piper.ö

 

He looked at her hand, amused, but didnÆt shake it. She crawled onto the stool and folded her purse into her lap. ôHave you been waiting long?ö she asked, as if this were a business meeting.

He laughed. The sound made her think of summer dust, kicked up by tires on a dirt road. ôMy whole life.ö

She didnÆt know how to respond to that. ôYou didnÆt give me a specific timeàö

His eyes lit up. ôBut you found the rest. And I pretty much live here, anyway.ö

ôAre you from Phoenix?ö ôAlaska.ö

To a girl whoÆd grown up on the outskirts of the desert, there was nothing more remarkable or idealistically romantic. She pictured snow and polar bears. Eskimos. ôWhat made you come here?ö

He shrugged. ôUp there, you learn the blues. I needed to see reds.ö It took Laura a moment to realize that he was talking about colors and his drawing. He lit another cigarette. It bothered her-she wasnÆt used to people smoking around

her-but she didnÆt know how to ask him not to. ôSo,ö he said. ôLaura.ö

 

Nervous, she began to fill in the silence between them. ôThere was a poet who had a Laura as his muse. Petrarch. His sonnets are really beautiful.ö

DanielÆs mouth curved. ôAre they, now.ö

 

She didnÆt know if he was making fun of her, and now she was conscious of other people in the bar listening to their conversation, and frankly, she couldnÆt remember why sheÆd ever come here in the first place. She was just about to get up when the bartender set a shot of something clear in front of her. ôOh,ö she said. ôI donÆt drink.ö

Without missing a beat, Daniel reached over and drained the shot glass.

 

She was fascinated by him, in the same way that an entomologist would be fascinated by an insect from the far side of the earth, a specimen she had read about but never imagined sheÆd hold in the palm of her hand. There was an unexpected thrill to being this close to the type of person sheÆd avoided her whole life. She looked at Daniel Stone and didnÆt see a man whose hair was too long and who hadnÆt shaved in days, whose T-shirt was threadbare underneath his battered jacket, whose fingertips were stained with nicotine and ink. Instead, she saw who she might have been if she hadnÆt made the conscious choice to be someone else.

ôYou like poetry,ö Daniel said, picking up the thread of conversation.

 

ôWell, AshberyÆs okay. But if youÆve read Rumi-ö She broke off, realizing that what she really should have said, in response, was Yes. ôI guess you probably didnÆt invite me here to talk about poetry.ö

ôItÆs all bullshit to me, but I like the way your eyes look when you talk about it.ö

Laura put a little more distance between them, as much as she could while sitting on a bar stool.

ôDonÆt you want to know why I invited you here?ö Daniel asked. She nodded and forgot to breathe.

ôBecause I knew you were smart enough to find the invitation. Because your hairÆs got all the colors of fire.ö He reached out and put his hand on her chin, trailing it down her throat. ôBecause when I touched you here the other night, I wanted to taste you.ö

Before she realized what he was doing, Laura found herself in his arms, with his mouth moving hot across hers. On his breath, there were traces of alcohol and cigarettes and seclusion.

Shoving him away, she stumbled off her bar stool. ôWhat are you doing?ö ôWhat you came here for,ö Daniel said.

The other men at the bar were whistling. Laura felt her face burn. ôI donÆt know why I came here,ö she said, and she started to walk toward the door.

ôBecause of everything we have in common,ö Daniel called out.

 

She couldnÆt simply let that one pass. Turning around, she said, ôBelieve me.

We donÆt have anything in common.ö

 

ôDonÆt we?ö Daniel approached her, pinning the door shut with one arm. ôDid you tell your boyfriend you were coming to see me?ö When Laura remained stone-silent, he laughed.

Laura stilled underneath the weight of the truth: She had lied-not only to Walter but also to herself. She had come here of her own free will; she had come here because she couldnÆt stand the thought of not coming. But what if the reason Daniel Stone fascinated her had nothing to do with differenceàbut similarity? What if she recognized in him parts of herself that had been there all along, underneath the surface?

What if Daniel Stone was right?

 

She stared up at him, her heart hammering. ôWhat would you have one if I hadnÆt come here today?ö

His blue eyes darkened. ôWaited.ö

 

She was awkward, and she was self-conscious, but Laura took a step toward

him. She thought of Madame Bovary and of Juliet, of poison running through your bloodstream, of passion doing the same.

Mike Bartholemew was pacing around near the emergency roomÆs Coke machine when he heard his name being called. He glanced up to find a tiny woman with a cap of dark hair facing him, her hands buried in the pockets of her white physicianÆs coat. C. Roth, M.D. ôI was hoping to talk to you about Trixie Stone,ö he said.

She nodded, glancing at the crowd around them. ôWhy donÆt we go into one of the empty exam rooms?ö

There was nowhere Mike wanted to be less. The last time heÆd been in one, it was to ID his daughterÆs body. He had no sooner walked across the threshold than he started to weave and feel the room spin. ôAre you all right?ö the doctor asked, as he steadied himself against the examination table.

ôItÆs nothing.ö

 

ôLet me get you something to drink.ö

 

She was gone for only a few seconds and came back bearing a paper cone from a water cooler. When Mike finished drinking, he crushed the cup in his hand. ôMust be a flu going around,ö he said, trying to dismiss his own weakness. ôIÆve got a few follow-up questions based on your medical report.ö

ôFire away.ö

 

Mike took a pad and pen out of his coat pocket. ôYou said that Trixie StoneÆs demeanor was calm when she was here?ö

ôYes, until the pelvic exam-she got a bit upset at that. But during the rest of the exam she was very quiet.ö

ôNot hysterical?ö

 

ôNot all rape victims come in that way,ö the doctor said. ôSome are in shock.ö

ôWas she bleeding?ö ôMinimally.ö

ôShouldnÆt there have been more, if she was a virgin?ö

 

The doctor shrugged. ôA hymen can break when a girl is eight years old, riding a bike. There doesnÆt have to be blood the first time thereÆs intercourse.ö

ôBut you also said there was no significant internal trauma,ö Mike said.

 

The doctor frowned at him. ôArenÆt you supposed to be on her side?ö

 

ôI donÆt take sides,ö Mike said. ôBut I do try to make sense of the facts, and before we have a rape case, I need to make sure that IÆve ruled out inconsistencies.ö

ôWell, youÆre talking about an organ thatÆs made for accommodation. Just because there wasnÆt visible internal trauma doesnÆt mean there wasnÆt intercourse without consent.ö

Mike looked down at the examination table, uncomfortable, and suddenly could see the still, swathed form of his daughterÆs battered body. One arm, which had slipped off to hang toward the floor, with its black userÆs bruise in the crook of the elbow.

ôHer arm,ö Mike murmured.

 

ôThe cuts? I photographed them for you. The lacs were still oozing when she came in,ö the doctor said, ôbut she couldnÆt remember seeing a weapon during the attack.ö

Mike took the Polaroid out of his pocket, the one that showed TrixieÆs left wrist. There was the deep cut that Dr. Roth was describing, still angry and red as a mouth, but if you looked carefully you could also see the silver herringbone pattern of older scars. ôIs there any chance Trixie Stone did this to herself?ö

ôItÆs a possibility. We see a lot of cutting in teenage girls these days. But it still doesnÆt preclude the fact that Trixie was sexually assaulted.ö

ôYouÆd be willing to testify to that?ö Mike asked.

 

The doctor folded her arms. ôHave you ever sat in on a female rape kit collection, Detective?ö

She knew, of course, that Mike hadnÆt. He couldnÆt, as a man.

 

ôIt takes over an hour and involves not just a thorough external examination but a painfully thorough internal one as well. It involves having your body scrutinized under UV light and swabbed for evidence. It involves photography. It involves being asked intimate details about your sexual habits. It involves having your clothes confiscated. IÆve been an ER OB/GYN for fifteen years, Detective, and I have yet to see the woman whoÆd be willing to suffer through a sexual assault exam just for the hell of it.ö She glanced up at Mike. ôYes,ö Dr.

Roth said. ôIÆll testify.ö

Janice didnÆt just have tea in her office. She had oolong, Sleepytime, and orange pekoe. Darjeeling, rooibos, and sencha. Dragon Well, macha, gunpowder, jasmine, Keemun. Lapsang souchong and Assam: Yunnan and Nilgiri. ôWhat would you like?ö she asked.

Trixie hugged a throw pillow to her chest. ôCoffee.ö ôLike I havenÆt heard that before.ö

Trixie had come to this appointment reluctantly. Her father had dropped her off and would be back to get her at five. ôWhat if I have nothing to say?ö Trixie had asked him the minute before she got out of the car. But as it turned out, since sheÆd sat down, she hadnÆt shut up. SheÆd told Janice about her conversation with Zephyr and the way Moss had looked through her like she was a ghost.

SheÆd talked about the condoms in her locker and why she hadnÆt reported them to the principal. She talked about how, even when people werenÆt whispering behind her back, she could still hear them doing it.

Janice settled down onto a heap of pillows on the floor-her office was shared by four different sexual assault advocates and was full of soft edges and things you could hug if you needed to. ôIt sounds to me like ZephyrÆs a little confused right now,ö Janice said. ôShe thinks she has to pick between you and Moss, so

she isnÆt going to be a viable form of support.ö

 

ôWell,ö Trixie said, ôthat leaves my mom and dad, and I canÆt quite go dragging them to school with me.ö

ôWhat about your other friends?ö

 

Trixie worried the fringe of the pillow on her lap. ôI sort of stopped spending time with them when I started hanging out with Jason.ö

ôYou must have missed them.ö

 

She shook her head. ôI was so wrapped up in Jason, there wasnÆt room for anything else.ö Trixie looked up at Janice. ôThatÆs love, isnÆt it?ö

ôDid Jason ever tell you he loved you?ö

 

ôI told him once.ö She sat up and reached for the tea that Janice had given her, even though sheÆd said she didnÆt want any. The mug was smooth in her palms, radiant with heat. Trixie wondered if this was what it felt like to hold a heart. ôHe said he loved me too.ö

ôWhen was that?ö

 

October fourteenth, at nine thirty-nine P.M. They had been in the back row of a movie theater holding hands, watching a teen slasher flick. She had been wearing ZephyrÆs blue mohair sweater, the one that made her boobs look bigger than they actually were. Jason had bought Sour Patch Kids and she was drinking Sprite. But Trixie thought that telling Janice the details that had been burned into her mind might make her sound too pathetic, so instead she just said, ôAbout a month after we got together.ö

ôDid he tell you he loved you after that?ö

 

Trixie had waited for him to say it first, without prompting, but Jason hadnÆt.

And she hadnÆt said it again, because she was too afraid he wouldnÆt say it back.

She had thought she heard him whisper it afterward, the other night, but she was so numb by then she still was not entirely sure she hadnÆt just made it up to

soften the blow of what had happened.

 

ôHow did you two break up?ö Janice asked.

 

They had been standing in JasonÆs kitchen, eating M&MÆs out of a bowl on the table. I think it might be a good thing if we saw other people, he had said, when five seconds earlier they had been talking about a teacher who was taking the rest of the year off to be with the baby sheÆd adopted from Romania. Trixie hadnÆt been able to breathe, and her mind spun frantically to figure out what she had done wrong. It isnÆt you, Jason had said. But he was perfect, so how could that be true?

He said he wanted them to stay friends, and she nodded, even though she knew it was impossible. How was she supposed to smile as she passed by him at school, when she wanted to collapse? How could she unhear his promises?

The night Jason broke up with her, they had gone to his house to hook up-his folks were out. Afraid that her parents might do something stupid, like call, Trixie had told them that a whole bunch of kids were going to a movie. And so, after Jason dropped the bomb, Trixie was forced to spend another two hours in his company, until the time the movie would have been over, when all she really wanted to do was hide underneath her covers and cry herself dry.

ôWhen Jason broke up with you,ö Janice asked, ôwhat did you do to make yourself feel better?ö

Cut. The word popped into TrixieÆs mind so fast that only at the very last moment did she press her lips together to keep it inside. But at the same time, she subconsciously slid her right hand over her left wrist.

Janice had been watching too closely. She reached for TrixieÆs arm and inched up the cuff of her shirt. ôSo that didnÆt happen during the rape.ö

ôNo.ö

 

ôWhy did you tell the doctor in the emergency room that it did?ö TrixieÆs eyes filled with tears. ôI didnÆt want her to think I was crazy.ö

After Jason broke up with her, Trixie lost any semblance of emotional control.

SheÆd find herself sobbing when a certain song came on the car radio and have to make up excuses to her father. She would walk by JasonÆs locker in the hope that she might accidentally cross paths with him. SheÆd find the one computer in the library whose screen in the sunlight mirrored the table behind her, and sheÆd watch Jason in its reflection while she pretended to type. She was swimming in tar, when the rest of the world, including Jason, had so seamlessly moved on.

ôI was in the bathroom one day,ö Trixie confessed, ôand I opened up the medicine cabinet and saw my fatherÆs razor blades. I just did it without thinking. But it felt so good to take my mind off everything else. It was a kind of pain that made sense.ö

ôThere are constructive ways to deal with depression-ö

 

ôItÆs crazy, right?ö Trixie interrupted. ôTo love someone whoÆs hurt you?ö ôItÆs crazier to think that someone who hurts you loves you,ö Janice replied.

Trixie lifted her mug. The tea was cold now. She held it in a way that blocked her face, so that Janice wouldnÆt be able to look her in the eye. If she did, surely sheÆd see the one last secret Trixie had managed to keep: that after That Night, she hated Jasonàbut she hated herself more. Because even after what had happened, there was a part of Trixie that still wanted him back.

From the Letters to the Editor page of the Portland Press Herald:

To the Editors:

 

We would like to express our shock and anger at the allegations leveled against Jason Underhill. Anyone who knows Jason understands that he doesnÆt have a violent bone in his body. If rape is a crime of violence and dominance over another person, shouldnÆt there then be signs of violence?

While JasonÆs life has been brought to a screeching halt, the so-called victim in this case continues to walk around undeterred. While Jason is being redrawn

as a monster, this victim is seemingly absent of the symptoms associated with a sexual assault. Might this not be a rape after allàbut a case of a young girlÆs remorse after making a decision she wished she hadnÆt?

If the town of Bethel was to pass judgment on this case, Jason Underhill would surely be found innocent.

Sincerely,

 

Thirteen anonymous educators from Bethel H.Sà. and fifty-six additional signatories

Superheroes were born in the minds of people desperate to be rescued. The first, and arguably the most legendary, arrived in the 1930s, care of Shuster and Siegel, two unemployed, apprehensive Jewish immigrants who couldnÆt get work at a newspaper. They imagined a loser who only had to whip off his glasses and step into a phone booth to morph into a paragon of manliness, a world where the geek got the girl at the end. The public, reeling from the Depression, embraced Superman, who took them away from a bleak reality.

DanielÆs first comic book had been about leaving, too. It had grown from a YupÆik story about a hunter who stupidly set out alone and speared a walrus. The hunter knew he couldnÆt haul it in by himself, yet if he didnÆt let go of the rope it would drag him down and kill him. The hunter decided to release the line, but his hands had frozen into position and he was pulled underwater. Instead of drowning, though, he sank to the bottom of the sea and became a walrus himself.

Daniel started to draw the comic book at recess one day, after he was kept inside because heÆd punched a kid who teased him for his blue eyes. HeÆd absently picked up a pencil and drew a figure that started in the sea-all flippers and tusks-and evolved toward shore to standing position, gradually developing the arms and legs and face of a man. He drew and he drew, watching his hero break away from his village in a way that Daniel couldnÆt himself.

He couldnÆt seem to escape these days, either. In the wake of TrixieÆs rape, Daniel had gotten precious little drawing done. At this point, the only way he would make his deadline was if he stayed awake 24/7 and managed to magically add a few hours to each day. He hadnÆt called Marvel, though, to break the bad news. Explaining why he had been otherwise occupied would somehow make what had happened to Trixie more concrete.

When the phone rang at seven-thirty A.M., Daniel grabbed for it. Trixie was not going to school today, and Daniel wanted her to stay blessedly unconscious for as long as humanly possible. ôYou got something to tell me?ö the voice on the other end demanded.

Daniel broke out in a cold sweat. ôPaulie,ö he said. ôWhatÆs up?ö

 

Paulie Goldman was DanielÆs longtime editor, and a legend. Known for his ever-present cigar and red bow tie, heÆd been a crony of all the great men in the business: Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, Steve Ditko. These days, heÆd be just as likely to be found grabbing a Reuben at his favorite corner deli with Alan Moore, Todd McFarlane, or Neil Gaiman.

It had been Paulie whoÆd jumped all over DanielÆs idea to bring a graphic novel back to former comic book fans who were now adults, and to let Daniel not only pencil the art but also write a story line that might appeal to them.

HeÆd gotten Marvel on board, although they were leery at first. Like all publishers, trying something that hadnÆt been done before was considered anathema-unless you succeeded, in which case you were called revolutionary. But given the marketing that Marvel had put behind the Wildclaw series, to miss a deadline would be catastrophic.

ôHave you happened to read the latest Lying in the Gutters?ö Paulie asked.

 

He was referring to an online trade gossip column by Rich Johnston. The title was a double entendre-gutters were the spaces between panels, the structure that made a comic illustration a comic illustration. Johnston encouraged ôgutteratiö to send him scoop to post in his articles, and ôguttersnipesö to spread the word across the Internet. With the phone crooked against his shoulder, Daniel pulled up the Web page on his computer and scanned the headlines.

A Story ThatÆs Not About Marvel Editorial, he read.

 

The DC Purchase of Flying Pig Comics That IsnÆt Going to Happen.

 

You Saw It Here Second: In The Weeds, the new title from Crawl Space, will be drawn by Evan Hohmanàbut the pages are already popping up on eBay.

And on the very bottom: Wildclaw Sheathed?

Daniel leaned toward the screen. I understand that Daniel Stone, It Kid of the Moment, has drawnàcount Æem, folksàZERO pages toward his next Tenth Circle deadline. Was the hype really just a hoax? What goodÆs a great series when thereÆs nothing new to read?

ôThis is bullshit,ö Daniel said. ôIÆve been drawing.ö ôHow much?ö

ôItÆll get done, Paulie.ö ôHow much?ö

ôEight pages.ö

 

ôEight pages? YouÆve got to get me twenty-two by the end of the week if itÆs going to get inked on time.ö

ôIÆll ink it myself if I have to.ö

 

ôYeah? Will you run it off on Xerox machines and take it to the distributor too? For GodÆs sake, Danny. This isnÆt high school. The dog isnÆt allowed to eat your homework.ö He paused, then said, ôI know youÆre a last-minute guy, but this isnÆt like you. WhatÆs going on?ö

How do you explain to a man whoÆd made a life out of fantasy that sometimes reality came crashing down? In comics, heroes escaped and villains lost and not even death was permanent. ôThe series,ö Daniel said quietly. ôItÆs taking a little bit of a turn.ö

ôWhat do you mean?ö

 

ôThe story line. ItÆs becoming moreàfamily oriented.ö

 

Paulie was silent for a moment, thinking this over. ôFamilyÆs good,ö he mused. ôYou mean a plot that would bring parents and their kids together?ö

Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. ôI hope so,ö he said.

Trixie was systematically removing all traces of Jason from her bedroom. She tossed into the trash the first note heÆd passed her in class. The goofy reel of pictures theyÆd taken at a booth at Old Orchard Beach. The green felt blotter on her desk, where she could feel the impression of his name, after writing it dozens of times on paper.

It was when she went to throw the blotter out in the recycle bin that she saw the newspaper, the page open to the letter her parents had not wanted her to see.

ôIf the town of Bethel was to pass judgment on this case,ö Trixie read, ôJason Underhill would surely be found innocent.ö

What they hadnÆt said, in that awful editorial letter, was that this town had already tried and judged the wrong person. She ran upstairs again, to her computer, and connected to the Internet. She looked up the Web page for the Portland Press Herald and started to type a rebuttal letter.

To Whom It May Concern, Trixie wrote.

 

I know it is the policy of your paper to keep victims who are minors anonymous. But IÆm one of those minors, and instead of having people guess, I want them to know my name.

She thought of a dozen other girls who might read this, girls who had been too scared to tell anyone what had happened to them. Or the dozen girls who had told someone and who could read this and find the courage they needed to get through one more day of the hell that was high school. She thought of the boys who would think twice before taking something that wasnÆt theirs.

My name is Trixie Stone, she typed.

 

She watched the letters quiver on the page; she read the spaces between the words-all of which reminded her that she was a coward. Then she hit the delete button.

The phone rang just as Laura walked into the kitchen. By the time sheÆd

picked up, so had Daniel on an upstairs connection. ôIÆm looking for Laura Stone,ö the caller said, and she dropped the glass she was holding into the sink.

ôIÆve got it,ö Laura said. She waited for Daniel to hang up. ôI miss you,ö Seth replied.

She didnÆt answer right away; she couldnÆt. What if she hadnÆt picked up the phone? Would Seth have started chatting up Daniel? Would he have introduced himself? ôDo not ever call here again,ö Laura whispered.

ôI need to talk to you.ö

 

Her heart was beating so hard she could barely hear her own voice. ôI canÆt.ö ôPlease. Laura. ItÆs important.ö

Daniel walked into the kitchen and poured himself some water. ôPlease take me off your call list,ö Laura said, and she hung up.

In retrospect Laura realized that sheÆd dated Daniel through osmosis, taking a little of his recklessness and making it part of herself. She broke up with Walter and began sleeping through classes. She started smoking. She peppered Daniel with questions about the past he wouldnÆt discuss. She learned how her own body could be an instrument, how Daniel could play a symphony over her skin.

Then she found out she was pregnant.

 

At first, she thought that the reason she didnÆt tell Daniel was because she feared heÆd run. Gradually, though, she realized that she hadnÆt told Daniel because she was the one considering flight. Reality kicked at Laura with a vengeance, now that responsibility had caught up to her. At twenty-four years old, what was she doing staying up all night to bet on cockfights in the basement of a tenement? What good would it be in the long run if she could lay claim to finding the best tequila over the border but her doctoral thesis was dead in the water? It had been one thing to flirt with the dark side; it was another thing entirely to set down roots there.

Parents didnÆt take their baby trolling the streets after midnight. They didnÆt live out of the back of a car. They couldnÆt buy formula and cereal and clothes with the happenstance cash that dribbled in from sketches done here and there.

Although Daniel could currently pull Laura like a tide to the moon, she couldnÆt imagine them together ten years from now. She was forced to consider the startling fact that the love of her life might not actually be someone with whom she could spend a lifetime.

When Laura broke up with Daniel, she convinced herself she was doing both of them a favor. She did not mention the baby, although she had known all along she would keep it. Sometimes sheÆd find herself losing hours at a time, wondering if her child would have the same pale wolf-eyes as its father. She threw out her cigarettes and started wearing sweater sets again and driving with her seat belt fastened. She folded Daniel neatly away in her mind and pretended not to think about him.

A few months later, Laura came home to find Daniel waiting at her condo. He took one look at her maternity top and then, furious, grabbed her by her upper arms. ôHow could you not tell me about this?ö

Laura panicked, wondering if sheÆd misinterpreted the jagged edge of his personality all along. What if he wasnÆt just wild, but truly dangerous? ôI figured it was best if-ö

ôWhat were you going to tell the baby?ö Daniel said. ôAbout me?ö ôIàhadnÆt gotten that far.ö

Laura watched him carefully. Daniel had turned into someone she couldnÆt quite recognize. This wasnÆt just some Bad Boy out to buck the system-this was someone so deeply upset that heÆd forgotten to cover the scars.

He sank down onto the front steps. ôMy mother told me that my dad died before I was born. But when I was eleven, the mail plane brought a letter addressed to me.ö Daniel glanced up. ôYou donÆt get money from ghosts.ö

Laura crouched down beside him.

 

ôThe postmarks were always different, but after that first letter heÆd send cash every month. He never talked about why he wasnÆt there, with us. HeÆd

talk about what the salt mountains looked like in Utah, or how cold the Mississippi River was when you stepped into it barefoot. He said that one day heÆd take me to all those places, so I could see for myself,ö Daniel said. ôI waited for years, you know, and he never came to get me.ö

He turned to Laura. ôMy mother said sheÆd lied because she thought it would be easier to hear that my father was dead than to hear he hadnÆt wanted a family. I donÆt want our baby to have a father like that.ö

ôDaniel,ö she confessed, ôIÆm not sure if I want our baby to have a father like you.ö

He reared back, as if heÆd been slapped. Slowly, he got to his feet and walked away.

Laura spent the next week crying. Then one morning, when she went out to get the newspaper, she found Daniel asleep on the front steps of her condo. He stood up, and she could not stop staring: His shoulder-length hair had been cut military-short; he was wearing khaki pants and a blue oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He held out a stub of paper. ôItÆs the check I just deposited,ö Daniel explained. ôI got a job working at Atomic Comics. They gave me a weekÆs salary in advance.ö

Laura listened, her resolve cracking wide open. What if she was not the only one who had been fascinated by a personality different from her own? What if all the time that sheÆd been absorbing DanielÆs wildness, heÆd been looking to her for redemption?

What if love wasnÆt the act of finding what you were missing but the give- and-take that made you both match?

ôI donÆt have enough cash yet,ö Daniel continued, ôbut when I do, IÆm going to take art courses at the community college.ö He reached for Laura, so that their child was balanced between them. ôPlease,ö he whispered. ôWhat if that babyÆs the best part of me?ö

ôYou donÆt want to do this,ö Laura said, even as she moved closer to him. ôYouÆll hate me one day, for ruining your life.ö

ôMy life was ruined a long time ago,ö Daniel said.ö And IÆll never hate

you.ö

 

They got married at the city hall, and Daniel was completely true to his word. He quit smoking and drinking, cold turkey. He came to every OB appointment. Four months later, when Trixie was born, he doted over her as if she were made of sunlight. While Laura taught undergrads during the day, Daniel played with Trixie in the park and at the zoo. At night, he took classes and began doing freelance graphic art, before working for Marvel. He followed Laura from a teaching position in San Diego to one at Marquette to the current one in Maine. He had dinner waiting when she came home from lecturing; he stuffed caricatures of Trixie as SuperBaby in the pockets of her briefcase; he never forgot her birthday. He was, in fact, so perfect that she wondered if the wild in Daniel had only been an act to attract her. But then she would remember the strangest things out of the blue: a night when Daniel had bitten her so hard during sex heÆd drawn blood; the sound of him fighting off imaginary enemies in the thick of a nightmare; the time he had tattooed LauraÆs body with Magic Markers-snakes and hydras down her arms, a demon in flight at the small of her back. A few years ago, wistful, she had gone so far as to bring one of his inking pens to bed. ôYou know how hard it is to get that stuff off your skin?ö Daniel had said, and that was the end of that.

Laura knew she had no right to complain. There were women in this world whose husbands beat them, who cried themselves to sleep because their spouses were alcoholics or gamblers. There were women in this world whose partners had said ôI love youö fewer times in a lifetime than Daniel would in a week.

Laura could shift the blame any old way she liked, but the stiff wind of truth would send it back to her: She hadnÆt ruined DanielÆs life by asking him to change. She had ruined her own.

Mike Bartholemew glanced at the tape recorder to make sure it was still running. ôShe was all over me,ö Moss Minton said. ôPutting her hands in my hair, lap dancing, that kind of stuff.ö

The kid had come down willingly, at MikeÆs request, to talk. But less than five minutes into the conversation, it was clear that anything that came out of MossÆs mouth was going to be unduly colored by his allegiance to Jason Underhill.

ôI donÆt know how to say this without sounding like a total jerk,ö Moss said, ôbut Trixie was asking for it.ö

Bartholemew leaned back in his chair. ôYou know this for a fact.ö ôWellàyeah.ö

ôDid you have intercourse with Trixie that night?ö ôNo.ö

ôThen you must have been in the room when your friend was having sex with her,ö Bartholemew said. ôOr how else would you have heard her consent?ö

ôI wasnÆt in the room, dude,ö Moss said. ôBut neither were you. Maybe I didnÆt hear her say yes, but you didnÆt hear her say no, either.ö

Bartholemew turned off the tape recorder. ôThanks for coming in.ö ôWeÆre done?ö Moss said, surprised. ôThatÆs it?ö

ôThatÆs it.ö The detective took a card out of his pocket and handed it to Moss. ôIf you happen to think of anything else you need to tell me, just call.ö

ôBartholemew,ö Moss read aloud. ôI used to have a babysitter named Holly Bartholemew. I think I was around nine or ten.ö

ôMy daughter.ö

 

ôNo kidding? Does she still live around here?ö Mike hesitated. ôNot anymore.ö

Moss stuffed the business card in his pocket. ôTell her I said hi the next time you see her.ö He gave the detective a half wave and then walked out.

ôI will,ö Mike said, as his voice unraveled like lace.

Daniel opened the door to find Janice, the sexual assault advocate, on the

other side. ôOh, I didnÆt know Trixie made plans to see you.ö

ôShe didnÆt,ö Janice replied. ôCan I speak to you and Laura for a second?ö ôLauraÆs at the college,ö he said, just as Trixie poked her head over the

railing from upstairs. Before, Trixie would not have hung back like that; she would have bounded down like lightning, certain that the visitor was for her.

ôTrixie,ö Janice said, spotting her. ôI need to tell you something youÆre not going to like.ö

Trixie came downstairs, sidling up beside Daniel, the way she used to do when she was tiny and saw something frightening.

ôThe defense attorney representing Jason Underhill has subpoenaed the records of my conversations with Trixie.ö

Daniel shook his head. ôI donÆt understand. IsnÆt that a violation of privacy?ö

ôOnly when youÆre talking about the defendant. Unfortunately, if youÆre the victim of a crime, itÆs a different story. You can wind up with your diary as evidence, or the transcripts of your psychiatric sessions.ö She looked at Trixie. ôOr your discussions with a rape crisis counselor.ö

Daniel had no idea what went on during the times Janice had met with Trixie, but beside him, his daughter was shaking. ôYou canÆt turn over the records,ö she said.

ôIf we donÆt, our director will be sent to jail,ö Janice explained. ôIÆll do it,ö Daniel said. ôIÆll go to jail in her place.ö

ôThe court wonÆt accept that. Believe me, youÆre not the first father to volunteer.ö

YouÆre not the first. Daniel slowly put the words together. ôThis happened before?ö

ôUnfortunately, yes,ö Janice admitted.

ôYou said what I told you didnÆt leave that room!ö Trixie cried. ôYou said youÆd help me. How is this supposed to help me?ö

As Trixie flew up the stairs, Janice started after her. ôLet me go talk to her.ö Daniel stepped forward, blocking her way. ôThanks,ö he said. ôBut I think

youÆve done enough.ö

The law says that Jason Underhill has the right to mount a defense, Detective Bartholemew explained on the phone. The law says that a victimÆs credibility can be questioned. And with all due respect, he added, your daughter already has some credibility issues.

She was involved with this boy beforehand. She was drinking.

SheÆs made some inconsistent statements. DanielÆs response: Like what?

Now that heÆd finished talking to the detective, Daniel felt numb. He walked upstairs and opened TrixieÆs bedroom door. She lay on her bed, facing away from him.

ôTrixie,ö he said as evenly as he could. ôWere you really a virgin?ö She went still. ôWhat, now you donÆt believe me either?ö

ôYou lied to the police.ö

 

Trixie rolled over, stricken. ôYouÆre going to listen to some stupid detective instead of-ö

ôWhat were you thinking?ö Daniel exploded.

 

Trixie sat up, taken aback. ôWhat were you thinking?ö she cried. ôYou knew.

You had to know what was going on.ö

Daniel thought of the times he had watched Trixie pull up in JasonÆs car after a date, when he had moved away from the window. HeÆd told himself it was for her privacy, but was that true? Had he really turned a blind eye because he couldnÆt bear to see that boyÆs face close to his daughterÆs, to see his hand graze the bottom of TrixieÆs breast?

HeÆd seen towels in the wash smeared with heavy eye makeup he couldnÆt remember Trixie wearing out of the house. HeÆd kept silent when he heard Laura complain because her favorite pair of heels or shirt or lipstick had gone missing, only to find them underneath TrixieÆs bed. HeÆd pretended not to notice how TrixieÆs clothes fit tighter these days, how her stride shimmered with confidence.

Trixie was right. Just because a person didnÆt admit that something had changed didnÆt mean it hadnÆt happened. Maybe Trixie had screwed upàbut so had he.

ôI knew,ö he said, stunned to speak the words aloud. ôI just didnÆt want to.ö Daniel looked at his daughter. There were still traces of Trixie as a stubborn

little girl-in the curve of her chin when her jaw clenched, in the dusky length of

her lashes, in her much-maligned freckles. She wasnÆt all gone, not yet.

 

As he pulled Trixie into his arms and felt her unspool, Daniel understood: The law was not going to protect his daughter, which meant that he had to.

ôI couldnÆt tell them,ö Trixie sobbed. ôYou were standing right there.ö That was when Daniel remembered: When the doctor asked Trixie if sheÆd

ever had intercourse before, heÆd still been in the examination room.

 

Her voice was small, the truth curled tight as a snail. ôI didnÆt want you to be mad at me. And I thought if I told the doctor that Jason and I had already done it, she wouldnÆt believe I got raped. But it could still happen, couldnÆt it, Daddy? Just because I said yes before doesnÆt mean I couldnÆt say no this timeà?ö She convulsed against him, crying hard.

You signed no contract to become a parent, but the responsibilities were written in invisible ink. There was a point when you had to support your child, even if no one else would. It was your job to rebuild the bridge, even if your

child was the one who burned it in the first place. So maybe Trixie had danced around the truth. Maybe she had been drinking. Maybe she had been flirting at the party. But if Trixie said she had been raped, then Daniel would swear by it.

ôBaby,ö he said, ôI believe you.ö

A few mornings later, when Daniel was out at the dump, Laura heard the doorbell ring. But by the time she reached the hallway to answer it, Trixie was already there. She stood in her flannel pajama bottoms and T-shirt, staring at a man standing on the porch.

Seth was wearing work boots and a fleece vest and looked as if he hadnÆt slept in several days. He was looking at Trixie with confusion, as if he couldnÆt quite place her. When he saw Laura approach, he immediately started to speak. ôIÆve got to talk to you,ö he began, but she cut him off.

She touched TrixieÆs shoulder. ôGo upstairs,ö she said firmly, and Trixie bolted like a rabbit. Then Laura turned to Seth again. ôI cannot believe you had the nerve to come to my house.ö

ôThereÆs something you need to know-ö

 

ôI know that I canÆt see you anymore,ö Laura said. She was shaking, partly with fear, partly because of SethÆs proximity. It had been easier to convince herself that this was over when he wasnÆt standing in front of her. ôDonÆt do this to me,ö she whispered, and she closed the door.

Laura rested against it for a second, eyes closed. What if Daniel had not been at the dump, if heÆd opened the door, instead of Trixie? Would he have recognized Seth on sight, simply by the way his face changed when he looked at Laura? Would he have gone for SethÆs throat?

If theyÆd fought, sheÆd have sided with the victim. But which man was that?

Gathering her composure, Laura walked up the stairs toward TrixieÆs room. She wasnÆt sure what Trixie knew, or even what she suspected. Surely she had noticed that her parents barely spoke these days, that her father had taken to

sleeping on the couch. She had to wonder why, the night of the rape, Laura had been staying overnight in her office. But if Trixie had questions, sheÆd kept them to herself. It was as if she instinctively understood what Laura was only just figuring out: Once you admitted to a mistake, it grew exponentially, until there was no way to get it back under wraps.

Laura was tempted to pretend that Seth was a Fuller Brush salesman or any other stranger but decided she would take her cues from Trixie herself. Laura opened the door to find Trixie pulling a shirt over her head. ôThat guy,ö she said, her face hidden. ôWhat was he doing here?ö

Well.

 

Laura sat down on the bed. ôHe wasnÆt here because of you. I mean, heÆs not a reporter or anything like that. And heÆs not coming back. Ever.ö She sighed. ôI wish I didnÆt have to have this conversation.ö

TrixieÆs head popped through the neck of the shirt. ôWhat?ö

 

ôItÆs finished, completely, one hundred percent. Your father knows, and weÆre tryingàwell, weÆre trying to figure this out. I screwed up, Trixie,ö Laura said, choking over the words. ôI wish I could take it back, but I canÆt.ö

She realized that Trixie was staring at her, the same way she used to gaze hard at a math problem she simply couldnÆt puzzle into an answer. ôYou meanàyou and himàö

Laura nodded. ôYeah.ö

 

Trixie ducked her head. ôDid you guys ever talk about me?ö ôHe knew you existed. He knew I was married.ö

ôI canÆt believe youÆd do this to Daddy,ö Trixie said, her voice rising. ôHeÆs, like, my age. ThatÆs disgusting.ö

LauraÆs jaw clenched. Trixie deserved to have this moment of rage; it was owed to her as part of LauraÆs reparation. But that didnÆt make it any easier.

ôI wasnÆt thinking, Trixie-ö

ôYeah, because you were too busy being a slut.ö

 

Laura raised her palm, coming just short of slapping Trixie across the face.

Her hand shook inches away from TrixieÆs cheek, rendering both of them speechless for a moment. ôNo,ö Laura breathed. ôNeither of us should do something we wonÆt be able to take back.ö

She stared Trixie down, until the fury dissolved and the tears came. Laura drew Trixie into her arms, rocked her. ôAre you and Daddy going to get a divorce?ö Her voice was small, childlike.

ôI hope not,ö Laura said. ôDid youàlove him?ö

She closed her eyes and imagined SethÆs poetry, placed word by word onto her own tongue, a gourmet meal mixed with rhythm and description. She felt the immediacy of a single moment, when unlocking a door took too long, when buttons were popped instead of slipped open.

But here was Trixie, who had nursed with her hand fisted in LauraÆs hair.

Trixie, who sucked her thumb until she was ten but only when no one could see. Trixie, who believed that the wind could sing and that you could learn the songs if you just listened carefully enough. Trixie, who was the proof that at one time, she and Daniel had achieved perfection together.

Laura pressed her lips against her daughterÆs temple. ôI loved you more,ö she said.

She had nearly turned her back once on this family. Had she really been stupid enough to come close to doing it again? She was crying just as hard as Trixie was now, to the point where it was impossible to tell which one of them was clinging to the other. Laura felt, in that moment, like the survivor of the train wreck, the woman who steps outside the smoking wreckage to realize that her arms and legs still work, that she has somehow come through a catastrophe unscathed.

Laura buried her face in the curve of her daughterÆs neck. It was possible sheÆd been wrong on several counts. It was possible that a miracle was not something that happened to you, but rather something that didnÆt.

The first place it appeared was on the screen at the school library computer terminal where you could look books up by their Dewey decimal number. From there, it spread to the twenty iBooks and ten iMacs in the computer lab, while the ninth-graders were in the middle of taking their typing skills test. Within five more minutes, it was on the monitor of the desk of the school nurse.

Trixie was in an elective, School Newspaper, when it happened. Although her parents had tried to talk her out of going to school, it turned out to be the lesser of two evils. Home was supposed to be a safe place, but had become a minefield full of explosions waiting to happen. School, she already knew, wouldnÆt be comfortable at all. And right now, she really needed to function in a world where nothing took her by surprise.

In class, Trixie was sitting beside a girl named Felice with acne and beaver breath, the only one who would volunteer these days to be her partner. They were using desktop-publishing software to move columns of text about the losing basketball team, when the computer blue-screened. ôMr. Watford,ö Felice called out. ôI think we crashedàö

The teacher came over, reaching between the girls to hit Control-Alt-Delete a few times, but the machine wouldnÆt reboot. ôHmm,ö he said. ôWhy donÆt you two edit the advice column by hand instead?ö

ôNo, wait, itÆs coming back,ö Felice said, as the screen blossomed into Technicolor. Smack in the middle was Trixie, standing half naked in ZephyrÆs living room-the photo Moss had taken the night she was raped.

ôOh,ö Mr. Watford said faintly. ôWell, then.ö

 

Trixie felt as if a pole had been driven through her lungs. She tore herself away from the computer screen, grabbed her backpack, and ran to the main office. There, she threw herself on the mercy of the secretary. ôI need to talk to the principal-ö

Her voice snapped like an icicle, as she glanced down at the computer on the secretaryÆs desk and saw her own face staring back at her.

Trixie flew out of the office, out the front doors of the school. She didnÆt

stop running until she was standing on the bridge over the river, the same bridge where she and Zephyr had stood the day before she became someone different. She dug in her backpack through loose pencils and crumpled papers and makeup compacts until she found the cell phone her father had given her-his own, for emergencies. ôDaddy,ö she sobbed, when he answered, ôplease come get me.ö

It wasnÆt until her father assured her he would be there in two minutes flat that she hung up and noticed what she hadnÆt when she first placed the call: Her fatherÆs phone screen saver-once a graphic of Rogue, from the X-Men-was now the topless picture of Trixie that had spread to three-quarters of the cell phone users in Bethel, Maine.

The knock on BartholemewÆs door caught him off guard. It was his day off- although heÆd already been to Bethel High and back. He had just finished changing into pajama pants and an old police academy sweatshirt with a sleeve that Ernestine had chewed a hole through. ôComing,ö he called out, and when he opened the door he found Daniel Stone standing on the other side of it.

It wasnÆt surprising to him that Stone was there, given what had happened at the school. It also wasnÆt surprising that Stone knew where Bartholemew lived. Like most cops, he didnÆt have a listed address and phone number, but Bethel was small enough for most people to know other peopleÆs business. You could drive down the street and recognize folks by the cars they drove; you could pass a house and know who resided inside.

He was aware, for example, even before Trixie StoneÆs case came to his attention that a comic book artist of some national renown lived in the area. He hadnÆt read the comics, but some of the other guys at the station had.

Supposedly, unlike his violence-prone hero Wildclaw, Daniel Stone was a mild- mannered guy who didnÆt mind signing an autograph if you stood behind him in the grocery store checkout line. In his few dealings with Stone so far, the guy had seemed protective of his daughter and frustrated beyond belief. Unlike some of the men Bartholemew had run across in his career, who put their fists through glass walls or drowned their wrath in alcohol, Daniel Stone seemed to have a handle on his emotions-until now. The man was standing at the threshold of BartholemewÆs door, literally shaking with rage.

Stone thrust a printout of the now-infamous picture of Trixie into BartholemewÆs hand. ôHave you seen this?ö

Bartholemew had. For about three straight hours this morning, at the high school, on the computers at the town offices, everywhere he looked.

ôHasnÆt my daughter been victimized enough?ö

 

Bartholemew instinctively went into calming mode, softening his voice. ôI know youÆre upset, but weÆre doing everything we can.ö

Stone scraped his gaze over BartholemewÆs off-duty attire. ôYeah. You look like youÆre working your ass off.ö He looked up at the detective. ôYou told us that UnderhillÆs not supposed to have anything to do with Trixie.ö

ôOur computer tech guys traced the photo to Moss MintonÆs cell phone, not Jason UnderhillÆs.ö

ôIt doesnÆt matter. My daughterÆs not the one whoÆs supposed to be on trial.ö Stone set his jaw. ôI want the judge to know this happened.ö

ôThen heÆs also going to know that your daughter was the one who took off her clothes. HeÆs going to know that every eyewitness at that party IÆve interviewed says Trixie was coming on to a whole bunch of different guys that night,ö Bartholemew said. ôLook. I know youÆre angry. But you donÆt want to press this right now, when it might wind up backfiring.ö

Daniel Stone ripped the printed photo from the detectiveÆs grasp. ôWould you be saying that if this was your daughter?ö

ôIf it was my daughter,ö Bartholemew said, ôIÆd be thrilled. IÆd be fucking delirious. Because it would mean she was still alive.ö

The truth rolled like mercury, and like any poison, it was the last thing either of them wanted to touch. YouÆd think, in this age of technology, thereÆd be some kind of network between fathers, one that let a guy who was in danger of losing his daughter instinctively recognize someone whoÆd already walked that barren road. As it turned out, hell wasnÆt watching the people you love get hurt; it was coming in during the second act, when it was already too late to stop it from happening.

He expected Daniel Stone to offer his condolences, to tell Bartholemew he was sorry for mouthing off. But instead, the man threw the printed photo onto the ground between them like a gauntlet. ôThen of all people,ö he said, ôyou should understand.ö

She didnÆt have a lot of time.

 

TrixieÆs motherÆs voice swam up the stairs. Her mom was on babysitting detail and hadnÆt let Trixie out of her sight until she had headed for the bathroom. Her father, right now, was chewing out Detective Bartholemew or the superintendent of schools or maybe even both of them. And what difference would it make? They could burn every last copy of that awful picture of her, and a few months from now, someone else would have a chance to strip her naked in court.

Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, she accidentally banged her funny bone against the wall. ôFuck!ö she cried, tears springing to her eyes.

Once, Trixie had had her mouth washed out with soap for road-testing four- letter words. She was four years old, at the supermarket with her father, and she repeated what heÆd whispered under his breath when the cashier couldnÆt do the math to make change: Use the damn register.

She knew all sorts of four-letter words now; they just werenÆt the ones that most people considered foul language.

Love. Help. Rape. Stop. Then.

As a child, sheÆd been afraid of the dark. The closet door had to be shut tight, with her desk chair wedged under the knob, to keep the monsters from getting

out. Her blanket had to be pulled up to her neck, or the devil might get her. She had to sleep on her belly, or a vampire could come and put a stake through her heart.

She was still afraid, years later-not of the dark but of the days. One after another, and no end in sight.

ôTrixie?ö

 

Trixie heard her mother again and swiftly reached into the medicine cabinet.

The hilarious thing-the thing that no one bothered to tell you-was that being raped wasnÆt the worst part of everything sheÆd been through. In fact, that first frantic fall didnÆt hurt nearly as much as getting back on your feet afterward.

It was the kind of doorknob that needed only a straightened wire hanger to pop the bolt. The minute Laura stepped inside the bathroom, she saw it-blood smearing the white wall of the sink, blood pooling beneath Trixie on the floor, blood covering TrixieÆs shirt as she hugged her slashed wrists to her chest. ôOh, my God,ö Laura cried, grabbing TrixieÆs arms to try to stop the flow. ôOh, Trixie, noàö

TrixieÆs eyelids fluttered. She looked at Laura for a half second and then sank into unconsciousness. Laura held her daughterÆs limp body up against her own, knowing that she had to get to a phone and equally sure that if she left Trixie alone, sheÆd never see her alive again.

The paramedics who came minutes later asked Laura a barrage of questions: How long had Trixie been unconscious? Had Trixie been suicidal before? Did Laura know where the razor blade had come from? Laura answered each of these, but they didnÆt ask the question she was expecting, the one she didnÆt have a response for: What if Jason Underhill wasnÆt the biggest threat to Trixie? What if that was Trixie herself?

Trixie had been doing this for a while. Not in-your-face suicide attempts but recreational cutting. Ironically, the doctors said, that might have been what saved her. Most girls who cut did so horizontally across the wrist, in light little lines.

Today, Trixie had cut a deeper slash, but in the same direction. People who meant business, or who knew better, killed themselves by cutting vertically, which meant theyÆd bleed out faster.

Either way, if Laura hadnÆt gone in when she did, they probably would have been standing over their daughterÆs grave instead of her hospital bed.

The lights were turned off in the room, and there was a glowing red clamp on one of TrixieÆs fingers, keeping tabs on her oxygen levels. Someone-a nurse?- had put Trixie in a hospital gown. Daniel had no idea what had happened to her clothes. Did they get saved as evidence, like the ones she had been wearing the night she was raped? As proof of a girl who desperately wanted to trade in her title of survivor?

ôDid you know?ö Laura asked softly, her voice reaching through the dark. Daniel looked up at her. All he could see was the shine of her eyes. ôNo.ö ôDo you think we should have?ö

She wasnÆt blaming him; that note wasnÆt in her voice. She was asking if there had been clues missed, trails ignored. She was trying to pinpoint the moment that it all started to disintegrate.

Daniel knew there was no answer to that. It was like a trapeze act: How could you really tell at what second the acrobat pushed away, at what moment the anchor let go? You couldnÆt, and that was that. You made your deductions from the outcome: a successful landing or a spiraling fall. ôI think Trixie was doing her best to make sure we didnÆt know.ö

He had a sudden memory of Trixie dressed as a bunch of grapes for Halloween one year. She was five and had been so excited about the costume- theyÆd spent a month making papier-mGchT globes in the basement and painting them purple-but when the time came to trick-or-treat, she refused to get dressed.

It was dark outside, there were trolling monsters and witches-plenty of reasons, in short, that a kid might get cold feet. Trix, he had asked, what are you scared of?

How are you going to know who I am, she finally said, if I donÆt look like me?

LauraÆs head was bent over her folded hands, and her lips were moving. She didnÆt go to church anymore, but sheÆd been raised Catholic. Daniel had never been particularly religious. Growing up, he and his mother hadnÆt gone to church, although most of their neighbors had. The Yupiit got Christianity from the Moravian church, and it had stuck fast. For an Eskimo, it wasnÆt inconsistent to believe both that Jesus was his Savior, and that a sealÆs soul lived in its bladder until a hunter returned it to the sea.

Laura brushed TrixieÆs hair off her face. ôDante believed God punished suicides by trapping the personÆs spirit in a tree trunk. On Judgment Day, they were the only sinners who didnÆt get their souls back, because they tried to get rid of them once before.ö

Daniel knew this, actually. It was one of the few points of LauraÆs research that intrigued him. It had always struck him as ironic that in the YupÆik villages, where there was such an epidemic of teen suicide, there werenÆt any trees.

Just then, Trixie stirred. Daniel watched her as the unfamiliar room came into focus. Her eyes widened, hopeful, and then dimmed with disappointment as she realized that in spite of her best intentions, she was still here.

Laura crawled onto the bed, holding Trixie tight. She was whispering to Trixie, words that Daniel wished came as easily to him. But he didnÆt have LauraÆs facility with language; he could not keep Trixie safe with promises. All heÆd ever been able to do was repaint the world for her, until it became a place she wanted to be.

Daniel stayed long enough to watch Trixie reach for Laura, grab on with a sure, strong hold. Then he slipped out of the hospital room, moving past nurses and orderlies and patients who were too blind to witness the metamorphosis happening before their eyes.

This is what Daniel bought:

Work gloves and a roll of duct tape. A pack of rags.

Matches.

 

A fishermanÆs fillet knife.

 

He drove thirty miles away, to a different town, and he paid in cash.

 

He was determined that there would be no evidence left behind. It would be his word against DanielÆs, and as Daniel was learning, that meant a victim would not win.

Jason found that the only time of day his mind was truly occupied was during hockey practice. He simply gave himself over to the game, cutting hard and skating fast and stick-handling with surety and grace. It was this simple: If you were giving a hundred percent at hockey, you didnÆt have room left for anything else-such as obsessing over the rumor going around school that Trixie Stone had tried to kill herself.

HeÆd been getting ready for practice in the locker room when he heard, and he started to shake so violently that heÆd gone into a bathroom stall to sit down. A girl heÆd cared for-a girl heÆd slept with-had nearly died. It freaked him out to imagine Trixie laughing as her long hair fell over her face, and then the next minute to picture that face six feet underground and crawling with worms.

By the time heÆd regained his composure, Moss was in the locker room, lacing up his skates. It had been Moss who, as a joke, had hacked into the computer system at the school and sent out the photo heÆd taken of Trixie during the poker game. Jason had been totally furious, but he couldnÆt say that out loud to the kids who high-fived him and told him that they were on his side. His own attorney had even said Jason couldnÆt have asked for a better stroke of evidentiary luck. But what if that prank had been the one to put Trixie over the edge? He was already being blamed for something he didnÆt do. Would he have been blamed for her death?

ôYou are surely the most unlucky bastard on this planet,ö Moss had said,

giving voice to the other thought in JasonÆs head. Had Trixie succeeded, then heÆd have been off the hook.

Now practice was over, and with it came the casual conversation that would- inevitably-turn to Trixie. Jason hurried off the ice and pulled off the gladiator layers of his equipment. He was the first player out of the rink, the first player to his car. He slid into the driverÆs seat and turned the ignition, then rested his head on the wheel for a second. Trixie. ôJesus,ö he murmured.

Jason felt the blade of the knife on his AdamÆs apple before he heard the voice at his ear. ôClose enough,ö Daniel Stone said. ôStart praying.ö

Daniel made Jason drive to a bog near the river. HeÆd driven past once or twice and knew that local hunters liked it for deer and moose, and that their cars stayed well hidden while they were out in their stands. Daniel liked it especially because the evergreens marched thick to the edge of the water and had created enough cover to keep snow from blanketing the ground, which meant that their footsteps would be lost in the marsh instead of preserved.

He held the boy at knifepoint, backing Jason up against a pine tree until he was kneeling, securing his arms and ankles behind him with duct tape so that he was effectively trussed. The whole time, Daniel kept thinking of what Laura had said about Dante-of TrixieÆs soul trapped in that tree, with JasonÆs body wrapped around it. That image was all he needed to give him the strength to subdue a seventeen-year-old athlete when Jason started fighting back.

Jason struggled, pulling on the tape until his wrists and ankles were raw, while Daniel built a campfire. Finally, the boy sagged against the trunk and let his head fall forward. ôWhat are you going to do to me?ö

Daniel took his knife and slipped it under the hem of JasonÆs T-shirt. He dragged it up to the boyÆs throat in one long line, cutting the fabric in half. ôThis,ö he said.

Daniel systematically shredded JasonÆs clothing, until the kid was naked and shivering. He tossed the strips of fabric and denim into the flames.

By then, JasonÆs teeth were chattering. ôHow am I supposed to get home?ö

ôWhat makes you think IÆm going to let you?ö

 

Jason swallowed hard, his eyes on the knife Daniel still held in his hand. ôHow is she?ö he whispered.

Daniel felt the granite gate of restraint burst inside him. How could this bastard think he had the right to ask after Trixie? Leaning down, Daniel pressed the blade against JasonÆs testicles. ôDo you want to know what itÆs like to bleed out? Do you really want to know how she felt?ö

ôPlease,ö Jason begged, going pale. ôOh, Jesus, donÆt.ö

 

Daniel pushed the slightest bit, until a line of blood welled up at the crease of JasonÆs groin.

ôI didnÆt do anything to her, I swear it,ö Jason cried, trying to twist away from DanielÆs hand. ôI didnÆt. Stop. God. Please stop.ö

Daniel set his face an inch away from JasonÆs. ôWhy should I? You didnÆt.ö

In that moment between reason and rage, Trixie slipped into both of their minds. It was all Jason needed to break down, sobbing; it was all Daniel needed to remember himself. He looked down at his hand, holding the knife. He blinked at Jason. Then he shook his head to clear it.

Daniel was not in the bush anymore, and this was no village corporation store he was robbing for booze or cash. He was a husband, he was a father. Instead of having something to prove, he had everything to lose.

Lifting the blade, Daniel staggered to his feet. He hurled the knife the hundred feet it would take to land in the middle of the river and then walked back to Jason, who was fighting for breath. He took the boyÆs car keys from his own pocket and wrapped them tight in the only morsel of mercy he had left. These, he wedged into JasonÆs hand, still bound by duct tape.

It was not compassion that led to DanielÆs change of heart, and it was not kindness. It was realizing that, against all odds, he had something in common with Jason Underhill. Like Daniel, Jason had learned the hard way that we are never the people we think we are. We are the ones we pretend, with all our

hearts, we canÆt become.

4

I t took Jason a half hour to saw through the duct tape with his keys. When he could pull his arms forward again, the blood burned as it circulated, a severe pain that overtook the numbness caused by the cold. He stumbled to his feet, running toward the spot where Stone had made him leave the truck, praying it was still there.

The only clothes he had were in his hockey equipment bag, so he wound up dressing in a jersey and his padded pants. He kept expecting to be ambushed again at any moment. His hands shook so badly that it took four tries to get the key into the ignition.

He drove to the police station, thinking only that there was no way he was going to let TrixieÆs father get away with something like this. But as he pulled into the parking lot, he heard Daniel StoneÆs voice in his head again: Tell anyone, heÆd said, and IÆll kill you. Frankly, Jason could believe it. There had been something in the manÆs eyes-something inhuman-that made Jason think he was capable of anything.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didnÆt see the pedestrian walking across the parking lot. As Jason braked hard, the car lurched forward and stopped. Detective Bartholemew, the same man whoÆd arrested Jason, stood with one hand on the hood of his car, staring him down. And suddenly Jason remembered what the judge had said at the arraignment: If Jason had any contact whatsoever with Trixie Stone or her family, heÆd be shipped off to the juvenile detention facility. He was already accused of rape. If he reported what had happened to the cops, would they even believe him? What if they confronted Daniel Stone-and he insisted it had been Jason who approached him?

The detective walked to the driverÆs side of the car. ôMr. Underhill,ö he said. ôWhat brings you here?ö

ôIàI thought I might be getting a flat,ö he managed.

The detective walked around the vehicle. ôDoesnÆt look that way.ö He leaned closer to the car; Jason could see him doing a quick visual assessment. ôAnything else I can help you with?ö

It was all right there, caught behind the fence of his teeth: He dragged me off, he tied me up, he threatened me. But Jason found himself shaking his head. ôNo, thanks,ö he said. He put the car into gear and drove at snail speed out of the parking lot, aware of BartholemewÆs gaze following him.

In that moment, Jason made the decision to tell no one what happened: not his buddies, not his parents, not his lawyer. Not the police. He was too damn scared that telling the truth, in this case, would severely backfire on him.

He found himself wondering: Had Trixie felt that, too?

The way drunks kept a bottle of gin hidden in the toilet tank, and addicts tucked an emergency hit in the hem of a threadbare old coat, Daniel kept a pad and a pen in his car. In the parking lot of the hospital, he sketched. Instead of his comic book hero, however, he started penciling his daughter. He drew her when she was only minutes old, rolled into a blanket like sushi. He drew her taking her first steps. He froze moments-the birthday when she made him spaghetti for breakfast; the school play where she fell off the stage into the audience; the high- rise hotel they visited, where they spent hours pushing all the elevator buttons to see if the floors looked any different.

When his hand cramped so badly that he couldnÆt sketch another line, Daniel gathered up the pictures and got out of the car, heading toward TrixieÆs room.

Shadows reached across the bed like the fingers of a giant. Trixie had fallen asleep again; in a chair beside her, Laura dozed too. For a moment he stared at the two of them. No question about it: Trixie had been cut from the same cloth as her mother. It was more than just their coloring: Sometimes sheÆd toss him a glance or an expression that reminded him of Laura years ago. HeÆd wondered if the reason he loved Trixie so damn much was that, through her, he got to fall in love with his wife all over again.

He crouched down in front of Laura. The movement of the air against her skin made her stir, and her eyes opened and locked onto DanielÆs. For a fraction of a

second, she started to smile, having forgotten where she was, and what had happened to her daughter, and what had gone wrong between the two of them. Daniel found his hands closing into fists, as if he could catch that moment before it disappeared entirely.

She glanced over at Trixie, making sure she was still asleep. ôWhere were you?ö

Daniel certainly couldnÆt tell her the truth. ôDriving.ö

 

He took off his coat and began to lay the sketches heÆd done over the pale green blanket on the hospital bed. There was Trixie sliding into his lap the day Daniel got the phone call about his motherÆs death, asking, If everyone died, would the world just stop? Trixie holding a caterpillar, wondering whether it was a boy or a girl. Trixie pushing his hand away as he brushed a tear off her cheek, and saying, DonÆt wipe off my feelings.

ôWhen did you do these?ö Laura whispered. ôToday.ö

ôBut there are so manyàö

 

Daniel didnÆt answer. He knew no words big enough to explain to Trixie how much he loved her, so instead, he wanted her to wake up covered with memories.

He wanted to remember why he could not afford to let go.

It was from his friend Cane that Daniel learned language was a force to be reckoned with. Like most YupÆik Eskimos, Cane lived by three rules. The first was that thoughts and deeds were inextricably linked. How many times had CaneÆs grandfather explained that you couldnÆt properly butcher a moose while you were yammering about which girl in the fifth grade had to mail-order for an honest-to-God bra? You had to keep the thought of the moose in your mind, so that youÆd make way for them to come back to you another time, during another hunt.

The second rule was that individual thoughts were less important than the collective knowledge of the elders-in other words, do whatever youÆre told and stop complaining.

But it was the third rule that was the hardest for Daniel to understand: the idea that words were so powerful they had the ability to change someone elseÆs mindàeven if they remained unspoken. It was why, when the Moravian church moved into the bush and the reverend told the Yupiit they had to leave fish camp on a Sunday to attend services about Jesus, they agreed, without ever having any real intention of going. What the reverend saw as a blatant lie, the YupÆik Eskimos saw as a measure of respect: They liked the reverend too much to tell him he was wrong; instead, they just acquiesced and pretended otherwise.

It was this rule, ultimately, that divided Daniel and Cane. ôTomorrowÆs going to be a good day for hunting,ö Cane would tell Daniel, and Daniel would agree. But the next day Cane would go off with his grandfather for caribou and never ask Daniel to join them. It took years for Daniel to get up the nerve to ask Cane why he wasnÆt invited. ôBut I do invite you,ö he said, confused. ôEvery time.ö

DanielÆs mother tried to explain it to him: Cane never would have come right out and asked Daniel to go hunting, because Daniel might have had other plans. It would be disrespectful to issue a formal invitation, because simply putting the words out into the world might cause Daniel to change his mind about what he wanted to do the next day, and Cane liked Daniel too much to risk that. When you are thirteen, though, cultural differences hardly matter. What you feel is every minute of the Saturday you spend by yourself, wishing youÆd been asked to tag along. What you notice is the loneliness.

Daniel started to isolate himself, because it hurt less than being pushed away. He never really considered that a YupÆik boy who couldnÆt ask him to come hunting might have even more difficulty asking Daniel what heÆd done to make him angry. Within two yearsÆ time, Daniel had taken to occupying himself- vandalizing the school building and getting drunk and stealing snow machines.

Cane was just someone Daniel used to know.

 

It wasnÆt until a year later, when Daniel was standing over CaneÆs body in the gymnasium and his hands were covered with CaneÆs blood, that he realized the Yupiit had been right all along. One word might have changed everything.

One word might have spread like fire.

 

One word might have saved them both.

Could you pinpoint the very moment when your life began to fall apart?

 

For Laura, it seemed like each instance she found had an antecedent. TrixieÆs rape. Her own affair with Seth. Her unexpected pregnancy. The decision she made to find Daniel after he drew her. The first time she laid eyes on him and knew that everything else she saw from then on would no longer look the same. Disaster was an avalanche, gathering speed with such acceleration that you worried more about getting out of its path, not finding the pebble at its center.

It was easier for Laura to find the moment TrixieÆs life had been ruined. It all started, and ended, with Jason Underhill. If sheÆd never met him, if sheÆd never dated him, none of this would have happened. Not the rape, not the cutting, not even the suicide attempt. Laura had given it serious thought today: Jason was to blame for all of it. He had been the root of TrixieÆs deceptions; he had been the reason Laura hadnÆt been able to see her own daughter clearly.

She lay alone in bed, wide awake. Sleep was out of the question, with Trixie still at the hospital. The doctors had assured Laura that Trixie would be watched like a hawk, that if all was well, they could bring her home tomorrow-but that didnÆt keep Laura from wondering if she was comfortable, if there was a nurse taking care of her even now.

Daniel wasnÆt asleep either. She had been listening to his footsteps downstairs, moving like open-ended questions. But now she heard him heading upstairs. A moment later he stood by the side of the bed. ôAre you still up?ö he whispered.

ôI was never asleep.ö

 

ôCan Iàcan I ask you something?ö

 

She kept her eyes trained on the ceiling. ôOkay.ö ôAre you afraid?ö

ôOf what?ö ôForgetting?ö

Laura understood what he was trying to say. Although talking about what had happened to Trixie was the hardest thing in the world, they had to do it. If they didnÆt, they ran the risk of losing-by comparison-the memory of who Trixie used to be.

It was a catch-22: If you didnÆt put the trauma behind you, you couldnÆt move on. But if you did put the trauma behind you, you willingly gave up your claim to the person you were before it happened.

It was why, even when they werenÆt actively discussing it, the word rape hung like smoke over all of their heads. It was why, even as they were making polite conversation, every other thought in LauraÆs and DanielÆs heads was unfaithful.

ôDaniel,ö Laura admitted, ôIÆm afraid all the time.ö

 

He sank to his knees, and it took her a moment to realize that he was crying. She could not remember ever seeing Daniel cry-he used to say that heÆd used up his allotment of tears as a kid. Laura sat up in bed, the covers falling away from her. She put her hands on DanielÆs bowed head and stroked his hair. ôSssh,ö she said, and she drew him up onto the bed and into her arms.

At first it was about comfort: Laura being able to give; Daniel softening under her hands. But then Laura felt the air move like liquid as DanielÆs body pressed against hers, desperate, his actions full of now and need. She felt her pulse jump under his fingers, as she fell back in time, remembering him like this years ago, and herself reacting. Then just as abruptly as Daniel had begun, he stopped. In the dark, she could see only the shine of his eyes. ôIÆm sorry,ö he murmured, backing away.

ôDonÆt be,ö she said, and she reached for him.

 

It was all Daniel needed to let loose the last thread of restraint. He laid siege to Laura; he took no quarter. He scratched her skin and bit her throat. He reached for her hands and pinned them over her head. ôLook at me,ö he demanded, until her eyes flew open and locked on his. ôLook at me,ö he said again, and he drove

himself into her.

 

Daniel waited until she was underneath him, writhing, poised for each moment when he came into her. As his arms anchored her closer, she threw back her head and let herself break apart. She felt DanielÆs hesitation, and his glorious, reckless fall.

As his sweat cooled on her own body, Laura traced a message over DanielÆs right shoulder blade. S-O-R-R-Y, she wrote, even though she knew that the truths that sneak up behind a person are the ones heÆs most likely to miss.

Once, the Yupiit say, there was a man who was always quarreling with his wife. They fought over everything. The wife said her husband was lazy. The husband said his wife only wanted to sleep with other men. Finally, the wife went to a shaman in the village and begged to be changed into another creature. Anything but a woman, she said.

The shaman turned her into a raven. She flew off and built a nest, where she mated with other ravens. But every night, she found herself flying back to the village. Now, ravens canÆt come inside dwellings, so she would sit on the roof and hope to catch a glimpse of her husband. SheÆd think of reasons for him to come outside.

One night, he stepped through the entry and stood under the stars. Oh, she thought, how lovely you are.

The words fell into her husbandÆs outstretched hands, and just like that, the raven turned back into a woman. Just like that, the man wanted her once again to be his wife.

The next morning, a chill snaked its way into the house. Daniel found his teeth chattering as he headed downstairs to make a pot of coffee. He put a call in to the hospital: Trixie had had a good night.

Well. So had he. His mistake had been in not admitting just how much had gone wrong between him and Laura. Maybe you had to scrape the bottom before

you could push your way back to the surface.

 

He was bent over the fireplace, feeding kindling to the paper heÆd lit, when Laura came downstairs wearing a sweater over her flannel pajamas. Her hair was sticking up in the back, and her cheeks were still flushed with a dream. ôMorning,ö she murmured, and she slipped by him to pour herself a glass of orange juice.

Daniel waited for her to say something about the previous night, to admit that things had changed between them, but Laura wouldnÆt even look him in the eye. Immediately, his boldness faded. What if this spiderweb connection theyÆd made last night was not, as heÆd thought, a first stepàbut a mistake? What if the whole time sheÆd been with Daniel, sheÆd wished she wasnÆt? ôThe hospital says we can get Trixie at nine,ö he said neutrally.

At news of Trixie, Laura turned. ôHow is she?ö ôGreat.ö

ôGreat? She tried to kill herself yesterday.ö

 

Daniel sat back on his heels. ôWellàcompared to yesterday, thenàI guess she is doing pretty damn great.ö

Laura looked down at the counter. ôMaybe thatÆs true for all of us,ö she said. Her face was red, and Daniel realized she wasnÆt embarrassed but nervous.

He stood up and walked into the kitchen until he was standing beside her.

Sometime between when they had gone to bed last night and the sun coming up this morning, the world had shifted beneath them. It wasnÆt what they had said to each other but what they hadnÆt: that forgiving and forgetting were fused together-flip sides of the same coin-and yet they couldnÆt both exist at the same time. Choosing one meant that you sacrificed seeing the other.

Daniel slipped his arm around LauraÆs waist and felt her shiver. ôCold out,ö she said.

ôBrutal.ö

 

ôDid you hear anything about weather like this?ö

Daniel faced her. ôI donÆt think anyone predicted it.ö

 

He opened his arms, and Laura moved into them, her eyes closing as she leaned against him. ôI guess these things happen,ö she replied, as a rogue burst of sparks rose up the chimney.

You could not walk out of the hospital, for insurance reasons. If you tripped before you crossed the threshold, you might sue. However, if you chose to throw yourself in front of a car the minute you stepped outside, no one would give a damn.

Trixie was thinking about it.

 

SheÆd already had to sit down with a shrink this morning, and apparently she was going to have to do that twice a week for the next five forevers, too, all because she had seen a brass ring in the bathroom and had tried to grab it. It didnÆt matter if, like Janice the rape counselor, these sessions could eventually wind up in court. She had to attend them, or she had to stay in the hospital on the psych floor with a roommate who ate her own hair. She was going to have to take medicine, too-under the watchful eye of her parents, who would actually check the sides of her mouth and under her tongue to make sure she didnÆt fake swallowing. Since arriving at the hospital this morning, her mother was trying so hard to smile that Trixie expected her face to crack, and her father kept asking her if she needed anything. Yeah, she felt like answering. A life.

Trixie seesawed between wishing everyone would leave her alone and wondering why everyone treated her like a leper. Even when that stupid psychiatrist had been sitting across from her, asking things like, Do you think youÆre in danger of wanting to kill yourself right now? she felt like she was watching the whole scene from a balcony, and it was a comedy. She kept expecting the girl who played her to say something smart, like, Why yes, thanks, I would like to kill myself right nowàbut IÆll restrain myself until the audience is gone. Instead, she watched the actress who was really her fold like a fortune cookie and burst into tears.

What Trixie wanted, most of all, was what she couldnÆt have-to go back to being the kind of girl who worried about things like science tests and whether any college would admit her, instead of being the kind of girl everyone worried

about.

 

She survived the ride home by closing her eyes almost immediately and pretending sheÆd fallen asleep. Instead, she listened to the conversation between her parents in the front seat:

Do you think itÆs normal, the way her voice sounds? How do you mean?

You know. Like most of the notes are missing. Maybe itÆs the medicine.

They said that would take a few weeks to kick in.

 

Then how are we supposed to keep her safe in the meantime?

 

Trixie almost would have felt sorry for her parents if she wasnÆt so sure that theyÆd brought this on themselves. After all, her mother didnÆt have to open the bathroom door yesterday.

She felt the truth that sheÆd been hiding, like an after-dinner mint that might last for ages, if you were careful enough; the truth that she hadnÆt told the shrink or the doctors or her parents, no matter how much they tried to pull it out of her. She would swallow it whole before she spit it out loud.

Trixie made a big show of stretching and yawning as they approached the turn to their street. Her mother turned around, that Halloween-mask smile still on her face. ôYouÆre awake!ö

Her father glanced at her in the rearview mirror. ôYou need anything?ö Trixie turned and stared out the window. Maybe she had died, after all. And

this was hell.

 

Just about when Trixie decided things couldnÆt get any worse, the car turned into the driveway and she saw Zephyr waiting. The last conversation theyÆd had wasnÆt one that invited future chats, and it had left Trixie feeling like sheÆd been quarantined from the rest of the earth. But right now, Zephyr was

the one who looked nervous.

 

Zephyr knocked on the window. ôUm, Mrs. Stone. I, was kind of, you know, hoping to talk to Trixie.ö

Her mother frowned. ôI donÆt really think that nowÆs the best time-ö ôLaura,ö her father interrupted, and he glanced at Trixie in the rearview

mirror: ItÆs up to you.

 

Trixie got out of the backseat. She hunched her shoulders, so that her wrists were even more hidden by the sleeves of her coat. ôHey,ö she said cautiously.

Zephyr looked the way Trixie had felt for the past twenty-four hours-like she was completely made up of tears and trying to hold some semblance of human form together before someone noticed that she was actually just a puddle. She followed Trixie into the house, up to her bedroom. There was one terrifying moment when Trixie passed the bathroom-had anyone cleaned up since yesterday? But the door was closed, and she fled into her own room before she had to think about it anymore.

ôAre you okay?ö Zephyr said.

 

Trixie wasnÆt about to fall for the false sympathy routine. ôWho dared you?ö ôWhat?ö

ôAre you, like, supposed to come back with a lock of my hair to prove you got close? Oh, thatÆs right, I donÆt have any hair. I cut it off when I started to go psycho.ö

Zephyr swallowed. ôI heard you almost died.ö

 

Almost doesnÆt count, TrixieÆs father used to say. Except in horseshoes and hand grenades.

What about in rape cases?

 

ôDo you almost care?ö Trixie said.

Suddenly ZephyrÆs face crumpled. ôIÆve been a total asshole. I was mad at you, because I thought you planned this whole revenge thing for Jason and didnÆt trust me enough to tell me-ö

ôI never-ö

 

ôNo, wait, let me finish,ö Zephyr said. ôAnd I was mad at you for that night, when Moss paid more attention to you than to me. I wanted to get back at you, so I said-I said what they all were saying. But then I heard that you were in the hospital and I kept thinking about how awful it would have been if youàif you, you know, before I had a chance to tell you I believe you.ö Her face crumpled. ôI feel like this was all my fault. IÆd do anything to make it up to you.ö

There was no way to tell whether Zeph was telling the truth, and even if she was, that didnÆt mean Trixie trusted her anymore. There was every chance that Zephyr was going to run to Moss and Jason and the rest of the hockey team and regale them with tales of the freak. But then againàmaybe she wasnÆt; maybe the reason Zephyr was here had nothing to do with guilt or her mom telling her to be here but simply because she remembered, like Trixie did, that once when they were five they had been the only two people in the world who knew that fairies lived inside the kitchen cabinets and hid under the pots and pans when you opened the doors.

Trixie looked at her. ôDo you want to know how I did it?ö Zephyr nodded, drawn forward.

She slowly pulled the tape that sealed the bandage around her wrist and unraveled the gauze until the wound was visible: gaping and saw-edged, angry.

ôWow,ö Zephyr breathed. ôThat is sick. Did it hurt?ö Trixie shook her head.

ôDid you see lights or angels or, like, God?ö

 

Trixie thought about it, hard. The last thing she could remember was the rusted edge of the radiator, which she focused on before blacking out. ôI didnÆt see anything.ö

ôFigures,ö Zephyr sighed, and then she looked at Trixie and grinned.

 

Trixie felt like smiling back. For the first time in a long time, when she told her brain to do it, it actually worked.

Three days after Trixie tried to kill herself, Daniel and Laura found themselves in Marita SoorenstadÆs office, with Trixie between them. Detective Bartholemew was seated to their left, and behind the desk the DA was ripping open a Pixy Stix. ôHelp yourselves,ö she said, and then she turned to Trixie. ôIÆm certainly glad to see youÆre with us. From what I understand, that wasnÆt a sure thing a few days ago.ö

Daniel reached over and took his daughterÆs hand. It felt like ice. ôTrixieÆs feeling much better.ö

ôFor how long?ö the district attorney asked, folding her hands on the desk. ôI donÆt mean to sound insensitive, Mr. Stone, but the only thing consistent in this case so far has been the lack of consistency.ö

Laura shook her head. ôI donÆt understandàö

 

ôAs a prosecutor, my job is to present facts to a jury that make it possible for them to find, beyond a reasonable doubt, that your daughter was the victim of a rape perpetrated by Jason Underhill. However, the facts IÆm presenting are the ones that your daughter presented to us. And that means our case is only as good as the information sheÆs provided me with and as strong as the picture she paints on the stand.ö

Daniel felt his jaw tighten. ôIÆd think that when a girl tries to kill herself, itÆs a pretty good indicator that sheÆs suffering from trauma.ö

ôEither that, or mental instability.ö

 

ôSo, you just give up?ö Laura said, incredulous. ôYou donÆt try a case if you think itÆs going to be a tough sell?ö

ôI never said that, Mrs. Stone. But I do have an ethical obligation not to bring a case to court if even IÆm unsure a crime happened.ö

ôYouÆve got evidence,ö Daniel said. ôThat rape kit.ö

 

ôYes. The same rape kit that allowed a laboratory to find evidence of semen in TrixieÆs mouth, when by her own statement she did not have oral sex that night. On the other hand, Jason Underhill alleges that the intercourse was consensual-and was both oral and vaginal.ö The DA turned over a page in a file. ôAccording to Trixie, she screamed no while she was being raped but said that her friend Zephyr wouldnÆt have been able to hear her over the music. Yet according to other witnesses, no music was playing during the time of the assault.ö

ôTheyÆre all lying,ö Daniel said.

 

Marita stared at him. ôOr Trixie is. She lied to you about going to her friendÆs house for a quiet sleepover that night. She lied about losing her virginity the night of the assault-ö

ôWhat?ö Laura said, her jaw dropping, and at that moment Daniel remembered heÆd never told her what the detective had said. Had he forgotten, or had he intended to forget all along?

ô-she lied to the ER physician about the cuts on her wrist, some of which were made long before that Friday night,ö Marita continued. ôWhich begs the question: What else is Trixie lying about?ö

ôI want to speak to your boss,ö Laura demanded.

 

ôMy boss will tell you that I have a hundred other cases to prosecute that could be commanding my attention. I donÆt have time for a victim whoÆs crying wolf.ö

Daniel couldnÆt look at Trixie. If he did, he thought he might break down. Where heÆd grown up, a YupÆik boy who cried wolf would simply turn into that animal forever. His relatives would say he had it coming. HeÆd spend the rest of his life watching his old family through yellow eyes, from a distance.

Daniel turned to the detective, whoÆd been doing a good job of trying to blend into the 1970s paneling. ôTell her about the photo.ö

ôHe already has,ö Marita said. ôAnd IÆm going to have my hands full trying

to keep that out of the courtroom as it is.ö

 

ôItÆs a perfect example of how TrixieÆs being victimized-ö

 

ôIt doesnÆt tell us anything about the night of the assault-except that Trixie wasnÆt a choirgirl before it happened.ö

ôWill you all just shut up!ö At the sound of TrixieÆs voice, all eyes turned. ôIÆm here, in case you hadnÆt noticed. So can you all stop talking about me like IÆm not?ö

ôBy all means, Trixie, weÆd love to hear what you have to say. Today.ö Trixie swallowed. ôI didnÆt mean to lie.ö

ôYouÆre admitting you did?ö the district attorney replied.

 

ôThere were so manyàholes. I didnÆt think anyone would believe what happened if I couldnÆt remember the whole story.ö She pulled her sleeves down farther over her wrists. Daniel had noticed her doing that in the past few days, and every time it made his heart pleat. ôI remember going to ZephyrÆs, and all the people who were there. I didnÆt know most of them. A bunch of the girls were playing Rainbow-ö

ôRainbow?ö Daniel said.

 

Trixie began to pick at the hem of her coat. ôItÆs where everyone gets a different shade of lipstick, and the boysàyou know, you go off with themàö She shook her head.

ôThe one with the most colorful penis at the end of the night wins,ö Marita said flatly. ôIs that about right?ö

Daniel heard LauraÆs intake of breath as Trixie nodded. ôThatÆs it,ö she whispered. ôI didnÆt do it, though. I thought I could-I wanted to make Jason jealous-but I couldnÆt. Everyone went home after that, except for Jason and Moss and me and Zephyr, and thatÆs when we started playing poker. Moss took the picture of me, and Jason got mad at him, and thatÆs when it all goes blank. I know I was in the bathroom when he found me, but I canÆt remember how we got to the living room. I canÆt remember anything, really, until he was on top of

1. I thought if I waited long enough, it would all come back. But it hasnÆt.ö

 

The district attorney and the detective exchanged a glance. ôAre you saying,ö Marita clarified, ôthat you woke up to find him having intercourse with you?ö

Trixie nodded.

 

ôDo you remember any other details?ö

 

ôI had a really bad headache. I thought maybe heÆd slammed my head on the floor or something.ö

Bartholemew walked toward the district attorney. He stood behind her shoulder, flipping over the contents of the file until he reached a certain page and pointed. ôThe ER doc noted a seemingly dissociated mental state. And during her initial interview at the PD, she was unresponsive.ö

ôMike,ö the district attorney said, ôgive me a break.ö

 

ôIf itÆs true, it would turn this into gross sexual assault,ö Bartholemew pressed. ôAnd all of the inconsistencies in TrixieÆs story would actually work to the prosecutionÆs advantage.ö

ôWeÆd need proof. Date rape drugs stay in the bloodstream for only seventy- two hours, tops.ö

Bartholemew lifted a lab report out of the file folder. ôGood thing youÆve got a sample, then, from six hours post.ö

Daniel was utterly lost. ôWhat are you talking about?ö

 

The prosecutor turned. ôRight now, this case is being tried as a juvenile sexually assaulting a juvenile. That changes, however, if the assault is committed either while Trixie was unconscious, or if she was given a substance that impaired her ability to appraise or control the sexual act. In that case, by law,

Jason Underhill would have to be tried as an adult.ö ôAre you saying Trixie was drugged?ö Daniel said.

The district attorney fixed her gaze on Trixie. ôEither that,ö she replied, ôor

your daughter is trying to dig herself out of yet another hole.ö

ôSpecial K, Vitamin K, Kit Kat, Blind Squid, Cat Valium, Purple-itÆs got a dozen names on the street,ö Venice Prudhomme said, peeling off a pair of latex gloves and throwing them in the trash at BartholemewÆs feet. ôKetamineÆs a nonbarbiturate, rapid-acting anesthetic used on both animals and humans-itÆs also allegedly a sexual stimulant. Kids like it as a club drug because, molecularly, itÆs very similar to angel dust-PCP. It produces a dissociative state, making them feel like their minds are separate from their bodies. WeÆre talking hallucinationsàamnesia.ö

Mike had begged Venice to run the test at the state lab, in spite of a two- month backlog of cases. HeÆd promised, in return, a pair of club-level Bruins tickets. Venice was a single mom with a hockey-crazy son, a woman who didnÆt get paid enough to spend $85 per ticket; he knew she wouldnÆt be able to turn down the offer. Where he was going to actually get two club-level Bruins tickets on his own salary, though, remained to be seen.

So far, Trixie had tested negative for GHB and Rohypnol, the two most common date rape drugs. At this point, Mike was close to conceding that Trixie had, again, duped them. He watched the computer screen, an incomprehensible run of numbers. ôWhoÆs dealing ketamine in Bethel, Maine?ö he asked rhetorically.

ôItÆs fully legal when itÆs Ketaset and sold to vets as a liquid. In that form, itÆs easy to use as a date rape drug. ItÆs odorless and tasteless. You slip it into a girlÆs drink, and sheÆs knocked out in less than a minute. For the next few hours, sheÆs numb and willingàand best of all, she wonÆt remember what happened.ö As the computer spit out the last analysis, Venice scanned it. ôYou say your victimÆs been lying to you?ö

ôEnough to make me wish I was working for the defense,ö Mike said.

 

She pulled a highlighter from her towering nest of braids and ran a yellow line across a field of results-a positive flag for ketamine. ôKeep your day job,ö Venice replied. ôTrixie Stone was telling the truth.ö

There were not, as most people believed, a hundred different Eskimo words for snow. Boil down the roots of the YupÆik language, and youÆd only have fifteen: qanuk (snowflake), kanevvluk (fine snow), natquik (drifting snow), nevluk (clinging snow), qanikcaq (snow on the ground), muruaneq (soft, deep snow on the ground), qetrar (crust on top of snow), nutaryuk (fresh fallen snow), qanisqineq (snow floating on water), qengaruk (snowbank), utvak (snow block), navcaq (snow cornice), pirta (snowstorm), cellallir (blizzard), and pirrelvag (severely storming).

When it came to snow, Daniel thought in YupÆik. HeÆd look out the window and one of these words, or its derivatives, would pop into his mind ahead of the English. There were snows here in Maine, though, that didnÆt have equivalent terms in Alaska. Like a norÆeaster. Or the kind of snow that landed like goose down, during mud season. Or the ice storm that made the needles on the pines look like they were fashioned out of crystal.

Times like those, DanielÆs mind would simply go blank. Like now: There had to be a term for the kind of storm that he knew was going to be the first real measurable snow of the season. The flakes were the size of a toddlerÆs fist and falling so fast that it seemed there was a rip in the seam of the gunmetal sky. It had snowed in October and November, but not like this. This was the sort of storm that would cause school superintendents to cancel afternoon basketball games, and create long lines at the Goodyear store; this was the kind of storm that made out-of-town drivers pull over on the highway and forced housewives to buy an extra gallon of milk.

It was the kind of snow that came so fast, it caught you unaware. You hadnÆt yet taken the shovels down from the attic where youÆd put them last May; you didnÆt get a chance to cover the trembling rhododendrons with their ridiculous wooden tepees.

It was the kind of snow, Daniel realized, where you didnÆt have time to put away the errant rake and the clippers youÆd used to trim back the blackberry bushes, so youÆd find yourself walking in circles, hoping you might trip over them before the blades rusted for good. But you never did. Instead, you were bound to lose the things youÆd been careless with, and your punishment was not seeing them again until the spring.

Trixie couldnÆt remember the last time she went out to play in the snow.

When she was a kid, her father used to build a luge in the backyard that sheÆd slide down on a tube, but at some point it was no longer cool to look like a total spaz when she tipped over, and sheÆd traded her rubber-tread Sorels for fashionable stacked-heel boots.

She couldnÆt find her snow boots-they were buried under too much stuff in the closet. Instead, she borrowed her motherÆs, still drying in the mudroom, now that her mom had canceled her afternoon lecture in the wake of the storm. Trixie wrapped a scarf around her neck and jammed a hat onto her head that said DRAMA QUEEN across the front in red script. She pulled on a pair of her fatherÆs ski mittens and headed outside.

It was what her mother used to call snowman snow-the kind damp enough to stick together. Trixie packed it into a ball. She started to roll it across the lawn like a bandage, leaving behind a long brown tongue of matted grass.

After a while, she surveyed the damage. The yard looked like a crazy quilt, white stripes bordering triangles and squares made of lawn. Taking another handful of snow, Trixie began to roll a second snowball, and a third. A few minutes later, she was standing in the middle of them, wondering how theyÆd gotten so big so fast. There was no way she would be able to lift one onto the other. How had she managed to build a snowman when she was little? Maybe she hadnÆt. Maybe someone else had always done it for her.

Suddenly the door opened and her mother was standing there, screaming her name and trying to see through the flakes still coming down. She looked frantic, and it took Trixie a moment to understand: Her mother didnÆt know sheÆd come outside; her mother was still worried sheÆd kill herself.

ôOver here,ö Trixie said.

 

Not that death-by-blizzard was a bad idea. When Trixie was tiny, she used to dig a hideout in the mountain of snow left behind by the plow. She called it her igloo, even though her father had told her that Eskimos in America did not and never had lived in those. But then she read a newspaper article about a kid in Charlotte, Vermont, who had done the same exact thing and the roof had collapsed on his head and smothered him before his parents even knew he was missing, and she never did it again.

Her mother walked outside and immediately sank ankle-deep in snow. She was wearing TrixieÆs boots, which she must have dug out of the closet wreckage after Trixie had commandeered her own Sorels. ôYou want help?ö her mother asked.

Trixie didnÆt. If sheÆd wanted help, she would have invited someone outside with her in the first place. But she couldnÆt for the life of her imagine how she was going to get that stupid belly on top of the snowmanÆs base. ôAll right,ö she conceded.

Her mother got on one side of the ball and pushed, while Trixie tried to pull it from the front. Even together, they couldnÆt budge the weight. ôWelcome to the Fourth Circle,ö her mother said, laughing.

Trixie fell onto her butt on the snow. Leave it to her mother to turn this into a classics lesson.

ôYouÆve got your tightwads on one side and your greedy folks on the other,ö her mother said. ôThey shove boulders at each other for all eternity.ö

ôI was kind of hoping to finish this up before then.ö

 

Her mother turned. ôWhy, Trixie Stone. Was that a joke?ö

 

Since coming home from the hospital, there had been precious few of those in the household. When a television sitcom came on, the channel was immediately changed. When you felt a smile coming on, you squelched it. Feeling happy didnÆt seem particularly appropriate, not with everything that had gone on lately. It was as if, Trixie thought, they were all waiting for someone to wave a magic wand and say, ItÆs okay, now. Carry on.

What if she was the one who was supposed to wave that wand?

 

Her mother began to sculpt a snow ramp. Trixie fell into place beside her, pushing the middle snowball higher and higher until it tipped onto the bigger base. She packed snow between the seams. Then she lifted the head and perched it at the very top.

Her mother clappedàjust as snowman listed and fell. His head rolled into one of the basement window gutters; his midsection cracked like an egg. Only the

massive base sphere remained intact.

 

Frustrated, Trixie slapped a snowball against the side of it. Her mother watched and then packed her own snowball. Within seconds they were both firing shots at the boulder until it cleaved down the center, until it succumbed to the assault and lay between them in fat iceberg chunks.

By then, Trixie was lying on her back, panting. She had not felt-well, this normal in some time. It occurred to her that had things ended differently a week ago, she might not be doing any of this. SheÆd been so focused on what she had wanted to get away from in this world she forgot to consider what she might miss.

When you die, you donÆt get to catch snowflakes on your tongue. You donÆt get to breathe winter in, deep in your lungs. You canÆt lie in bed and watch for the lights of the passing town plow. You canÆt suck on an icicle until your forehead hurts.

Trixie stared up at the dizzy flakes. ôIÆm kind of glad.ö ôAbout what?ö

ôThat it didnÆtàyou knowàwork out.ö

 

She felt her motherÆs hand reach over to grab her own. Their mittens were both soaked.

TheyÆd go inside, stick their clothes inside the dryer. Ten minutes later, theyÆd be good as new.

Trixie wanted to cry. It was that beautiful, knowing what came next.

Because of the storm, hockey practice had been canceled. Jason came home after school, as per the conditions of his bail, and holed himself up in his bedroom listening to the White Stripes on his iPod. He closed his eyes and executed mental passes to Moss, wrist shots and slapshots and pucks that hit the top shelf.

One day, people would be talking about him, and not just because of this rape case. TheyÆd say things like, Oh, Jason Underhill, we always knew heÆd make it. TheyÆd put up a replica jersey of his over the mirror behind the town bar, with his name facing out, and the Bruins games would take precedence over any other programming on the one TV mounted in the corner.

Jason had a lot of work cut out ahead of him, but he could do it. A year or two postgrad, then some college hockey, and maybe heÆd even be like Hugh Jessiman at Dartmouth and get signed in the first round of the NHL draft. Coach had told Jason that heÆd never seen a forward with as much natural talent as Jason. HeÆd said that if you wanted something bad enough, all you had to learn was how to go out and take it.

He was living out his fantasy for the hundredth time when the door to his room burst open. JasonÆs father strode in, fuming, and yanked the iPodÆs headphones out of JasonÆs ears.

ôWhat the hell?ö Jason said, sitting up.

 

ôYou want to tell me what you left out the first time? You want to tell me where you got the goddamned drugs?ö

ôI donÆt do drugs,ö Jason said. ôWhy would I do something thatÆs going to screw up my game?ö

ôOh, I believe you,ö his father said, sarcastic. ôI believe you didnÆt take any of those drugs yourself.ö

The conversation was spinning back and forth in directions Jason couldnÆt follow. ôThen why are you flipping out?ö

ôBecause Dutch Oosterhaus called me at work to discuss a little lab report he got today. The one they did on Trixie StoneÆs blood that proves someone knocked her out by slipping her a drug.ö

Heat climbed the ladder of JasonÆs spine.

 

ôYou know what else Dutch told me? Now that drugs are in the picture, the prosecutorÆs got enough evidence to try you as an adult.ö

ôI didnÆt-ö

 

A vein pulsed in his fatherÆs temple. ôYou threw it all away, Jason. You fucking threw it all away for a small-town whore.ö

ôI didnÆt drug her. I didnÆt rape her. She must have fooled around with that blood sample, becauseàbecauseàö JasonÆs voice dropped off. ôJesus Christàyou donÆt believe me.ö

ôNo one does,ö his father said, weary. He reached into his back pocket for a letter that had already been opened and passed it to Jason before leaving the room.

Jason sank down onto his bed. The letter was embossed with a return address for Bethel Academy; the name of the hockey coach had been scrawled above it in pen. He began to read: In lieu of recent circumstancesàwithdrawing its initial offer of a scholarship for a postgraduate yearàsure you understand our position and its reflection on the academy.

The letter dropped from his hands, fluttering to land on the carpet. The iPod, without its headphones, glowed a mute blue. Who would have imagined that the sound your life made as it disintegrated was total silence?

Jason buried his face in his hands and, for the first time since all this had begun, started to cry.

Once the storm had stopped and the streets were cleared, the storekeepers in Bethel came out to shovel their walkways and talk about how lucky they were that this latest blizzard hadnÆt caused the town manager to cancel the annual Winterfest.

It was always held the Friday before Christmas and was a direct ploy to boost the local economy. Main Street was blocked off by the spinning blue lights of police cars. Shops stayed open late, and hot cider was served for free in the inn. Christmas lights winked like fireflies in the bare branches of the trees. Some enterprising farmer carted in a sickly looking reindeer and set up portable fencing around it: a North Pole petting zoo. The bookstore owner, dressed as Santa, arrived at seven oÆclock and stayed as long as it took to hear the holiday

requests of all the children waiting in line.

 

This year, in an effort to connect local sports heroes to the community, the square in front of the town offices had been sealed and flooded to create a makeshift ice rink. The Ice CaBabes, a local competitive figure-skating team, had done an exhibition routine earlier that evening. Now the championship Bethel High School hockey team was slated to play pickup hockey with a local group of Boy Scouts.

After everything that had happened, Jason hadnÆt planned to go-until Coach called up and said he had an obligation to the team. What Coach hadnÆt done, however, was specify in what condition Jason had to arrive. It was a fifteen- minute ride downtown, and he drank a fifth of his dadÆs Jack DanielÆs on the way.

Moss was already on the ice when Jason sat down on a bench and pulled out his skates. ôYouÆre late,ö Moss said.

Jason double-knotted the laces, grabbed his stick, and shoved hard past Moss. ôYou here to talk or play hockey?ö He skated so fast down the center of the rink that he had to slalom around some of the wobbling kids. Moss met him and they passed the puck in a series of complicated handoffs. On the sidelines, the parents cheered, thinking this was all part of the exhibition.

Coach called for a face-off, and Jason skated into position. The kid he was opposing on the scout team came up as high as his hip. The puck was dropped, and the high school team let the kids win it. But Jason stick-checked the boy who was skating down the ice, stole the puck, and carried it down to the goal. He lifted it to the upper right corner of the net, where there was no chance of the tiny goalie being able to stop it. He pumped his stick in the air and looked around for his other teammates, but they were hanging back, and the crowd wasnÆt cheering anymore. ôArenÆt we supposed to score?ö he yelled out, his words slurring. ôDid the rules change here, too?ö

Moss led Jason to the side of the rink. ôDude. ItÆs just pond hockey, and theyÆre just kids.ö

Jason nodded, shook it off. They met for another face-off, and this time when the kids took the puck Jason skated backward slowly, making no move to go after it. Unused to playing without the boards, he tripped over the plastic edge of

the rink liner and fell into the arms of the crowd. He noticed Zephyr Santorelli- WeinsteinÆs face, and a half-dozen others from school. ôSorry,ö he muttered, staggering to his feet.

When he stepped onto the ice again, Jason headed for the puck, hip-checking a player to get him out of the way. Except this time, his opponent was half his size and a third of his weight, and went flying.

The boy banged into his goalie, who slid into the net in a heap, crying. Jason watched the kidÆs father hurry onto the ice in his street shoes.

ôWhat is wrong with you today?ö Moss said, skating close.

 

ôIt was an accident,ö Jason answered, and his friend reared back, smelling the alcohol.

ôCoach is going to rip you a new asshole. Get out of here. IÆll cover for you.ö

Jason stared at him. ôGo,ö Moss said.

Jason took one last look at the boy and his father, then skated hard to the spot where heÆd left his boots.

I did not die, and yet I lost lifeÆs breath:

 

imagine for yourself what I became, deprived at once of both my life and death.

Laura read LuciferÆs lines in the last canto of the Inferno, then closed the book. Hands down, Lucifer was the most fascinating character in the poem: waist-deep in the lake of ice, with his three heads gnawing on a feast of sinners. Having once been an archangel, he certainly had the freedom of choice-in fact, it was what got him to pick a fight with God in the first place. So if Lucifer had willingly chosen his course, had he known beforehand that he was going to end

up suffering?

 

Did he think, on some level, that he deserved it?

 

Did anyone, who was cast in the role opposite the hero?

 

It occurred to Laura that she had sinned in every single circle. SheÆd committed adultery. SheÆd betrayed her benefactor-the university-by seducing a studentàwhich could also be considered treachery, if you classified Seth as an innocent pawn in the game. SheÆd defied God by ignoring her wedding vows: SheÆd defied her family by distancing herself from Trixie when Trixie needed her most. SheÆd lied to her husband, sheÆd been angry and wrathful, sheÆd sowed discord, and sheÆd been a fraudulent counselor to a student who came looking for a mentor and wound up with a lover.

About the only thing Laura hadnÆt done was kill someone.

 

She reached behind her desk for an antique china human head she had found at a garage sale. It was smooth and white and divided into calligraphed subsections across the brain area: wit, glory, revenge, bliss. Over the skull sheÆd put a headband sporting two red devil horns, a gift from a student one Halloween. Now she took the headband off and tried it on for size.

There was a knock on her door, and a moment later Seth stepped into her office. ôAre those horns on your head,ö he said, ôor are you just happy to see me?ö

She yanked off the headband.

 

ôFive minutes.ö He closed the door, locked it. ôYou owe me that much.ö

 

Relationships always sounded so physically painful: You fell in love, you broke a heart, you lost your head. Was it any wonder that people came through the experience with battle scars? The problem with a marriage-or maybe its strength-was that it spanned a distance, and you were never the same person you started out being. If you were lucky, you could still recognize each other years later. If you werenÆt, you wound up in your office with a boy fifteen years younger than you were, pouring his heart into your open hands.

All right. If she was going to be honest, she had loved the way Seth knew

what an anapest was, and a canzone. She loved seeing their reflection in a pane of glass as they passed a storefront and being surprised every time. She loved playing Scrabble on a rainy afternoon when she should have been grading papers or attending a departmental meeting. But just because she had called in sick that day didnÆt mean she wasnÆt still a professor. Just because she abandoned her family didnÆt mean she wasnÆt still a wife, a mother. Her biggest sin, when you got right down to it, was forgetting all that in the first place.

ôSeth,ö she said, ôI donÆt know how to make this any easier. But-ö She broke off, realizing the words she was about to say: But I love my

husband.

 

I always have.

 

ôWe need to talk,ö Seth said quietly. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and tossed a rolled newspaper onto the table.

Laura had seen it. The front page chronicled the newly filed charge by the district attorney. Jason Underhill would be tried as an adult, due to the presence of date rape drugs in the victimÆs bloodstream.

ôKetamine,ö Seth said.

 

Laura blinked at him. From what the prosecutor had said, the drug found in TrixieÆs system hadnÆt even been one of the more popular date rape drugs. It hadnÆt been listed in the newspaper, either. ôHow would you know that?ö

Seth sat down on the edge of her desk. ôThereÆs something I have to tell you,ö he said.

ôIÆm coming!ö Trixie yelled through the open door, as her father honked the horn for the third time. Jesus. It wasnÆt like she wanted to go into town right now, and it wasnÆt her fault that the pizza cheese he was using to cook dinner had grown enough mold to be classified as an antibiotic. She hadnÆt been doing anything earth-shattering that she couldnÆt interrupt, but it was the principle that was upsetting her: Neither parent felt comfortable letting Trixie out of sight.

She stomped into the first pair of boots she could find and headed outside to his idling truck. ôCanÆt we just have soup?ö Trixie said, slouching down in her seat, when what she really meant was: What will it take to make you trust me again?

Her father put the truck into first gear to go down a long hill. ôI know you want me to leave you home alone. But I hope you also know why I canÆt do that.ö

Trixie rolled her eyes toward the window. ôWhatever.ö

 

As they approached town, there was a glut of cars. People in bright parkas and scarves spilled across the street like a stream of confetti. Trixie felt her stomach turn over. ôWhatÆs the date?ö she murmured. SheÆd seen the signs all over school: ICE = NICE. DONÆT BE A SNOWFLAKE-COME TO WINTERFEST.

Trixie shrank back in her seat as three girls she recognized from school came so close to the car they brushed the front bumper. Everyone came to the Winterfest. When she was little, her parents would take her to pat the sorry old reindeer idling near the camera store. She could remember seeing ordinary teachers and doctors and waitresses become Victorian carolers for a night. Last year, Trixie had been an elf along with Zephyr, the two of them wearing double layers of skating tights and handing out candy canes to the kids who sat on SantaÆs lap.

This year, walking down Main Street would be totally different. At first, no one would see her, because it was dark out. But then, someone would bump into her by accident. Sorry, theyÆd say, and then theyÆd realize who it was.

TheyÆd tap their friends. They would point. TheyÆd lean close and whisper about how Trixie wasnÆt wearing any makeup and how her hair looked like it hadnÆt been washed in a week. Before she had made it to the other end of Main Street, their stares would have burned into the back of her coat like sunlight through a looking glass, starting a flash fire that reduced her to a pile of ashes.

ôDaddy,ö she said, ôcanÆt we just go home?ö

 

Her father glanced at her. HeÆd had to detour around Main Street and was now parked in a lot behind the grocery store. Trixie could see he was weighing the cost of reaching his destination against TrixieÆs extreme discomfortàand

factoring in her suicide attempt to boot. ôYou stay in the car,ö her father conceded. ôIÆll be right back.ö

Trixie nodded and watched him cross the parking lot. She closed her eyes and counted to fifty. She listened to the sound of her own pulse.

Yet as it turned out, what Trixie had thought she wanted most of allbeing left alone-turned out to be absolutely terrifying. When the door of the car beside her slammed, she jumped. The headlights swept over her as the car backed out, and she ducked her face against the collar of her coat so that the driver couldnÆt see.

Her father had been gone for three minutes when she started to actively panic. It didnÆt take much longer than that to buy some stupid cheese, did it? What if someone else came to this parking lot and saw her sitting there? How long before a crowd gathered, calling her a slut and a whore? Who would save her if they decided to pound on the windows, start a witch hunt, lynch her?

She peered out the windshield. It would take fifteen seconds, tops, to make it to the door of the grocery store. By now her father would be in line. She might run into someone she knew there, but at least she wouldnÆt be alone.

Trixie got out of the car and started to race across the parking lot. She could see the buttery windows of the grocery mart and the line of wire shopping carts shivering against its outer wall.

Someone was coming. She couldnÆt see whether it was her father-the figure seemed big enough, but the streetlamp was behind him, obscuring the features. If it was her father, heÆd see her first, Trixie realized. And if it wasnÆt her father, then she was going to move past the stranger at the speed of light.

But as Trixie broke into a sprint, she hit a patch of black ice and her feet gave out from underneath her. One leg twisted, and she could feel herself falling. The moment before her left hip struck the pavement, she was wrenched upright by the very person sheÆd been trying to avoid. ôYou okay?ö he said, and she looked up to find Jason holding her upper arm.

He let go almost as quickly as heÆd grabbed her. TrixieÆs mother had said that Jason couldnÆt come near her, couldnÆt cross paths with her-if he did, heÆd be shipped off to a juvenile detention center before the trial. But either her mother had been wrong or Jason had forgotten, because he shook off whatever

fear had made him release her and began advancing on her instead. He smelled like a distillery, and his voice was raw. ôWhat did you tell them? What are you trying to do to me?ö

Trixie fought for breath. The cold was seeping through the back of her jeans and there was water in her boot where it had gone through the ice into a puddle. ôI didnÆtàIÆm notàö

ôYou have to tell them the truth,ö Jason begged. ôThey donÆt believe me.ö This was news to Trixie and cut clean as a knife through her fear. If they

didnÆt believe Jason, and they didnÆt believe her, who did they believe?

 

He crouched in front of her, and that was all it took for Trixie to be whipped back to then. It was as if the rape was happening all over again, as if she couldnÆt control a single inch of her own body.

ôTrixie,ö Jason said.

 

His hands on her thighs, as she tried to pull away. ôYou have to.ö

His body rising over hers, pinning her at the hips. ôNow.ö

Now, he had said, throwing his head back as he pulled out and spilled hot across her belly. Now, he had said, but by then it was already too late.

Trixie drew in a deep breath and screamed at the top of her lungs.

 

Suddenly Jason wasnÆt leaning over her anymore. Trixie glanced up to see him wrestling, trying to dodge her fatherÆs punches. ôDaddy!ö she screamed. ôStop!ö

Her father turned, bleeding from a split lip. ôTrixie, get in the car.ö

 

She didnÆt get in the car. She scrambled away from their brawl and stood in the halo of the streetlamp, watching as her father-the same man who caught the

spiders in her bedroom and carried them outside in a Dixie cup, the same man who had never in his life spanked her-pummeled Jason. She was horrified and fascinated all at once. It was like meeting someone sheÆd never seen before and finding out that all this time, heÆd been living next door.

The sound of flesh smacking flesh reminded Trixie of the blue-fish that got slapped hard against the docks in Portland by the fishermen, to still them before they were filleted. She covered her ears and looked down at the ground, at the plastic bag of shredded mozzarella that had fallen and been torn open under their boots during the fight.

ôIf you ever,ö her father panted, ôeveràö He landed a punch to JasonÆs gut. ôàever come near my daughter againàö A blow across the right jaw.

ôI will kill you.ö But just as he reared back his hand to strike again, a car drove past the parking lot, illuminating everything.

The last man Daniel had beaten up had already been dead. In the high school gym in Akiak, Daniel had slammed Cane against the floor, although his head already had a bullet hole in it. HeÆd done it because he wanted Cane to tell him to stop. HeÆd wanted Cane to sit up and take a swing back at him.

The principal had tiptoed gingerly into this nightmare, absorbing DanielÆs sobs and the discarded rifle and the blood sprayed across the bleachers. Daniel, the principal had said, shocked. What did you do?

Daniel had run, because he was faster than the principal and faster than the police. For a few days he was a murder suspect, and he liked that. If Daniel had meant to kill Cane, then he couldnÆt feel as guilty about not keeping it from happening.

By the time he left town, the rumors surrounding Daniel had died down.

Everyone knew it was CaneÆs hunting rifle, and DanielÆs fingerprints hadnÆt

been on it. Cane had not left a suicide note-that was rare, in the village-but heÆd left his basketball jersey on the table for his little sister. Daniel had been cleared as a suspect, but he left Alaska anyway. It wasnÆt that heÆd been scared of his future; it was that he couldnÆt see one, period.

Every now and then, he still woke up with one thought caught like cotton on the roof of his mouth: Dead men donÆt bruise.

Tonight, heÆd been stuck behind an old woman paying with pennies at the grocery mart. The whole time, he was second-guessing himself. At first, after the suicide attempt, Trixie had been distant and silent, but over the past few days her personality would bob to the surface every now and then. However, the minute theyÆd reached town, Trixie had gone still and blank-a relapse. Daniel hadnÆt wanted to leave her alone in the car but couldnÆt stand the thought of forcing her to leave that safety zone either. How long could it take to buy a single item? HeÆd hurried into the store, thinking only of Trixie and getting her back home as quickly as possible.

It was when heÆd stepped under the streetlamp that heÆd seen it: that bastardÆs hand on his daughterÆs arm.

For someone who has never given himself over to rage, it would be hard to understand. But for Daniel, it felt like shrugging on an old, soft suede coat that had been buried so deep in his closet he was certain it had long ago been given away to someone else who needed the cover. Lucid thought gave way to utter feeling. His body started to burn; his own anger buzzed in his ears. He saw through a crimson haze, he tasted his own blood, and still he knew he could not stop. As he gloried in the scrape of his knuckles and the adrenaline that kept him one step ahead, Daniel began to remember who he used to be.

Every brawl with a bully in Akiak, every fistfight with a drunk outside a bar, every window heÆd smashed to get inside a locked door-it was as if Daniel had stepped completely outside his body and was watching the tornado that had taken up residence there instead. In the ferocity, he lost himself, which was what heÆd hoped for all along.

By the time he was finished, Jason was shaking so hard that Daniel knew only his own hand at the boyÆs throat was keeping him upright. ôIf you everàever come near my daughter again,ö Daniel said, ôI will kill you.ö

He stared at Jason, trying to commit to memory the way the boy looked when he knew he was defeated, because Daniel wanted to see it on his face again on the day they handed down a verdict in the courtroom. He drew back his arm, focusing his sights on the spot just under the boyÆs jaw-the spot where a good, strong blow would knock him unconscious-when suddenly the high beams of an oncoming car washed over him.

It was the opportunity Jason needed to throw Daniel off balance. He pushed away and took off at a dead run. Daniel blinked, his concentration shattered.

Now that it was over, he could not stop his hands from trembling. He turned to the truck, where heÆd told Trixie to wait, and he opened the door. ôIÆm sorry you had to see-ö Daniel said, breaking off as he realized his daughter wasnÆt there.

ôTrixie!ö he yelled, searching the parking lot. ôTrixie, where are you?ö

 

It was too goddamned dark-Daniel couldnÆt see-so he started running up and down the aisles among the cars. Could Trixie have been so upset, watching him turn into an animal, that sheÆd been willing to jump from the frying pan into the fire, to get as far away from him as possible, even if that meant sheÆd have to run into town?

Daniel started sprinting down Main Street, calling for her. Frantic passed for festive in the dark. He pushed aside knots of carolers and divided families joined together at the hands. He barreled into a table with a sugar-on-snow display, kids rolling long strings of candied maple syrup around popsicle sticks. He climbed onto a sidewalk bench so that he could tower over the milling crowd and look around.

There were hundreds of people, and Trixie wasnÆt one of them.

 

He headed back to his car. It was possible that she had gone home, although it would take her a while to cover the four-mile distance on foot, in the snow. He could take his truck and start searchingàbut what if she hadnÆt left town? What if she came back looking for him, and he wasnÆt here?

Then again, what if sheÆd started home, and Jason found her first?

 

He reached into the glove compartment and fumbled for his cell phone. No one answered at the house. After a hesitation, he called LauraÆs office.

Last time heÆd done this, she hadnÆt answered.

 

When she picked up on the first ring, DanielÆs knees buckled with relief. ôTrixieÆs missing.ö

ôWhat?ö He could hear the bright blue edge of panic in LauraÆs voice. ôWeÆre in townàshe was in the car waitingàö He was not making any sense,

and he knew it.

 

ôWhere are you?ö

 

ôIn the lot behind the grocery store.ö ôIÆm on my way.ö

When the line went dead, Daniel slipped the phone into his coat pocket.

Maybe Trixie would try to call him. He stood up and tried to replay the fight with Jason, but he could not dissect it: It could have been three minutes, it could have been thirty. Trixie might have run off at the first punch or after the last. He had been so single-minded about wanting to do harm that heÆd lost sight of his daughter while she was still standing in front of him.

ôPlease,ö he whispered to a God heÆd given up on years ago. ôPlease let her be all right.ö

Suddenly a movement in the distance caught his eye. He turned to see a shadow crossing behind the brush at the far end of the parking lot. Daniel stepped out of the circle of light thrown by the streetlamp and walked toward the spot where heÆd seen the dark overlap itself. ôTrixie,ö he called. ôIs that you?ö

Jason Underhill stood with his hands braced on the wooden railing of the trestle bridge, trying to see if the river had completely iced over yet. His face hurt like hell from where TrixieÆs father had beaten the crap out of him, his ribs throbbed, and he didnÆt have any idea how he was going to explain his battered face in the morning without revealing that heÆd broken the conditions of his bail and interacted with not one but two members of the Stone family.

If they were going to try him as an adult, did that affect the rest? Once they found out that heÆd approached Trixie, would he get sent to a real jail, instead of just some juvy facility?

Maybe it didnÆt matter, anyway. Bethel Academy didnÆt want him to play next year. His hopes to go professional one day were as good as dead. And why? Because heÆd been considerate that night at Zephyr Santorelli-WeinsteinÆs house and had gone back to make sure that Trixie was all right.

Three weeks ago, he had been the number one ranked high school hockey player in the state of Maine. He had a 3.7 grade point average and a penchant for hat tricks, and even kids who didnÆt know him pretended they did. He could have had his pick of high school girls and maybe even some from the local college, but heÆd been stupid enough to fall for Trixie Stone: a human black hole who camouflaged herself as a girl with a heart so clear you might look at it and see yourself.

He was seventeen, and his life was as good as over.

 

Jason stared at the ice beneath the bridge. If his trial started before the spring cameàif he lostàhow long would it be before he saw the river running again?

He leaned down, his elbows on the wooden railing, and pretended that he could see it now.

Daniel was sitting underneath the streetlamp when Laura came running up to him. ôDid she come back?ö

ôNo,ö he said, getting slowly to his feet. ôAnd sheÆs not answering, if sheÆs at the house.ö

ôOkay,ö Laura said, pacing in a tight circle. ôOkay.ö

 

ôItÆs not okay. I got into a fight with Jason Underhill. He had his hands on her. And IàIàI snapped. I beat him up, Laura. Trixie saw every minute of it.ö Daniel took a deep breath. ôMaybe we should call Bartholemew.ö

Laura shook her head. ôIf you call the police, you have to tell them you were

fighting with Jason,ö she said flatly. ôThatÆs assault, Daniel. People get arrested for it.ö

Daniel fell silent, thinking of his previous encounter with Jason-the one in the woods, with a knife. As far as he knew, the boy hadnÆt said anything to anyone about it. But if it came out that Daniel had beaten him up, that other incident was bound to surface.

And it wasnÆt just assault-it qualified as kidnapping, too. He turned to Laura. ôSo what do we do?ö

She stepped closer, the light from the lamp falling over her shoulders like a cloak. ôWe find her ourselves,ö she said.

Laura ran into the house, calling for Trixie, but there was no answer. Shaking, she walked into the dark kitchen, still wearing her coat. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face.

This couldnÆt have happened.

 

She and Daniel had plotted a strategy: He would search the streets for Trixie, while Laura went home in case she showed up. You need to calm down, she told herself. This is all going to work out.

When the phone rang, she grabbed it. Trixie. But in the moment it took for her to bring the receiver to her ear, she had another thought-what if it was the police?

Laura swallowed. ôHello?ö

 

ôMrs. Stoneàthis is Zephyr. Is Trixie there? IÆve got to talk to her.ö ôZephyr,ö she repeated. ôNo. TrixieÆs not-Have you seen her tonight?ö ôMe? Um. No.ö

ôWell.ö Laura closed her eyes. ôIÆll tell her you called,ö she said. She hung

up the phone, sat down at the kitchen table, and steeled herself to wait for whatever came next.

Every summer, traveling fairs came through Maine. They arrived in caravans that popped open to reveal the baseball throw, the ringtoss, the balloon darts. A massive white truck unfolded, like a sleeping deer getting to its feet, to turn into the Tilt-A-Whirl; another transformed into the Indiana Jones Adventure House. There were kiddie rides-hot-air balloons that never left the ground, giant frogs with pink plaster tongues that chased flies in small circles, a carousel fit for a princess. But the ride Trixie looked forward to, year after year, was the Dragon Coaster.

The roller coaster had the enormous painted head of a Chinese New YearÆs dragon, five cars, and then an arched tail with gold curlicues painted on it. It mutated from one of those folding trucks: a tight loop of steel track that swung into a waystation. The carney who ran the coaster had a long, thin ponytail and so many tattoos on his arms that you had to get close to see they werenÆt just sleeves.

Trixie always tried to get the first car, the one that put you behind the dragonÆs mouth. For a kiddie ride, the roller coaster was surprisingly fast, and the front car was quicker than any other-you whipped harder around the corners. You lurched to a more jarring stop.

The summer Trixie was eleven, she climbed into the front car as usual and realized something was wrong. She couldnÆt pull the safety bar down over her knees. She had to turn sideways and jam herself along the side of the car. Trixie was convinced that this wasnÆt the same roller coaster-that theyÆd gotten an upgrade and skimped on the proportions-but the carney said nothing had changed.

He was lying. She knew this, because even as he said it, and pushed his ponytail out of the way, he was staring at the writing on her T-shirt: BETHEL FARM ôAö SOFTBALL scrawled across her chest.

Until that moment, Trixie had been looking forward to going to middle school and the privileges that came with it. SheÆd held the word adolescent on her tongue, enjoying the way it fizzed like a bath bomb. Until then, she hadnÆt

considered that there was a tradeoff, that she might not fit anymore in places where sheÆd been comfortable.

The next summer, when Trixie was twelve, she got dropped off at the fair with Zephyr. Instead of going on the rides, they bought an onion blossom and trolled through the crowd to find kids they knew.

Trixie was thinking about all this as she stood, shivering, in front of the Bank of Bethel. It was midnight, now, and the Winterfest was a memory. The police barriers blocking Main Street had been removed; the Christmas lights had been unplugged. The trash cans were stuffed with paper cups, plastic cider jugs, and broken candy canes.

The bank had a large mirrored window that had always fascinated Trixie. These days, when she passed by, sheÆd check herself out, or look to see if anyone else was doing the same. But as a kid, the mirror had taken her by surprise. For years she kept the secret from her parents that there was a girl in Bethel who looked exactly like her.

In the reflection, Trixie watched her father approach. She looked at him or, really, at the twin of him, standing beside the twin of her. The moment he touched her, it was as if a spell had broken. She could barely stand on her feet, she was that tired.

He caught her as she swayed. ôLetÆs go home,ö he said, and he lifted her into his arms.

Trixie rested her head on his shoulder. She watched the stars shimmer and wink in patterns, an alphabet everyone else seemed to know but that she could not for the life of her read.

LauraÆs car was in the driveway when Daniel came back. That had been the plan: SheÆd drive back home and wait in the house, in case Trixie had made her way home. Daniel would walk the streets of Bethel, in case she hadnÆt. Trixie was sound asleep when he carried her out of the truck and brought her up to her bedroom. There, he unlaced her boots and unzipped her parka. He thought for a moment about helping her into pajamas but instead drew the covers up over Trixie, fully clothed.

When he stood up, Laura was standing in the doorway. Seeing Trixie, her eyes were wide, her face as white as chalk. ôOh, Daniel,ö she whispered, guessing the worst. ôSomething happened.ö

ôNothing happened,ö Daniel said softly, putting his arms around her.

 

Laura-who always seemed to know the right thing to do and the right thing to say-was at a complete loss. She wrapped her arms around DanielÆs waist and burst into tears. He led her into the darkened hallway and closed TrixieÆs bedroom door so that she wouldnÆt be disturbed. ôSheÆs home,ö he said, forcing a smile, even though he could see the scrapes on his knuckles, could feel the bruises that bloomed beneath his skin. ôThatÆs all that counts.ö

The next morning, Daniel assessed the damage in the bathroom mirror. His lip was split; he had a shiner on his right temple; the knuckles of his right hand were swollen and raw. But that inventory didnÆt even begin to address the harm done to his relationship with his daughter. Because sheÆd fallen asleep, exhausted, Daniel still hadnÆt had the chance to explain what had happened to him last night, what beast heÆd turned into.

He washed his face and toweled it dry. How did you go about explaining to your daughter-the victim of a rape, for GodÆs sake-that violence in a man was like energy: transformed, but never destroyed? How did you tell a girl who was trying so hard to start fresh that you couldnÆt ever obliterate your past?

It was going to be one of those days when the temperature didnÆt climb above zero. He could tell, just by the bone-deep chill of the floorboards on his bare feet when he went downstairs and the way the icicles pointed like arrows from the outside overhang of the kitchen window. Trixie was standing at the refrigerator, wearing flannel pajama bottoms, a T-shirt that had gone missing from DanielÆs own dresser, and a blue bathrobe that no longer fit. Her wrists and hands stuck out too far from the sleeves as she reached for the orange juice.

Laura glanced up from the table, where she was poring intently over the newspaper-looking, Daniel assumed, for a story about his brawl with Jason last night. ôMorning,ö Daniel said hesitantly. Their eyes met, and they passed an entire conversation without speaking a word: How is she? Did she say anything? Do I treat this as an ordinary day? Do I pretend last night never happened?

Daniel cleared his throat. ôTrixieàwe have to talk.ö

 

Trixie didnÆt look at him. She unscrewed the Tropicana and began to pour some into a glass. ôWeÆre out of orange juice,ö she said.

The telephone rang. Laura stood up to answer it and carried the receiver into the living room that adjoined the kitchen.

Daniel sank down into the seat his wife had vacated and watched Trixie at the counter. He loved her, and in return sheÆd trusted him-and her reward was to see him turn into an animal before her eyes. It wasnÆt all that different, really, from what she must have experienced during the rape-and that alone was enough to make Daniel hate himself.

Laura came back into the room and hung up the phone. She moved stiffly, her features frozen.

ôWho was it?ö Daniel asked.

 

Laura shook her head, covered her hand with her mouth. ôLaura,ö he pressed.

ôJason Underhill committed suicide last night,ö she whispered.

 

Trixie shook the empty container. ôWeÆre out of orange juice,ö she repeated.

In the bathroom, Trixie ran the hot water for fifteen minutes before she stepped into the shower, letting the small space fill with enough steam that she wouldnÆt have to see her reflection in the mirror. The news had taken up residence in their house, and now, in the aftermath, nobody seemed to know what to do. Her mother had slipped out of the kitchen like a ghost. Her father sank down at the table with his head in his hands, his eyes squeezed shut.

Distracted, he didnÆt notice when Trixie left. Neither parent was around to see her disappear into her bathroom or to ask her to leave the door wide open, as they had for the past week, so that they could check up on her.

What would be the point?

There would be no rape trial anymore. There was no need to make sure she didnÆt wind up in a mental hospital before she took the stand as a witness. She could go as crazy as she wanted to. She could secure herself a berth in a psych ward for the next thirty years, every minute of which she could spend thinking about what sheÆd done.

There was one Bic razor hidden away. It had fallen behind a crack in the sink cabinet and Trixie made sure to keep it there, in case of emergency. Now she fished for it and set it on the counter. She smacked it hard with a plastic bottle of bath gel, until the pink caddy cracked and the blade slipped out. She ran the tip of her finger over the edge, felt the skin peel back in an onion fold.

She thought about what it used to feel like when Jason kissed her, and sheÆd breathe in air that heÆd breathed a moment before. She tried to imagine what it was like to not breathe anymore, ever. She thought of his head snapping back when her father hit him, of the last words he had said to her.

Trixie pulled off her pajamas and stepped into the shower. She crouched in the tub and let the water sluice over her. She cried great, damp, gray sobs that no one could hear over the roar of the plumbing, and she carved at her arm-not to kill herself, because she didnÆt deserve such an easy way out-just to release some of the pain before it exploded inside her. She cut three lines and a circle, inside the crook of her elbow:

NO.

 

Blood swirled pink between her feet. She looked down at her tattoo. Then she lifted the blade and slashed hatch marks through the letters, a grid of gashes, until not even Trixie could remember what sheÆd been trying to say.

5

W hen Jason UnderhillÆs ghost showed up that night, Trixie was expecting him. He was transparent and white faced, with a gash in the back of his skull. She stared through him and pretended not to notice that he had materialized out of nowhere.

He was the first person Trixie knew whoÆd died. Technically, that wasnÆt quite accurate-her grandmother had died in Alaska when Trixie was four, but Trixie had never met her. She remembered her father sitting at the kitchen table with the telephone still in his hand even though the person on the other end had hung up, and silence landing on the house like a fat black crow.

Jason kept glancing at the ground, as if he needed to keep track of his footsteps. Trixie tried not to look at the bruises on his face or the blood on his collar. ôIÆm not scared of you,ö she said, although she was not telling the truth. ôYou canÆt do anything to me.ö She wondered if ghosts had the powers of superheroes, if they could see through linen and flannel to spot her legs shaking, if they could swallow her words and spit her lie back out like a bullet.

Jason leaned so close that his hand went right through Trixie. It felt like winter. He was able to draw her forward, as if he were magnetic and she had dissolved into a thousand metal filings. Pulling her upright in her bed, he kissed her full on the mouth. He tasted of dark soil and muddy currents. IÆm not through with you, Jason vowed, and then he disappeared bit by bit, the pressure against her lips the last thing to go.

Afterward, Trixie lay in bed, shaking. She thought about the bitter cold that had taken up residence under her breastbone, like a second heart made of ice. She thought about what Jason had said and wondered why heÆd had to die before he felt the same way she had felt about him all along.

Mike Bartholemew crouched in front of the boot prints that led up to the railing of the bridge from which Jason had jumped, a cryptic choreography of the boyÆs last steps. Placing a ruler next to the best boot print, he took a digital photo. Then he lifted an aerosol can and sprayed light layers of red wax over the area. The wax froze the snow, so that when he took the mixture of dental stone and water heÆd prepared to make a cast, it wouldnÆt melt any of the ridge details.

While he waited for his cast to dry, he hiked down the slippery bank to the spot being combed by crime scene investigators. In his own tenure as a detective, heÆd presided over two suicides in this very spot, one of the few in Bethel where you could actually fall far enough to do serious damage.

Jason Underhill had landed on his side. His head had cracked the ice on the river and was partially submerged. His hand was covered with dirt and matted leaves. The snow was still stained pink with blood that had pooled beneath his head.

For all intents and purposes, Jason had done the taxpayers a favor by saving them the cost of a trial and possible incarceration. Being tried as an adult for rape made the stakes higher-and more potentially devastating. Bartholemew had seen lesser motives that led folks to take their own lives.

He knelt beside Jerry, one of the forensic cops. ôWhat have you got?ö ôMaria DeSantos, only seventy degrees colder.ö

Maria DeSantos had been their last suicide plunger in this location, but she had been missing for three weeks in the heat of the summer before the stench of the decomposing body had attracted a kayaker on the river.

ôFind anything?ö

 

ôA wallet and a cell phone. There could be more, but the snowÆs pretty deep.ö Jerry glanced up from his collection of blood on the body. ôYou see the kid play in the exhibition game last night in town?ö

ôI was on duty.ö

 

ôI heard he was hammeredàand that he was still a hell of a player.ö Jerry shook his head. ôDamn shame, if you ask me.ö

ôI didnÆt,ö Bartholemew said, and he stood up. He had already been to the Underhill house, to bring them the news of their sonÆs death. Greta Underhill had opened the door, looked at his face, and burst into tears. Her husband had been only superficially composed. He thanked Bartholemew for bringing the information and said heÆd like to see Jason now. Then heÆd walked outside into the snow, without a coat, barefoot.

BartholemewÆs own boss had brought him the news about Holly. HeÆd known that the worst had happened when he saw the chief of police standing on his porch in the middle of the night. He remembered demanding to be driven to the scene, where he stood at the guardrail her car had smashed through. He

remembered, too, going to identify HollyÆs body in the hospital morgue. Bartholemew had pulled aside the sheet to see the tracks on her arms, the ones heÆd been blind to as a parent. HeÆd put his hand over HollyÆs heart, just to make sure.

The Underhills wanted to see Jason; theyÆd be given that privilege before the autopsy began. In this sense, accidents, suicides, and murders were all the same- any death that occurred without someone there to witness it was automatically brought to the medical examiner for a determination of cause. It wasnÆt police procedure as much as human nature. We all want to know what went wrong, even when there isnÆt really an answer to that question.

The Monday after Jason UnderhillÆs suicide, two psychologists were called to the high school to help students who needed to grieve. The hockey team took to wearing black armbands and won three straight, vowing to take the state title in homage to their fallen teammate. One entire page of the Portland paperÆs sports section was devoted to a memorial of JasonÆs athletic achievements.

That same day, Laura went out for groceries. She moved aimlessly through the store, picking up things like ugli fruit and bags of pitted prunes, slivered almonds, and balls of buffalo mozzarella. Somewhere in her purse she knew she had a list-ordinary items like bread and milk and dishwashing detergent-but there was a part of her that felt normal things didnÆt apply anymore and therefore there was no point in buying them. Eventually, she found herself in front of the freezer section, the door open and the cold spilling over the toes of her boots. There must have been a hundred different ice cream flavors. How could you pick, knowing that youÆd have to go home and live with the choice youÆd made?

She was reading the ingredients on a peach sorbet when she heard two women talking one aisle over, hidden by the freezers. ôWhat a tragedy,ö one said. ôThat boy was going places.ö

ôI heard that Greta Underhill canÆt get out of bed,ö the second woman added. ôMy pastor was told by her pastor that she might not even make it to the funeral.ö

A week ago, in spite of the rape accusations, Jason had still been a hero to

most of this town. But now death had swelled him to mythic proportions.

 

Laura curled her hands around the front bar of her grocery cart. She navigated around the corner, until she was face to face with the women whoÆd been talking. ôDo you know who I am?ö The ladies glanced at each other, shook their heads. ôIÆm the mother of the girl Jason Underhill raped.ö

She said it for the shock value. She said it on the off chance that these ladies might, out of sudden shame, apologize. But neither of them said a word.

Laura guided her shopping cart around the corner and toward an empty checkout line. The cashier had a skunk-streak of blue hair and a ring through her bottom lip. Laura reached into the basket and held up a box of plastic knives- when had she taken those off a shelf? ôYou know,ö she said to the cashier, ôI actually donÆt need those.ö

ôNo biggie. We can reshelve them.ö

 

Six packets of powdered hollandaise sauce, suntan lotion, and wart remover medicine. ôActually,ö Laura said, ôIÆm going to pass on these, too.ö

She emptied the rest of her shopping cart: bacon bits and baby food and Thai coconut milk; a sippy cup and hair elastics and two pounds of green jalape±os; the peach sorbet. She stared at the items on the conveyor belt as if she were seeing them for the first time. ôI donÆt want any of this,ö Laura said, surprised, as if it were anyoneÆs fault but her own.

Dr. Anjali Mukherjee spent most of her time in the morgue, not just because she was the county medical examiner but also because when she ventured abovestairs at the hospital, she was continually mistaken for a med student or, worse, a candy striper. She was five feet tall, with the small, delicate features of a child, but Mike Bartholemew had seen her elbow-deep in a Y-shaped incision, determining the cause of death of the person who lay on her examination table.

ôThe subject had a blood alcohol level of point one two,ö Anjali said, as she rifled through a series of X-rays and headed toward the light box on the wall.

Legal intoxication was .10; that meant Jason Underhill was considerably

trashed when he went over the railing of the bridge. At least he wasnÆt driving, Bartholemew thought. At least he only killed himself.

ôThere,ö the medical examiner said, pointing at an X-ray. ôWhat do you see?

ö

 

ôA foot?ö

 

ôThatÆs why they pay you the big bucks. Come over here for a second.ö

Anjali cleared off a lab table and patted it. ôClimb up.ö ôI donÆt want-ö

ôClimb up, Bartholemew.ö

 

Grudgingly, he stood on top of the table. He glanced down at the top of AnjaliÆs head. ôAnd IÆm doing this why?ö

ôJump.ö

 

Bartholemew hopped a little. ôI meant jump off.ö

He swung his arms, then went airborne, landing in a crouch. ôGoddamn, I still canÆt fly.ö

ôYou landed on your feet,ö Anjali said. ôLike most people who jump. When we see suicides like this, the X-rays show heel fractures and vertical compressions of the spine, which arenÆt present on this victim.ö

ôAre you telling me he didnÆt fall?ö

 

ôNo, he fell. ThereÆs contrecoup damage to the brain that suggests acceleration. When someone lands on the back of the skull, youÆll see injury to the front of the brain, because it continues to fall after the skull stops and hits it hard.ö

ôMaybe he jumped and landed on his head,ö Bartholemew suggested. ôInterestingly, I didnÆt see the types of fractures associated with that either.

Let me show you what I did find, though.ö Anjali handed him two photographs, both of Jason UnderhillÆs face. They were identical, except for the black eye and bruising along the temple and jaw of the second one.

ôYou been beating up the subjects, Angie?ö

 

ôThat only works premortem,ö Anjali replied. ôI took these ten hours apart.

When you brought him in, he didnÆt have bruisesàexcept for a subtle hemorrhage in the facial area that could have been caused by the fall. But he was lying on that side of his face when found, and the pooling of the blood might have obscured the contusions. When he was brought to the morgue and placed sunny-side up, the blood redistributed.ö She removed the X-ray theyÆd been examining. ôWhen I was doing an FP fellowship, we had a Jane Doe come in with no apparent external trauma, except for a slight hemorrhage in the strap muscles of the neck. By the time the autopsy was over, there were two obvious handprints on her throat.ö

ôCouldnÆt he have banged himself up when he fell?ö

 

ôI thought youÆd say that. Take a look at this.ö Anjali slid another X-ray onto the light box.

Bartholemew whistled softly. ôThatÆs his face, huh?ö ôIt was.ö

He pointed to a crack along the temple of the skull. ôThat looks like a fracture.ö

ôThatÆs where he landed,ö Anjali said. ôBut look closer.ö

 

Bartholemew squinted. On the cheekbone and the jaw were smaller, fainter fault lines.

ôIn the case of a blow and a subsequent fall, the fracture lines caused by the fall are blocked by those caused by the initial blow. An injury to the head caused by a fall is usually found around the level of the brim of a hat. However, a hard punch to the face usually hits below that.ö

The fracture at UnderhillÆs temple radiated out toward the eye socket and the

cheekbone but stopped abruptly at one of these hairline cracks.

 

ôThe subject also had extravasation of red blood cells on tissues around his jaw and ribs.ö

ôWhich means what?ö

 

ôItÆs a bruise that didnÆt get to happen. Meaning there was trauma to that tissue, but before that blood could break down and go black and blue, the subject died.ö

ôSo maybe he was in a fight before he decided to jump,ö Bartholemew said, his mind running fast with possibilities.

ôYou might also be interested in this.ö Anjali passed him a microscopic slide with tiny filings on it. ôWe dug them out of the subjectÆs fingertips.ö

ôWhat are they?ö

 

ôSplinters consistent with the railing of the bridge. There were some wood slivers caught in the tails of his jacket, too.ö Anjali glanced at Bartholemew. ôI donÆt think this kid killed himself by jumping off a bridge,ö she said. ôI think he was pushed.ö

When Daniel heard sobbing, he immediately assumed it was Trixie. In the days since theyÆd heard the news about Jason, she would dissolve without any provocation-at the dinner table, while brushing her teeth, staring at a commercial on television. She was so firmly entrenched in memory that Daniel didnÆt know how to pry her loose and bring her back to the real world.

Sometimes he held her. Sometimes he just sat down next to her. He never tried to stop her tears; he didnÆt think he had that right. He just wanted her to know that he was there if she needed him.

This time, when the crying began, Daniel followed the sound upstairs. But instead of finding Trixie sobbing, he turned into his own bedroom to find his wife sitting on the floor, hugging a knot of clean laundry against her. ôLaura?ö

She turned at the sound of her name, wiping her cheeks. ôIÆm sorryàitÆs wrong, I knowàbut I keep thinking about him.ö

Him. DanielÆs heart turned over. How long would it be until he could hear a sentence like that and not feel as if heÆd been punched?

ôItÆs justàö She wiped her eyes. ôItÆs just that he was someoneÆs child, too.ö

Jason. The immediate relief Daniel felt to know that Laura wasnÆt crying over the nameless man sheÆd slept with evaporated as he realized that she was crying, instead, for someone who didnÆt merit that kind of mercy.

ôIÆve been so lucky, Daniel,ö Laura said. ôWhat if Trixie had died last week? What ifàwhat if youÆd told me to move out?ö

Daniel reached out to tuck LauraÆs hair behind her ear. Maybe you had to come close to losing something before you could remember its value. Maybe it would be like that for the two of them. ôI would never have let you go.ö

Laura shuddered, as if his words had sent a shock through her. ôDaniel, I-ö ôYou donÆt need to cry for us,ö he said, squeezing her shoulder, ôbecause

weÆre all going to be fine.ö

 

He felt Laura nod against him.

 

ôAnd you donÆt have to cry for Jason,ö Daniel said. ôBecause Jason deserves to be dead.ö

He hadnÆt spoken the words aloud, the ones heÆd been thinking ever since Laura had taken that phone call days before. But this was exactly the sort of world he drew: one where actions had consequences, where revenge and retribution were the heartbeat of a story. Jason had hurt Trixie; therefore, Jason deserved to be punished.

Laura drew back and stared at him, wide-eyed.

 

ôWhat?ö Daniel said, defiant. ôAre you shocked that I would think that?ö

She was quiet for a moment. ôNo,ö Laura admitted. ôJust that you said it out loud.ö

The minute Bartholemew entered the digital photo of the footprints on the bridge into his software program and compared it to an inking of JasonÆs boot, he got a match. However, there was another footprint with a tread on the sole that was different from JasonÆs, possibly from their suspectÆs shoe.

With a sigh, Bartholemew turned off his computer screen and took out the bag of evidence collected from the crime scene. He rummaged for the cell phone that Jerry had found near the victim. A Motorola, identical to the one Bartholemew carried-up here in Maine, you just didnÆt have all the cellular options available in a big city. Jason had probably bought it from the same store where heÆd bought his. The same sales rep had probably programmed it for him.

Bartholemew started punching buttons. There were no messages, text or voice. But there was a memo.

He hit the shortcut button, *8, and suddenly the sound of a fight filled the room. There were punches being landed, and grunts and moans. He heard JasonÆs voice, pleas that broke off at their edges. And another familiar voice: If you ever, ever come near my daughter again, I will kill you.

Bartholemew stood up, grabbed his coat, and headed out to find Daniel Stone.

ôWhat do you think happens when you die?ö Zephyr asked.

 

Trixie was lying on her stomach on her bed, flipping through the pages of Allure magazine and looking at purses and shoes that she would never be able to afford. She didnÆt get purses, anyway. She didnÆt want to ever be the kind of person who couldnÆt carry what she needed in her back pocket. ôYou decompose,ö Trixie said, and she turned to the next ad.

ôThat is so totally disgusting,ö Zephyr said. ôI wonder how long it takes.ö Trixie had wondered that too, but she wasnÆt going to admit it to Zephyr.

Every night since his death, Jason had visited her in her bedroom in the darkest part of the night. Sometimes he just stared until she woke up; sometimes he talked to her. Finally he left by blasting through her middle.

She knew that he hadnÆt been buried yet, and maybe that was why he kept coming. Maybe once his body began to break down inside its coffin, he wouldnÆt show up at the foot of her bed.

Since Trixie had returned from the hospital, it had been like old times-Zephyr would come over after school and tell her everything she was missing: the catfight between two cheerleaders who liked the same guy, the substitute teacher in French who couldnÆt speak a single word of the language, the sophomore who got hospitalized for anorexia. Zephyr had also been her source of information about how Bethel High was processing JasonÆs death. The guidance counselors had led an assembly about teen depression; the principal had gotten on the PA during homeroom announcements to have a moment of memorial silence; JasonÆs locker had become a shrine, decorated with notes and stickers and Beanie Babies. It was, Trixie realized, as if Jason had grown larger than life after his death, as if it was going to be even harder now for her to avoid him.

Zephyr rolled over. ôDo you think it hurts to die?ö Not as much as it hurts to live, Trixie thought.

ôDo you think we go somewhereàafter?ö Zephyr asked.

 

Trixie closed her magazine. ôI donÆt know.ö

 

ôI wonder if itÆs like it is here. If there are popular dead people and geeky dead people. You know.ö

That sounded like high school, and the way Trixie figured it, that was more likely to be hell. ôI guess itÆs different for different people,ö she said. ôLike, if you died, thereÆd be an endless supply of Sephora makeup. For Jason, itÆs one big hockey rink.ö

ôBut do people ever cross over? Do the hockey players ever get to hang out with the people who eat only chocolate? Or the ones who play Nintendo twenty- four/seven?ö

ôMaybe there are dances or something,ö Trixie said. ôOr a bulletin board, so you know what everyone else is up to, and you can join in if you want and blow it off if you donÆt.ö

ôI bet when you eat chocolate in heaven itÆs no big deal,ö Zephyr said. ôIf you can have it whenever you want it, it probably doesnÆt taste as good.ö She shrugged. ôI bet they all watch us down here, because they know weÆve got it better than them and weÆre too stupid to realize it.ö She glanced sideways at Trixie. ôGuess what I heard.ö

ôWhat?ö

 

ôHis whole head was bashed in.ö

 

Trixie felt her stomach turn over. ôThatÆs just a rumor.ö

 

ôItÆs totally not. Marcia BreenÆs brotherÆs girlfriend is a nurse, and she saw Jason being brought into the hospital.ö She popped a bubble with her gum. ôI hope that if he went to heaven, he got a big old bandage or plastic surgery or something.ö

ôWhat makes you think heÆs going to heaven?ö Trixie asked.

 

Zephyr froze. ôI didnÆt meanàI justàö Her gaze slid toward Trixie. ôTrix, are you truly glad heÆs dead?ö

Trixie stared at her hands in her lap. For a moment, they looked like they belonged to someone else-still, pale, too heavy for the rest of her. She forced herself to open her magazine again, and she pretended she was engrossed in an ad about tampons so that she didnÆt have to give Zephyr a reply. Maybe after reading for a while, they would both forget what Zephyr had asked. Maybe after a while, Trixie wouldnÆt be afraid of her answer.

According to Dante, the deeper you got into hell, the colder it was. When Daniel imagined hell, he saw the vast white wasteland of the Yukon-Kuskokwim delta where heÆd grown up. Standing on the frozen river, you might see smoke rising in the distance. A YupÆik Eskimo would know it was open water, steaming where it hit the frigid air, but a trick of the light could make you

believe otherwise. You might think you see the breath of the devil.

 

When Daniel drew the ninth circle of hell, it was a world of planes and angles, a synchronicity of white lines, a land made of ice. It was a place where the greater effort you made to escape, the more deeply entrenched you were.

Daniel had just put the finishing touches on the devilÆs face when he heard a car pull into the driveway. From the window of his office, he watched Detective Bartholemew get out of his Taurus. He had known it was coming to this, hadnÆt he? He had known it the minute heÆd walked into that parking lot and found Jason Underhill with Trixie.

Daniel opened up the front door before the detective could knock. ôWell,ö Bartholemew said. ôThatÆs what I call service.ö

Daniel tried to channel the easy repartee of social intercourse, but it was like he was fresh out of the village again, bombarded by sensations he didnÆt understand: colors and sights and speech heÆd never seen or heard before. ôWhat can I do for you?ö he asked finally.

ôI was wondering if we could talk for a minute,ö Bartholemew said.

 

No, Daniel thought. But he led the detective inside to the living room and offered him a seat.

ôWhereÆs the rest of the family?ö

 

ôLauraÆs teaching,ö Daniel said. ôTrixieÆs upstairs with a friend.ö ôHowÆd she take the news about Jason Underhill?ö

Was there a right answer to that question? Daniel found himself replaying possible responses in his head before he balanced them on his tongue. ôShe was pretty upset. I think she feels partially responsible.ö

ôWhat about you, Mr. Stone?ö the detective asked.

 

He thought about the conversation heÆd had with Laura just that morning. ôI wanted him to be punished for what he did,ö Daniel said. ôBut I never wished him dead.ö

The detective stared at him for a long minute. ôIs that so?ö

 

There was a thump overhead; Daniel glanced up. Trixie and Zephyr had been upstairs for about an hour. When Daniel had last checked on them, they were reading magazines and eating Goldfish crackers.

ôDid you see Jason Friday night?ö Detective Bartholemew asked. ôWhy?ö

ôWeÆre just trying to piece together the approximate time of the suicide.ö

 

DanielÆs mind spiraled backward. Had Jason said something to the cops about the incident in the woods? Had the guy whoÆd driven by the parking lot during their fistfight gotten a good look at Daniel? Had there been other witnesses?

ôNo, I didnÆt see Jason,ö Daniel lied.

 

ôHuh. I could have sworn I saw you in town.ö

 

ôMaybe you did. I took Trixie to the minimart to get some cheese. We were making a pizza for dinner.ö

ôAbout when was that?ö

 

The detective pulled a pad and pencil out of his pocket; it momentarily stopped Daniel cold. ôSeven,ö he said. ôMaybe seven-thirty. We just drove to the store and then we left.ö

ôWhat about your wife?ö

 

ôLaura? She was working at the college, and then she came home.ö Bartholemew made a note on his pad. ôSo none of you ran into Jason?ö Daniel shook his head.

Bartholemew put his pad back into his breast pocket. ôWell,ö he said, ôthen thatÆs that.ö

ôSorry I couldnÆt help you,ö Daniel answered, standing up.

 

The detective stood too. ôYou must be relieved. Obviously your daughter wonÆt have to testify as a witness now.ö

Daniel didnÆt know how to respond. Just because the rape case wouldnÆt proceed didnÆt mean that TrixieÆs slate would be wiped clean as well. Maybe she wouldnÆt testify, but she wouldnÆt get back to who she used to be, either.

Bartholemew headed toward the front door. ôIt was pretty crazy in town Friday night, with the Winterfest and all,ö he said. ôDid you get what you wanted?ö

Daniel went still. ôI beg your pardon?ö ôThe cheese. For your pizza.ö

He forced a smile. ôIt turned out perfect,ö Daniel said.

When Zephyr left a little while later, Trixie offered to walk her out. She stood on the driveway, shivering, not having bothered with a coat. The sound of ZephyrÆs heels faded, and then Trixie couldnÆt even see her anymore. She was about to head back inside when a voice spoke from behind. ôItÆs good to have someone watching over you, isnÆt it?ö

Trixie whirled around to find Detective Bartholemew standing in the front yard. He looked like he was freezing, like heÆd been waiting for a while. ôYou scared me,ö she said.

The detective nodded down the block. ôI see you and your friend are on speaking terms again.ö

ôYeah. ItÆs nice.ö She wrapped her arms around herself. ôDid you, um, come to talk to my dad?ö

ôI already did that. I was sort of hoping to talk to you.ö

 

Trixie glanced at the window upstairs, glowing yellow, where she knew her

father was still working. She wished he was here with her right now. HeÆd know what to say. And what not to.

You had to talk to a policeman if he wanted to talk to you, didnÆt you? If you said no, heÆd immediately know there was something wrong.

ôOkay,ö Trixie said, ôbut could we go inside?ö

 

It was weird, leading the detective into their mudroom. She felt like he was boring holes in the back of her shirt with his eyes, like he knew something about Trixie she didnÆt know about herself yet.

ôHow are you feeling?ö Detective Bartholemew asked.

 

Trixie instinctively pulled her sleeves lower, concealing the fresh cuts sheÆd made in the shower. ôIÆm okay.ö

Detective Bartholemew sat down on a teak bench. ôWhat happened to JasonàdonÆt blame yourself.ö

Tears sprang into her throat, dark and bitter.

 

ôYou know, you remind me a little of my daughter,ö the detective said. He smiled at Trixie, then shook his head. ôBeing hereàit didnÆt come easy to her, either.ö

Trixie ducked her head. ôCan I ask you something?ö ôSure.ö

She pictured JasonÆs ghost: blued by the moon, bloody and distant. ôDid it hurt? How he died?ö

ôNo. It was fast.ö

 

He was lying-Trixie knew it. She hadnÆt realized that a policeman might lie. He didnÆt say anything else for such a long time that Trixie looked up at him, and thatÆs when she realized he was waiting for her to do just that. ôIs there something you want to tell me, Trixie? About Friday night?ö

Once, Trixie had been in the car when her father ran over a squirrel. It came out of nowhere, and the instant before impact Trixie had seen the animal look at them with the understanding that there was nowhere left to go. ôWhat about Friday night?ö

ôSomething happened between your father and Jason, didnÆt it.ö ôNo.ö

The detective sighed. ôTrixie, we already know about the fight.ö

 

Had her father told him? Trixie glanced up at the ceiling, wishing she were Superman, with X-ray vision, or able to communicate telepathically like Professor Xavier from the X-Men. She wanted to know what her father had said; she wanted to know what she should say. ôJason started it,ö she explained, and once she began, the words tumbled out of her. ôHe grabbed me. My father pulled him away. They fought with each other.ö

ôWhat happened after that?ö

 

ôJason ran awayàand we went home.ö She hesitated. ôWere we the last people to see himàyou knowàalive?ö

ôThatÆs what IÆm trying to figure out.ö

 

It was possible that this was why Jason kept coming back to her now. Because if Trixie could still see him, then maybe he wouldnÆt be gone. She looked up at Bartholemew. ôMy father was just protecting me. You know that, right?ö

ôYeah,ö the detective said. ôYeah, I do.ö

 

Trixie waited for him to say something else, but Bartholemew seemed to be in a different place, staring at the bricks on the floor of the mudroom. ôAre weàdone?ö

Detective Bartholemew nodded. ôYes. Thanks, Trixie. IÆll let myself out.ö Trixie didnÆt know what else there was to say, so she opened the door that

led into the house and closed it behind her, leaving the detective alone in the

mudroom. She was halfway upstairs when Bartholemew reached for her

fatherÆs boot, stamped the sole on an ink pad heÆd taken from his pocket, and pressed it firmly onto a piece of blank white paper.

The medical examiner called while Bartholemew was waiting for his order at the drive-through window of a Burger King. ôMerry Christmas,ö Anjali said when he answered his cell phone.

ôYouÆre about a week early,ö Bartholemew said.

 

The girl in the window blinked at him. ôKetchupmustardsaltor-pepper?ö ôNo, thanks.ö

ôI havenÆt even told you what IÆve got yet,ö Anjali said. ôI hope itÆs a big fat evidentiary link to murder.ö

In the window of the drive-through, the girl adjusted her paper hat. ôThatÆs five thirty-three.ö

ôWhere are you?ö Anjali said.

 

Bartholemew opened his wallet and took out a twenty. ôClogging my arteries.ö

ôWe started to clean off the body,ö the medical examiner explained. ôThe dirt on the victimÆs hand? Turns out itÆs not dirt after all. ItÆs blood.ö

ôSo he scraped his hand, trying to hold on?ö

 

The girl at the counter leaned closer and snapped the bill out of his fingers.

 

ôI can ABO type a dried stain at the lab, and this was O positive. Jason was B positive.ö She let that sink in. ôIt was blood, Mike, but not Jason UnderhillÆs.ö

BartholemewÆs mind started to race: If they had the murdererÆs blood, they could link a suspect to the crime. It would be easy enough to get a DNA sample from Daniel Stone when he was least expecting it-saliva taken from an envelope heÆd sealed or from the rim of a soda can tossed into the trash.

StoneÆs boot print hadnÆt been a match, but Bartholemew didnÆt see that as any particular deterrent to an arrest. There had been hundreds of folks in town Friday night; the question wasnÆt who had walked across the bridge, but who hadnÆt. Blood evidence, on the other hand, could be damning. Bartholemew pictured Daniel Stone on the icy bridge, going after Jason Underhill. He imagined Jason trying to hold him off. He thought back to his conversation with Daniel, the Band-Aid covering the knuckles of his right hand.

ôIÆm on my way,ö Bartholemew told Anjali.

 

ôHey,ö the Burger King girl said. ôWhat about your food?ö ôIÆm not hungry,ö he said, pulling out of the pickup line. ôDonÆt you want change?ö the girl called.

All the time, Mike thought, but he didnÆt answer.

ôDaddy,ö Trixie asked, as she was elbow-deep in the sink washing dishes, ôwhat were you like as a kid?ö

Her father did not glance up from the kitchen table he was wiping with a sponge. ôNothing like you are,ö he said. ôThank God.ö

Trixie knew her father didnÆt like to talk about growing up in Alaska, but she was starting to think that she needed to hear about it. She had been under the impression that her dad was of the typical suburban genus and species: the kind of guy who mowed his lawn every Saturday and read the sports section before the others, the type of father who was gentle enough to hold a monarch butterfly between his cupped palms so that Trixie could count the black spots on its wings. But that easygoing man would never have been capable of punching Jason repeatedly, even as Jason was bleeding and begging him to stop. That man had never been so consumed by fury that it twisted his features, made him unfamiliar.

Trixie decided the answer must be in the part of her fatherÆs life that he never wanted to share. Maybe Daniel Stone had been a whole different person, one who vanished just as Trixie arrived. She wondered if this was true of every

parent: if, prior to having children, they all used to be someone else. ôWhat do you mean?ö she asked. ôWhy am I so different from you?ö ôIt was a compliment. I was a pain in the ass at your age.ö

ôHow?ö Trixie asked.

 

She could see him weighing his words for an example he was willing to offer out loud. ôWell, for one thing, I ran away a lot.ö

Trixie had run away once, when she was little. SheÆd walked around the block twice and finally settled in the cool blue shadow beneath a hedgerow in her own backyard. Her father found her there less than an hour later. She expected him to get angry, but instead, heÆd crawled underneath the bushes and sat beside her. He plucked a dozen of the red berries he was always telling her never to eat and mashed them in the palm of his hand. Then heÆd painted a rose on her cheek and let her draw stripes across his own. HeÆd stayed there with her until the sun started to go down and then told her if she was still planning on running away, she might want to get a move on-even though they both knew that by that point, Trixie wasnÆt going anywhere.

ôWhen I was twelve,ö her father said, ôI stole a boat and decided to head down to Quinhagak. There arenÆt any roads leading to the tundra-you come and go by plane or boat. It was October, getting really cold, the end of fishing season. The boat motor quit working, and I started drifting into the Bering Sea. I had no food, only a few matches, and a little bit of gas-when all of a sudden I saw land. It was Nunivak Island, and if I missed it, the next stop was Russia.ö

Trixie raised a brow. ôYou are totally making this up.ö

 

ôSwear to God. I paddled like crazy. And just when I realized I had a shot at reaching shore, I saw the breakers. If I made it to the island, the boat was going to get smashed. I duct-taped the gas tank to myself, so that when the boat busted up, IÆd float.ö

This sounded like some extravagant survival flashback TrixieÆs father would write for one of his comic book characters-sheÆd read dozens. All this time, she had assumed they were the products of his imagination. After all, those daring deeds hardly matched the father sheÆd grown up with. But what if he was the

superhero? What if the world her father created daily-full of unbelievable feats and derring-do and harsh survival-wasnÆt something heÆd dreamed up but someplace heÆd actually lived?

She tried to imagine her father bobbing in the worldÆs roughest, coldest sea, struggling to make it to shore. She tried to picture that boy and then imagine him fully grown, a few nights ago, pummeling Jason. ôWhat happened?ö Trixie asked.

ôA Fish and Game guy who was taking one last look for the year spotted the fire I made after I washed up on the island and rescued me,ö her father said. ôI ran away one or two times each year after that, but I never managed to get very far. ItÆs like a black hole: People who go to the Alaskan bush disappear from the face of the earth.ö

ôWhy did you want to leave so badly?ö

 

Her father came up to the sink and wrung out the sponge. ôThere was nothing there for me.ö

ôThen you werenÆt really running away,ö Trixie said. ôYou were running toward.ö

Her father, though, had stopped listening. He reached over to turn off the water in the sink and grasped her elbows, turning the insides of her arms up to the light.

SheÆd forgotten about the Band-Aids, which had peeled off in the soapy water. SheÆd forgotten to not hike up her sleeves. In addition to the gash at her wrist, which had webbed itself with healing skin, her father could see the new cuts sheÆd made in the shower, the ones that climbed her forearm like a ladder.

ôBaby,ö her father whispered, ôwhat did you do?ö

 

TrixieÆs cheeks burned. The only person who knew about her cutting was Janice the rape counselor, whoÆd been ordered out of the house by TrixieÆs father a week ago. Trixie had been grateful for that one small cosmic favor: With Janice out of the picture, her secret could stay one. ôItÆs not what you think. I wasnÆt trying to kill myself again. It justàitÆs justàö She glanced down at the floor. ôItÆs how I run away.ö

When she finally gathered the courage to look up again, the expression on her fatherÆs face nearly broke her. The monster sheÆd seen in the parking lot the other night was gone, replaced by the parent sheÆd trusted her whole life.

Ashamed, she tried to pull away from his hold, but he wouldnÆt let her. He waited until she tired herself out with her thrashing, the way he used to when she was a toddler. Then he wrapped his arms so tight around Trixie she could barely breathe. That was all it took: She began to cry like she had that morning in the shower, when she had heard about Jason.

ôIÆm sorry,ö Trixie sobbed into her fatherÆs shirt. ôIÆm really sorry.ö They stood together in the kitchen for what felt like hours, with soap bubbles

rising around them and dishes as white as bones drying on the wire rack. It was

possible, Trixie supposed, that everyone had two faces: Some of us just did a better job of hiding it than others.

Trixie imagined her father jumping into water so cold it stole his breath. She pictured him watching his boat break to pieces around him. She bet that if heÆd been asked-even when he was sitting on that island, soaking wet and freezing- heÆd tell you he would have done it all over again.

Maybe she was more like her father than he thought.

The secret recipe for Sorrow Pie had been passed down from LauraÆs great- grandmother to her grandmother to her mother, and although she had no actual recollection of the transfer of information to herself, by the time she was eleven she knew the ingredients by heart, knew the careful procedure to make sure the crust didnÆt burn and the carrots didnÆt dissolve in the broth, and knew exactly how many bites it would take before the heaviness weighing on the dinerÆs heart disappeared. Laura knew that the shopping list in and of itself was nothing extraordinary: a chicken, four potatoes, leeks more white than green, pearl onions and whipping cream, bay leaves and basil. What made Sorrow Pie a force to be reckoned with was the way you might find the unlikely in any spoonful-a burst of cinnamon mixed with common pepper, lemon peel and vinegar sobering the crust-not to mention the ritual of preparation, which required the cook to back into the cupboard for her ingredients, to cut shortening only with the left hand, and, of course, to season the mixture with a tear of her own.

Daniel was the one who usually cooked, but when desperate measures were called for, Laura would put on an apron and pull out her great-grandmotherÆs stoneware pie plate, the one that turned a different color each time it came out of an oven. She had baked Sorrow Pie for dinner the night Daniel got word of his motherÆs death-a funeral he would not attend and a woman he had, to LauraÆs knowledge, never cried for. She made Sorrow Pie the afternoon TrixieÆs parakeet flew into a bathroom mirror and drowned in the toilet. She made it the morning after sheÆd first slept with Seth.

Today, when she had gone to the grocery store to gather the ingredients, she found herself standing in the middle of the baking goods aisle with her mind blank. The recipe, which had always been as familiar to her as her own name, had been wiped out of her memory. She could not have said whether cardamom was part of the spice regimen, or if it was coriander. She completely forgot to buy eggs.

It was no easier when Laura came home and took out a stew pot, only to find herself wondering what on earth she was supposed to put inside it. Frustrated, she made herself sit down at the kitchen table and write what she remembered of the recipe, aware that there were huge gaps and missing ingredients. Her mother, whoÆd died when Laura was twenty-two, had told her that writing the recipe down was a good way to have it stolen; Laura hated to think that this magic would end with her own carelessness.

It was while she was staring at the blanks on the page that Trixie came downstairs. ôWhat are you making?ö she asked, surveying the hodgepodge of ingredients on the kitchen counter.

ôSorrow Pie,ö Laura answered.

 

Trixie frowned. ôYouÆre missing the vinegar. And the carrots. And half the spices.ö She backed into the pantry and began to pull jars.

ôNot to mention the chicken.ö

 

The chicken. How had Laura forgotten that?

 

Trixie took a mixing bowl out and began to measure the flour and baking powder for the crust. ôYou donÆt have AlzheimerÆs, do you?ö

Laura couldnÆt remember ever teaching her daughter the way to make Sorrow Pie, yet here Trixie was passing the whisk to her left hand and closing her eyes as she poured the milk. Laura got up from the kitchen table and started peeling the pearl onions sheÆd bought, only to forget why sheÆd begun when she was halfway through.

She was too busy recalling the look on DanielÆs face when heÆd finished his first serving, after hearing of his motherÆs death. How the deep vertical lines between his eyes smoothed clear, how his hands stopped shaking. She was thinking of how many helpings this family would need to come close to approximating normal. She was wondering how her mother never thought it important enough to tell her that missing a step might have grave consequences, not only for the person dining but also for the chef.

The phone rang when they had just finished putting the top crust on the pie and painting their initials across it in vanilla. ôItÆs Zeph,ö Trixie told Laura. ôCan you hang up while I go upstairs?ö

She handed Laura the phone, and moments later, Laura heard her pick up an extension. As tempted as Laura was to listen, she hung up. When she turned around, she noticed the pie, ready and waiting to be baked.

It was as if it had been dropped down onto the counter from above. ôWell,ö she said out loud, and she shrugged. She lifted it up to slide it into the oven.

An hour later, when the pie was cooling, Laura hovered in front of it. She had intended this to be supper but found herself digging for a fork. What was just a taste became a bite; what started as a bite turned into a mouthful. She stuffed her cheeks; she burned her tongue. She ate until there were no crumbs left in the baking dish, until every last carrot and clove and butter bean had disappeared.

And still she was hungry.

 

Until that moment, sheÆd forgotten this about Sorrow Pie, too: No matter how much you consumed, you would not have your fill.

When Venice Prudhomme saw Bartholemew walking into her lab, she told him no before heÆd even asked his question. Whatever he wanted, she couldnÆt do it. SheÆd rushed the date rape drug test for him, and that was

difficult enough, but the lab was in transition, moving from an eight-locus DNA system to a sixteen-locus system, and their usual backlog had grown to enormous proportions.

Just hear me out, heÆd said, and he started begging.

 

Venice had listened, arms crossed. I thought this was a rape case. It was. Until the rapist died, and suicide didnÆt check out.

What makes you think youÆve got the right perp?

 

ItÆs the rape victimÆs father, Bartholemew had said. If your kid was raped, what would you want to do to the guy who did it?

In the end, Venice still said no. It would take a while for her to do a full DNA test, even one that she put at the top of the pile. But something in his desperation must have struck her, because she told him that she could at least give him a head start. SheÆd been part of the validation team for a portion of the sixteen- locus system and still had some leftovers from her kit. The DNA extraction process was the same; sheÆd be able to use that sample to run the other loci once the lab came up for some air.

Bartholemew fell asleep waiting for her to complete the test. At four in the morning, Venice knelt beside him and shook him awake. ôYou want the good news or the bad news?ö

He sighed. ôGood.ö ôI got your results.ö

That was excellent news. The medical examiner had already told Bartholemew that the dirt and river silt on the victimÆs hand might have contaminated the blood to the point where DNA testing was impossible due to dropout. ôWhatÆs the bad news?ö

ôYouÆve got the wrong suspect.ö

 

Mike stared at her. ôHow can you tell? I havenÆt even given you a control sample from Daniel Stone yet.ö

ôMaybe the kid who got raped wanted revenge even more than her dad did.ö Venice pushed the results toward him. ôI did an amelogenin test-itÆs the one we run on nuclear DNA to determine gender. And the guy who left your drop of blood behind?ö Venice glanced up. ôHeÆs a girl.ö

Zephyr gave Trixie the details. The service was at two oÆclock at the Bethel Methodist Church, followed by an interment ceremony at the Westwind Cemetery. She said that school was closing early, thatÆs how many people were planning on attending. The six juniors on the hockey team had been asked to serve as pallbearers. In memoriam, three senior girls had dyed their hair black.

TrixieÆs plan was simple: She was going to sleep through JasonÆs funeral, even if she had to swallow a whole bottle of NyQuil to do it. She pulled the shades in her room, creating an artificial night, and crawled under her covers- only to have them yanked down a moment later.

You donÆt think IÆm going to let you off the hook, do you?

 

She knew he was standing there before she even opened her eyes. Jason leaned against her dresser, one elbow already morphing through the wood. His eyes had faded almost entirely; all Trixie could see were holes as deep as the sky.

ôThe whole townÆs going,ö Trixie whispered. ôYou wonÆt notice if IÆm not there.ö

Jason sat down on top of the covers. What about you, Trix? Will you notice when IÆm not here?

She turned onto her side, willing him to go away. But instead she felt him curl up behind her, spooning, his words falling over her ear like frost. If you donÆt come, he whispered, how will you know IÆm really gone?

She felt him disappear a little while after that, taking all the extra air in the room. Finally, gasping, Trixie got out of bed and threw open the three windows in her bedroom. It was twenty degrees outside, and the wind whipped at the curtains. She stood in front of one window and watched people in dark suits and black dresses exit their houses, their cars being drawn like magnets past

TrixieÆs house.

 

Trixie peeled off her clothes and stood shivering in her closet. What was the right outfit to wear to the funeral of the only boy youÆd ever loved? Sackcloth and ashes, a ring of thorns, regret? What she needed was an invisibility cloak, like the kind her father sometimes drew for his comic book heroes, something sheer that would keep everyone from pointing fingers and whispering that this was all her fault.

The only dress Trixie owned in a dark color had short sleeves, so she picked out a pair of black pants and paired it with a navy cardigan. SheÆd have to wear boots anyway, because of all the snow, and theyÆd look stupid with a skirt. She didnÆt know if she could do this-stand at JasonÆs grave while people passed his name around like a box of sweets-but she did know that if she stayed in her room during this funeral, as sheÆd planned to, it would all come back to haunt her.

She glanced around her room again, checking the top of the dresser and under the bed and in her desk drawers for something she knew was missing, but in the end, she had to leave without her courage or risk being late.

During her studies of rebellion, Trixie had learned which floorboards in the hallway screamed like traitors and which ones would keep a secret. The trickiest one was right in front of her fatherÆs office door-she sometimes wondered if heÆd had the builder do that on purpose, thinking ahead. To get past him without making any noise, Trixie had to edge along the inside wall of the house, then slide in a diagonal and hope she didnÆt crash into the banister. From there, it was just a matter of avoiding the third and seventh stairs, and she was home free. She could take the bus that stopped three blocks away from her house, ride it downtown, and then walk to the church.

Her fatherÆs office door was closed. Trixie took a deep breath, crept, slid, and hopped her way silently down the stairs. The floor of the mudroom looked like the scene of a dismemberment: a mess of scattered boots and discarded jackets and tossed gloves. Trixie pulled what she needed from the pile, wrapped a scarf around the lower half of her face, and gingerly opened the door.

Her father was sitting in his truck with the motor running, as if heÆd been waiting for her all along. As soon as he saw her exiting the house, he unrolled

the power window. ôHop in.ö

Trixie approached the truck and peered inside. ôWhere are you going?ö Her father reached over and opened the door for her. ôSame place you are.ö

As he twisted in his seat to back out of the driveway, Trixie could see the collared shirt and tie he was wearing under his winter jacket.

They drove in silence for two blocks. Then, finally, she asked, ôHow come you want to go?ö

ôI donÆt.ö

 

Trixie watched the swirling snow run away from their tires to settle in the safe center of the divided highway. Dots between painted dashes, they spelled out in Morse code the unspoken rest of her fatherÆs sentence: But you do.

Laura sat in the student center, wishing she was even an eighth as smart as the advice ladies who wrote ôAnnieÆs Mailbox.ö They knew all the answers, it seemed, without even trying.

In the days after JasonÆs death, sheÆd become addicted to the column, craving it as much as her morning cup of coffee. My daughter-in-law started her marriage as a size four, and now sheÆs plus plus plus. SheÆs a wonderful person, but her health is a concern for me. IÆve given her books and exercise videos, but none of it helps. What can I do?-Skinny in Savannah

My 14-year-old son has started replacing his boxer shorts with silky thong underwear he found in a catalog. Is this a style that hasnÆt hit my hometown yet, or should I be worried about cross-dressing?-Nervous in Nevada

On her deathbed, my great-aunt just confided a secret to me-that my mother was born as the result of an extramarital affair. Do I tell my mother I know the truth?-Confused in California

LauraÆs obsession grew in part from the fact that she was not the only one walking around with questions. Some of the letters were frivolous, some cut through her heart. All of them hinted at a universal truth: At any crossroads in

life, half of us are destined to take a wrong turn.

 

She opened the newspaper to the right page, skimming past the Marmaduke cartoon and the crossword puzzle to find the advice column, and nearly spilled her cup of coffee. IÆve been having an affair. ItÆs over, and IÆm sorry it ever happened. I want to tell my husband so that I can start fresh. Should I?- Repentant in Rochester

Laura had to remind herself to breathe.

 

We canÆt say this enough, the advice columnists answered. What people donÆt know canÆt hurt them. YouÆve already done your spouse a great disservice. Do you really think itÆs fair to cause him pain, just so you can clear your conscience? Be a big girl, they wrote. Actions have consequences.

Her heart was pounding so hard she looked up, certain that everyone in the room would be staring.

She had been careful not to ask herself the question she should have: If Trixie hadnÆt gotten raped, if Daniel hadnÆt called her office the night sheÆd been breaking off her affair with Seth-would she ever have confessed? Would she have kept it to herself, a stone in her soul, a cancer clouding her memory?

What people donÆt know canÆt hurt them.

 

The problem with coming clean was that you thought you were clearing the slate, starting over, but it never quite worked that way. You didnÆt erase what youÆd done. As Laura knew now, the stain would still be there, every time he looked at you, before he remembered to hide the disappointment in his eyes.

Laura thought of what she had not told Daniel, the things he had not told her. The best decisions in a marriage were based not on honesty but on the number of casualties that the truth might cause, versus the number saved by ignorance.

With great care, she folded the edge of the newspaper and ripped it gently along the crease. She did this until the advice column had been entirely cut out. Then she folded the article and slipped it under the strap of her bra. The ink smudged on LauraÆs fingers, the way it sometimes did when she read the paper. She imagined a tattoo that might go through flesh and bone and blood to reach her heart-a warning, a reminder not to make the same mistake.

ôReady?ö Daniel asked.

 

Trixie had been sitting in the truck for five minutes, watching townspeople crowd into the tiny Methodist church. The principal had gone in, as well as the town manager and the selectmen. Two local television stations were broadcasting from the steps of the church, with anchors Daniel recognized from the evening news. ôYes,ö Trixie said, but she made no move to get out of the truck.

Daniel pulled the keys out of the ignition and got out of the truck. He walked around to the passenger door and opened it, unbuckling TrixieÆs seat belt just like he used to when she was a baby. He held her hand as she stepped out, into the shock of the cold.

They took three steps. ôDaddy,ö she said, stopping, ôwhat if I canÆt do this?ö Her hesitation made him want to carry her back to the truck, hide her so

securely that no one would ever hurt her again. But-as heÆd learned the hard

way-that wasnÆt possible.

 

He slid an arm around her waist. ôThen IÆll do it for you,ö he said, and he guided her up the steps of the church, past the shocked wide eyes of the television cameras, through an obstacle course of hissed whispers, to the place where she needed to be.

For a single moment, the focus of everyone in the church swung from the boy in the lily-draped coffin to the girl walking through the double doors. Outside, left alone, Mike Bartholemew emerged from behind a potbellied oak and crouched beside the trail of boot prints that Daniel and Trixie Stone had left in the snow. He lay a ruler down beside the best print of the smaller track and took a camera from his pocket for a few snapshots. Then he sprayed the print with aerosol wax and let the red skin dry on the snow before he spread dental stone to make a cast.

By the time the mourners adjourned to their cars to caravan to the cemetery for the interment service, Bartholemew was headed back to the police

department, hoping to match Trixie StoneÆs boot to the mystery print left in the snow on the bridge where Jason Underhill had died.

ôBlessed are those who mourn,ö said the minister, ôfor they will be comforted.ö

Trixie pressed herself more firmly against the back wall of the church. From here, she was completely blocked by the rest of the people whoÆd come for JasonÆs memorial service. She didnÆt have to stare at the gleaming coffin. She didnÆt have to see Mrs. Underhill, slumped against her husband.

ôFriends, we gather here to comfort and support each other in this time of lossàbut most of all we come here to remember and celebrate the mortal life of Jason Adam Underhill and his blessed future at the side of our Lord Jesus Christ.ö

The ministerÆs words were punctuated by the tight coughs of men whoÆd promised themselves they wouldnÆt cry and the quicksilver hiccups of the women whoÆd known better than to make a promise they couldnÆt keep.

ôJason was one of those golden boys that the sun seemed to follow. Today, we remember him for the way he could make us laugh with a joke and the devotion he applied to everything he did. We remember him as a loving son and grandson, a caring cousin, a steadfast friend. We remember him as a gifted athlete and a diligent student. But most of all we remember him because Jason, in the short time we had with him, managed to touch each and every one of us.ö

The first time Jason touched Trixie, they were in his car, and he was illegally teaching her how to drive. You have to let up on the clutch while you shift, he explained, as sheÆd jerked the little Toyota around an empty parking lot. Maybe I should just wait until IÆm sixteen, Trixie had said when sheÆd stalled for the bazillionth time. Jason had laced his fingers between hers on the stick shift, guiding her through the motions, until all she could think about was the temperature of his hand heating hers. Then Jason had grinned at her. Why wait?

The ministerÆs voice grew like a vine. ôIn Lamentations 3, we hear these words: My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, æGone is my glory, and all that I had hoped for from the Lord.Æ We, whom

Jason left behind, must wonder if these were the thoughts that weighed heavy on his heart, that led him to believe there was no other way out.ö

Trixie closed her eyes. She had lost her virginity in a field of lupine behind the ice rink, where the Zamboni shavings were dumped, an artificial winter smack in the middle of the September flowers. Jason had borrowed the key from the rinkmaster and taken her skating after the rink was closed for the day. HeÆd laced up her skates and told her to close her eyes. Then heÆd reached for her hands, skating backward so fast she felt like she was falling to earth. WeÆre writing in cursive, he told her as he pulled in a straight line. Can you read it?

Then he looped the breadth of the rink, skated a circle, a right angle, a tinier loop, finishing with a curl. I LOVE O? Trixie had recited, and Jason had laughed. Close enough, heÆd said. Later, in that field, with the pile of snow hiding them from sight, Jason had again been moving at lightning speed, and Trixie could not quite keep up. When he pushed inside her, she turned her head to watch the lupine tremble on their shivering stems, so that he wouldnÆt realize heÆd hurt her.

ôIn the past few days, you who are JasonÆs family and friends have been struggling with the questions that surround his death. You are feeling a fraction of the pain, maybe, that Jason felt in those last, dark hours. You might be reliving the last time you spoke to him. You might be wondering, Is there anything I should have said or done that I didnÆt? That might have made a difference?ö

Trixie suddenly saw Jason holding her down on ZephyrÆs white living room carpet. If sheÆd been brave enough to peek that night, would she have seen the bruises blooming on his jaw, the smile rotting off his face?

ôInto your hands, O Savior, we commend your servant Jason Underhill. We pray for you to recognize this child of yoursàö

His breath fell onto her lips, but he tasted of worms. His fingers bit so hard into her wrists that she looked down and saw only his bones, as the flesh peeled away from him.

ôReceive him into your never-ending mercy. Grant him everlasting peace, and eternal life in your light.ö

Trixie tried to swim back to the ministerÆs words. She craved light, too, but

all she could see were the black and blue stripes of the nights when Jason came to haunt her. Or maybe she was seeing the nights when she had gone to him willingly. It was all mixed up now. She couldnÆt separate the real Jason from the ghost; she couldnÆt untangle what sheÆd wanted from what she didnÆt.

Maybe it had always been like that.

 

The scream started so deep inside of her that she thought it was just a resonance, like a tuning fork that could not stop trembling. Trixie didnÆt realize that the sound spilled through her seams, overflowing, bearing JasonÆs coffin like a tide and sweeping it off its stanchions. She didnÆt know that sheÆd fallen to her knees, and that every single eye in the congregation was on her, as it had been before the service began. And she didnÆt trust herself to believe that the savior the minister had been summoning had reached through the very roof of the church and carried her outside where she could breathe again-not until she found the courage to open her eyes and found herself safe and away, cradled in her fatherÆs arms.

TrixieÆs boot prints matched. Unfortunately, they were Sorels, which accounted for a large portion of all winter footwear sold in the state of Maine. They had no telltale crack of the sole, or a tack stuck into the rubber, to prove without any considerable doubt that it was TrixieÆs particular boot that had been on that bridge the night Jason Underhill had died, as opposed to anyone else who wore a size seven and happened to favor the same footwear.

As a rape victim, she had the motive to be a suspect. But a boot print alone- one that hundreds of townspeople shared-wouldnÆt be enough probable cause to convince a judge to swear out a warrant for TrixieÆs arrest.

ôErnie, get out of there,ö Bartholemew said, scolding the potbellied pig heÆd brought out for a walk. To be perfectly honest, it wasnÆt wholly professional to bring a pig to a crime scene, but heÆd been working round the clock and couldnÆt leave Ernestine at home alone any longer. He figured as long as he kept her away from the area that had been cordoned off by the techs, it was all right.

ôNot near the water,ö Bartholemew called. The pig glanced at him and scooted down the riverbank. ôFine,ö he said. ôGo drown. See if I care.ö

But all the same, Bartholemew leaned over the railing of the bridge to watch the pig walk along the edge of the river. The spot where JasonÆs body had broken the ice was frozen again, more translucent than the rest. A fluorescent orange flag stapled to a stake marked the northern edge of the crime scene.

Laura StoneÆs alibi had checked out: Phone records put her at the college, and then back at her residence. But several witnesses had noticed both Daniel and Trixie Stone at the Winterfest. One driver had even seen them both, in a parking lot, with Jason Underhill.

Trixie could have murdered Jason, in spite of the size difference between them. Jason had been drunk, and a well-placed shove might have tumbled him over the bridge. It wouldnÆt account for JasonÆs bruised and fractured face, but Bartholemew didnÆt hold Trixie responsible for that. Most likely, it had gone down this way: Jason saw Trixie in town and started to talk to her, but Daniel Stone stumbled onto their encounter. He beat the guy to a pulp, Jason ran off, and Trixie followed him to the bridge.

Bartholemew had believed, initially, that Daniel had lied about not seeing Jason in town that night, and that Trixie had told him about the fight to cover for her father. But what if it had been the other way around? What if Trixie had told the truth, and Daniel-knowing that his daughter had been in contact with Jason already that night-had lied to protect her?

Suddenly Ernestine began to root, her snout burrowing. God only knew what sheÆd found-the most sheÆd ever turned up was a dead mouse that had crawled under the foundation of his garage. He watched with mild interest as she created a pile of dirty snow behind her.

Then something winked at him.

 

Bartholemew slid down the steep grade of the riverbank, slipped on a plastic glove from his pocket, and pulled a manÆs wristwatch out of the snow behind Ernestine.

It was an Eddie Bauer watch with a royal blue face and a woven canvas band.

The buckle was missing. Bartholemew squinted up at the bridge, trying to imagine the trajectory and the distance from there to here. Could JasonÆs arm have struck the railing and snapped the buckle? The medical examiner had found splinters in the boyÆs fingers-had he lost his watch while he was desperately

trying to hang on?

 

He took out his cell phone and dialed the medical examinerÆs number. ôItÆs Bartholemew,ö he said when Anjali answered. ôDid Jason Underhill wear a watch?ö

ôHe wasnÆt brought in wearing one.ö

ôI just found one at the crime scene. Is there any way to tell if itÆs his?ö ôHang on.ö Bartholemew heard her rummage through papers. ôIÆve got the

autopsy photos here. On the left wrist, thereÆs a band of skin thatÆs a bit lighter than the rest of his armÆs skin tone. Why donÆt you see if the parents recognize it?ö

ôThatÆs my next stop,ö Bartholemew said. ôThanks.ö As he hung up and started to slide the watch into a plastic evidence bag, he noticed something he hadnÆt seen at first-a hair had gotten caught around the little knob used to set the time.

It was about an inch long, and coarse. There seemed to be a root attached, as if it had been yanked out.

Mike thought of JasonÆs all-American good looks, of his dark hair and blue eyes. He held the watch up against the white canvas of his own dress shirt sleeve for comparison. In such stark relief, the hair was as red as a sunset, as red as shame, as red as any other hair on Trixie StoneÆs head.

ôTwice in one week?ö Daniel said, opening the door to find Detective Bartholemew standing on the porch again. ôI must have won the lottery.ö

Daniel was still wearing his button-down shirt from the funeral, although heÆd stripped off the tie and left it noosed around one of the kitchen chairs. He could feel the detective surveying the house over his right shoulder.

ôYou got a minute, Mr. Stone?ö Bartholemew asked. ôAnd actuallyàis Trixie here? It would be great if she could sit down with us.ö

ôSheÆs asleep,ö Daniel said. ôWe went to JasonÆs funeral, and she got pretty upset there. When we got home, she went straight to bed.ö

ôWhat about your wife?ö

 

ôSheÆs at the college. Guess IÆm it for right now.ö

 

He led Bartholemew into the living room and sat across from him. ôI wouldnÆt have expected you to attend Jason UnderhillÆs funeral,ö the detective said.

ôIt was TrixieÆs idea. I think she was looking for closure.ö ôYou said she got upset during the service?ö

ôI think it was too much for her, emotionally.ö Daniel hesitated. ôYou didnÆt come here to ask about this, did you?ö

The detective shook his head. ôMr. Stone, on the night of the Winterfest, you said you never ran into Jason. But Trixie told me that you and Jason had a fistfight.ö

Daniel felt the blood drain from his face. When had Bartholemew talked to Trixie?

ôAm I supposed to assume that your daughter was lying?ö

 

ôNo, I was,ö Daniel said. ôI was afraid youÆd charge me with assault.ö ôTrixie also told me that Jason ran off.ö

ôThatÆs right.ö

 

ôDid she follow him, Mr. Stone?ö Daniel blinked. ôWhat?ö

ôDid she follow Jason Underhill to the bridge?ö

 

He pictured the light of the turning car washing over them, and the minute Jason wrenched away. He heard himself calling for Trixie and realizing she

wasnÆt there. ôOf course not,ö he said.

 

ôThatÆs interesting. Because IÆve got boot prints, and blood, and hair that puts her at the crime scene.ö

ôWhat crime scene?ö Daniel said. ôJason Underhill committed suicide.ö The detective just lifted his gaze. Daniel thought of the hour heÆd spent

searching for Trixie after sheÆd run away. He remembered the cuts heÆd seen

on TrixieÆs arms the day she was washing the dishes, scratches heÆd assumed had been made by her own hand, and not someone elseÆs, trying desperately to hold on.

Daniel had bequeathed Trixie his dimples, his long fingers, his photographic memory. But what about the other markers of heredity? Could a parent pass along the gene for revenge, for rage, for escape? Could a trait heÆd buried so long ago resurface where he least expected it: in his daughter?

ôIÆd really like to speak to Trixie,ö Bartholemew said. ôShe didnÆt kill Jason.ö

ôTerrific,ö the detective replied. ôThen she wonÆt mind giving us a blood sample to compare with the physical evidence, so that we can rule her out.ö He clasped his hands together between his knees. ôWhy donÆt you see if sheÆs about ready to wake up?ö

Although Daniel knew life didnÆt work this way, he truly believed that he had the chance to save his daughter the way he hadnÆt been able to save her the night she was raped, as if there were some running cosmic tally of victory and defeat. He could get a lawyer. He could spirit her away to Fiji or Guadalcanal or somewhere theyÆd never be found. He could do whatever was necessary; he just needed to formulate a plan.

The first step was to talk to her before the detective did.

 

After convincing Bartholemew to wait in the living room-Trixie was, after all, still scared of her own shadow half the time-Daniel headed upstairs. He was

shaking, terrified with what he would say to Trixie, even more terrified to hear her response. With every step up the stairs, he thought of escape routes: the attic, his bedroom balcony. Sheets knotted together and tossed out a window.

Daniel decided heÆd ask her point-blank, when she was too wrapped in the silver veil of sleep to dissemble. Depending on her answer, heÆd either take her down to Bartholemew to prove the detective wrong, or heÆd carry Trixie to the far ends of the earth himself.

The door to TrixieÆs room was still closed; with his ear pressed against it, Daniel heard nothing but silence.

After they had come home from the funeral, Daniel had sat on TrixieÆs bed with her curled in his lap, the way he had once held her during bouts of stomach flu, rubbing her belly or her back until she slipped over the fine line of sleep.

Now he turned the knob slowly, hoping to wake Trixie up by degrees.

 

The first thing Daniel noticed was how cold it was. The second was the window, wide open.

The room looked like the aftermath of a tropical storm. Clothes lay trampled on the floor. Sheets were balled at the foot of the bed. Makeup, looseleaf papers, and magazines had been dumped-the contents of a missing knapsack. Her toothbrush and hairbrush were gone. And the little clay jar where Trixie kept her cash was empty.

Had Trixie heard the detective downstairs? Had she left before Bartholemew even arrived? She was only a teenager; how far could she get?

Daniel moved to the window and traced the zigzag track of her flight on the snow from her room to the sloped roof, to the maple treeÆs outstretched arm, across the lawn to bare pavement, at which point she simply disappeared. He thought of her words to him, a day before, when heÆd seen the cuts on her arm: ItÆs how I run away.

Frantic, he stared at the icy roof. She could have killed herself. And on the heels of that thought: She still might.

What if Trixie managed to get someplace where, when she tried to swallow

pills or cut her wrists or sleep in a cloud of carbon monoxide, nobody stopped her?

A person was never who you thought he was. It was true for him; maybe it was true for Trixie too. Maybe-in spite of what he wanted to believe, in spite of what he hoped-she had killed Jason.

What if Daniel wasnÆt the first one to find her? What if he was?

 

6

I t was late enough in December that all the radio stations played only Christmas carols. TrixieÆs hiding place was directly over the driverÆs seat, in the little jut of the box truck that sat over the cab. She had seen the truck at the dairy farm just past the high school athletic fields. With the doors wide open and no one around, she had climbed inside and hidden in that upper nook, drawing hay over herself for camouflage.

TheyÆd loaded two calves into the truck-not down in the bottom, like Trixie had figured, but nearly on top of her in the narrow space where she was curled. This way, she supposed, they wouldnÆt stand up during the trip. Once theyÆd started under way, Trixie had poked her head out from the straw and looked at one calf. It had eyes as large as planets, and when she held out her finger, the calf sucked hard on it.

At the next stop, another farm not ten minutes down the road, an enormous Holstein limped up the ramp into the back of the truck. It stared right at Trixie and mooed. ôDamn shame,ö the trucker said, as the farmer shoved the cow from behind.

ôAyuh, she went down on some ice,ö he said. ôIn you go, now.ö Then the door swung shut and everything went black.

She didnÆt know where they were headed and didnÆt particularly care. Prior

to this, the farthest Trixie had ever been by herself was the Mall of Maine. She wondered if her father was looking for her yet. She wished she could phone him and tell him she was all right-but under the circumstances, she couldnÆt call.

She might never.

 

She lay down on one calfÆs smooth side. It smelled of grass and grain and daylight, and with every breath, she felt herself rising and falling. She wondered why the cows were in transit. Maybe they were going to a new farm for Christmas. Or to be part of a Nativity play. She pictured the doors swinging open and farmhands in crisp overalls coming to lift down the calves. They would find Trixie and would give her fresh milk and homemade ice cream and they wouldnÆt even think to ask her how sheÆd wound up in the back of a livestock truck.

In a way, it was a mystery to Trixie, too. She had seen the detective at JasonÆs funeral, although he thought heÆd been hiding. And then, when everyone thought she was asleep, sheÆd stood on the balcony and heard what heÆd said to her father.

Enough to know that she had to get out of there.

 

She was, in a way, a little proud of herself. Who knew that sheÆd be able to run away without a car, with only two hundred bucks in her pocket? SheÆd never considered herself to be the kind of person who was cool in the face of crisis-and yet, you never knew what you were capable of until you arrived at that given moment. Life was just a whole string of spots where you continued to surprise yourself.

She must have fallen asleep for a while, sandwiched between the knobby knees and globe bellies of the two calves, but when the truck stopped again they struggled to stand-impossible in that cramped space. Below them, the cow began to bellow, one low note that ricocheted. There was the sound of a seal being breached, a mighty creak, and then the doors to the back of the truck swung open.

Trixie blinked into the light and saw what she hadnÆt earlier: The cow had a lesion on her right foreleg, one that made it buckle beneath her. The Holstein calves on either side of her were males, no good for producing milk. She peered out the double doors and squinted so that she could read the sign at the end of

the driveway: LaRue and Sons Beef, Berlin, NH.

 

This was not a petting zoo or Old MacDonaldÆs Farm, as Trixie had imagined. This was a slaughterhouse.

She scrambled down from her ledge, startling the animals-not to mention the truck driver who was unhooking the tether of the cow-and took off like a shot down the long gravel driveway. Trixie ran until her lungs were on fire, until she had reached what passed for a town, with a Burger King and a gas station. The Burger King made her think of the calves, which made her think that she was going to be a vegetarian, if she ever got through the other side of this nightmare.

Suddenly, there was a siren. Trixie went still as stone, her eyes trained on the circling blue lights of the advancing police cruiser.

The car went screaming past her, on to someone elseÆs emergency.

 

Wiping her hand across her mouth, Trixie took a deep breath and started to walk.

ôSheÆs gone,ö Daniel Stone said, frantic. BartholemewÆs eyes narrowed. ôGone?ö

He followed Stone upstairs and stood in the doorway of TrixieÆs room, which looked as if a bomb had cut a swath through its middle. ôI donÆt know where she is,ö Stone said, his voice breaking. ôI donÆt know when she left.ö

It took Bartholemew less than a second to determine that this wasnÆt a lie. In the first place, Stone had been out of his sight for less than a minute, hardly long enough to tip off his daughter that she was under suspicion. In the second place, Daniel Stone seemed just as surprised as Bartholemew was to find Trixie missing, and he was skating the knife edge of panic.

For only a heartbeat, Bartholemew let himself wonder why a teenage girl who had nothing to hide would suddenly disappear. But in the next breath, he remembered what it felt like to discover that your daughter was not where youÆd thought she was, and he switched gears. ôWhen did you last see her?ö

ôBefore she went to take a napàabout three-thirty?ö

 

The detective took a notepad out of his pocket. ôWhat was she wearing?ö ôIÆm not sure. She probably changed after the funeral.ö

ôHave you got a recent photo?ö

 

Bartholemew followed Stone downstairs again, watching him run a finger along the vertebrae of books on a living room shelf, finally pulling down an eighth-grade yearbook from Bethel Middle School. He turned pages until they fell open to the SÆs. A folio of snapshots-a 5-by-7 and some wallet-sized- spilled out. ôWe never got around to framing them,ö Stone murmured.

In the photographs, TrixieÆs smiling face repeated like an Andy Warhol print. The girl in the picture had long red hair held back with clips. Her smile was just a little too wide, and a tooth in front was crooked. The girl in that picture had never been raped. Maybe she had never even been kissed.

Bartholemew had to pry the pictures of Trixie from her fatherÆs hand. Both men were painfully aware that Stone was struggling not to break down. The tears you shed over a child were not the same as any others. They burned your throat and your corneas. They left you blind.

Daniel Stone stared at him. ôShe didnÆt do anything wrong.ö

 

ôSit tight,ö Bartholemew replied, aware that it was not an answer. ôIÆll find her.ö

The last lecture Laura gave before Christmas vacation was about the half-life of transgression. ôAre there any sins Dante left out?ö Laura asked. ôOr any really bad modern-day behaviors that werenÆt around in the year 1300?ö

One girl nodded. ôDrug addiction. ThereÆs, like, no bolgia for crackheads.ö ôItÆs the same as gluttony,ö a second student said. ôAddictionÆs addiction.

It doesnÆt matter what the substance is.ö

ôCannibalism?ö

 

ôNope, DanteÆs got that in there,ö Laura said. ôCount Uggolino. He lumps it in with bestiality.ö

ôDriving to endanger?ö

 

ôFilippo drives his horses recklessly. Early Italian road rage.ö Laura glanced around the silent hall. ôMaybe the question we need to ask isnÆt whether thereÆs any fresh twenty-first-century sinàbut whether the people who define sin have changed, because of the times.ö

ôWell, the worldÆs completely different,ö a student pointed out.

 

ôSure, but look at how itÆs still the same. Avarice, cowardice, depravity, a need to control other people-these have all been around forever. Maybe nowadays a pedophile will start a kiddie-porn site instead of flashing in the subway tunnels, or a murderer will choose to use an electric chain saw to kill, instead of his bare handsàTechnology helps us be more creative in the way we sin, but it doesnÆt mean that the basic sin is different.ö

A boy shook his head. ôSeems like there ought to be a whole different circle for someone like Jeffrey Dahmer, you know?ö

ôOr the people who come up with reality TV shows,ö someone else interjected, and the class laughed.

ôItÆs sort of interesting,ö Laura said, ôto think that Dante wouldnÆt have put Jeffrey Dahmer as deep in hell as he would Macbeth. Why is that?ö

ôBecause the skivviest thing you can do is be disloyal to someone. Macbeth killed his own king, man. That would be like Eminem taking down Dr. Dre.ö

The student was, at a literal level, correct. In the Inferno, sins of passion and despair werenÆt nearly as damning as sins of treachery. Sinners in the upper circles of hell were guilty of indulging their own appetites, but without malice toward others. Sinners in the middle levels of hell had committed acts of violence toward themselves or others. The deepest level of hell, though, was reserved for fraud-what Dante felt was the worst sin of all. There was betrayal to family-those who killed kin. There was betrayal to country-for the double agents

and spies of the world. There was betrayal to benefactor-Judas, Brutus, Cassius, and Lucifer, all of whom had turned against their mentors.

ôDoes DanteÆs hierarchy still work?ö Laura asked. ôOr do you think that in our world, the order of the damned should be shaken up?ö

ôI think itÆs worse to keep someoneÆs head in your freezer than to sell national security secrets to the Chinese,ö a girl said, ôbut thatÆs just me.ö

Another student shook her head. ôI donÆt get why being unfaithful to your king is worse than being unfaithful to your husband. If you have an affair, you wind up only in the second level of hell. ThatÆs, like, getting off easy.ö

ôNice choice of words,ö the kid beside her joked.

 

ôItÆs about intention,ö a student added. ôLike manslaughter versus murder. ItÆs almost as if you do something in the heat of the moment, Dante excuses you. But if youÆve got this whole premeditated scheme going on, youÆre in deep trouble.ö

In that moment, although sheÆd been a professor for this particular course- even this particular class topic-for a decade, Laura realized that there was a sin that Dante had left out, one that belonged in the very deepest pit of hell. If the worst sin of all was betraying others, then what about people who lied to themselves?

There should have been a tenth circle, a tiny spot the size of the head of a pin, with room for infinite masses. It would be overcrowded with professors who hid in ivy-covered towers instead of facing their broken families. With little girls who had grown up overnight. With husbands who didnÆt speak of their past but instead poured it out onto a blank white page. With women who pretended they could be the wife of one and the lover of another and keep the two selves distinct. With anyone who told himself he was living the perfect life, despite all evidence to the contrary.

A voice swam toward her. ôProfessor Stone? Are you okay?ö

 

Laura focused on the girl in the front row whoÆd asked the question. ôNo,ö she said quietly. ôIÆm not. You can allàyou can all go home a little early for vacation.ö

As the students disbanded, delighted with this windfall, Laura gathered her briefcase and her coat. She walked to the parking lot, got into her car, and began to drive.

The women who wrote ôAnnieÆs Mailboxö were wrong, Laura realized. Just because you didnÆt speak the facts out loud didnÆt erase their existence.

Silence was just a quieter way to lie.

 

She knew where she was headed, but before she got there, her cell phone rang. ôItÆs Trixie,ö Daniel said, and suddenly what he had to say was far more important than what she did.

SantaÆs Village in Jefferson, New Hampshire, was full of lies. There were transplanted reindeer languishing in a fake barn and phony elves hammering in a workshop and a counterfeit Santa sitting on a throne with a bazillion kids lined up to tell him what they wanted on the big day. There were parents pretending this was totally real, even the animatronic Rudolph. And then there was Trixie herself, trying to act like she was normal, when in fact she was the biggest liar of all.

Trixie watched a little girl climb onto Fake SantaÆs lap and pull his beard so hard that it ripped off. YouÆd think that a kid, even one so young, would get suspicious, but it never worked that way. People believed what they wanted to believe, no matter what was in front of their eyes.

ThatÆs why she was here, wasnÆt it?

 

As a kid, of course, Trixie had believed in Santa. For years, Zephyr-who was half Jewish and fully practical-pointed out the discrepancies to Trixie: How could Santa be in both FileneÆs and the BonTon at the same time? If he really was Santa, shouldnÆt he know what she wanted without having to ask? Trixie wished she could round up the kids in this building and save them, like Holden Caulfield in the last book sheÆd read for English. Reality check, she would say. SantaÆs a phony. Your parents lied to you.

And, she might add, theyÆll do it again. Her own parents had said she was beautiful, when in fact she was all angles and bowlegs. TheyÆd promised that sheÆd find her Prince Charming, but heÆd dumped Trixie. They said if she

came home by her curfew and picked up her room and held up her end of the bargain, theyÆd keep her safe-yet look at what had happened.

She stepped out from behind a fir tree that belched Christmas carols and glanced around to see if anyone was watching her. In a way, it would have been easier to get caught. It was hard to look over your shoulder every other second, expecting to be recognized. SheÆd worried that the truck driver whoÆd given her a lift would radio her whereabouts to the state police. SheÆd been sure that the man selling tickets at SantaÆs Village had glanced down to compare her face to the one on a Wanted poster.

Trixie slipped into the bathroom, where she splashed water on her face and tried to take deep, even, social-disaster-avoidance breaths, the way sheÆd done in science class when they were dissecting a frog and she was sure she would throw up on her lab partner. She pretended to have something in her eye and squinted into the mirror until she was the only person left in the restroom.

Then Trixie stuck her head under the faucet. It was the kind you had to push down to get the water going, so she had to keep pounding the knob for a continuous stream. She took off her sweatshirt and wrapped it around her hair, then went into a stall and sat on the toilet, shivering in her T-shirt while she rummaged through her backpack.

SheÆd bought the dye at Wal-Mart when the trucker stopped for cigarettes. The color was called Night in Shining Armor, but it looked plain old black to Trixie. She opened the box and read the instructions.

With any luck no one would think it weird that she was sitting in the bathroom for thirty minutes. Then again, no one else should be in the bathroom for thirty minutes. Trixie slipped on the plastic gloves and mixed the dye with the peroxide, shook, and squirted the solution onto her hair. She rubbed it around a little and pulled the plastic bag over her scalp.

Was she supposed to dye her eyebrows, too? Was that even possible?

 

She and Zephyr used to talk about how you could be an adult way before you hit twenty-one. The age wasnÆt as important as the milestones: taking a trip sans parents, buying beer without getting carded, having sex. She wished she could tell Zeph that it was possible to grow up in an instant, that you could look down and see the line in the sand dividing your life now from what it used to be.

Trixie wondered if, like her father, sheÆd never go back home again. She wondered how big the world was, really, when you crossed it, instead of traced it with your finger on a map. A little rivulet of liquid ran down her neck; she smeared it with a finger before it reached the collar of her shirt. The dye came away as dark as motor oil. For just a moment she pretended she was bleeding. It would be no surprise to her if inside sheÆd gone as black as everyone suspected.

Daniel parked in front of the wide-eyed windows of the toy store and watched Zephyr hand some bills and small change back to an elderly woman. ZephyrÆs hair was in braids, and she was wearing two long-sleeved shirts, one layered over the next, as if sheÆd planned to be cold no matter what. Through the shadows and the stream of the glass, it was almost possible to pretend that she was Trixie.

There was no way Daniel planned to sit inside his house and wait for the police to find Trixie and bully an explanation out of her. To that end, the minute Bartholemew had gone-and Daniel checked to make sure he wasnÆt just lurking at the end of the block-Daniel had begun to consider what he knew about Trixie that the cops didnÆt. Where she might go, whom she might trust.

Right now, there were precious few people who fell into that category.

 

The customer left the store, and Zephyr noticed him waiting outside. ôHey, Mr. S,ö she said, waving.

She wore purple nail polish on her fingers. It was the same color Trixie had been wearing this morning; Daniel realized that they must have put it on together the last time Zephyr was over at the house. Just seeing it on Zephyr, when he so badly wanted to see it on Trixie, made it hard to breathe.

Zephyr was looking over his shoulder. ôIs Trixie with you?ö

 

Daniel tried to shake his head, but somewhere between the thought and the action the intent vanished. He stared at the girl who knew his daughter maybe better than heÆd ever known her himself, as much as it hurt to admit it. ôZephyr,ö he said, ôhave you got a minute?ö

For an old guy, Daniel Stone was hot. Zephyr had even said that to Trixie once or twice, although it totally freaked her out, what with him being her father and everything. But beyond that, Mr. Stone had always fascinated Zephyr. In all the years sheÆd known Trixie, she had never seen him lose his temper. Not when they spilled nail polish remover on Mrs. SÆs bedroom bureau, not when Trixie failed her math test, not even when they were caught sneaking cigarettes in TrixieÆs garage. It was against human nature to be that calm, like he was some kind of Stepford dad who couldnÆt be provoked. Take ZephyrÆs own mother, for example. Zephyr had once found her hurling all of their dinner plates against the backyard fence, when she found out that this loser she was dating was two-timing her. Zephyr and her mom had screaming matches. In fact, her mother had been the one to teach her the best curse words.

On the other hand, Trixie had learned them from Zephyr. Zephyr had even tried to lure Trixie into objectionable behaviors simply for the purpose of trying to get a rise out of Mr. Stone, but nothing had ever worked. He was like some kind of soap opera actor whose tragic story line you fell madly for: beautiful to look at, but all the same, you knew what you were seeing wasnÆt all it was cracked up to be.

Today, though, something was different. Mr. Stone couldnÆt concentrate; even as he grilled Zephyr, his eyes kept darting around. He was so far from the even-keeled, friendly father figure sheÆd envied her whole life that if Zephyr didnÆt know better, she would have assumed it wasnÆt Daniel Stone standing across from her at all.

ôThe last time I talked to Trixie was last night,ö Zephyr said, leaning across the glass counter of the toy store. ôI called her around ten oÆclock to talk about the funeral.ö

ôDid she tell you that she had somewhere to go after that?ö

 

ôTrixie isnÆt really into going out these days.ö As if her father didnÆt already know that.

ôItÆs really important, Zephyr, that you tell me the truth.ö ôMr. Stone,ö she said, ôwhy would I lie to you?ö

An unspoken answer hovered between them: because you have before. They

were both thinking about what sheÆd told the police after the night of the rape. They both knew that jealousy could rise like a tide, erasing events that had been scratched into the shore of your memory.

Mr. Stone took a deep breath. ôIf she calls youàwill you tell her IÆm trying to find heràand that everythingÆs going to be okay?ö

ôIs she in trouble?ö Zephyr asked, but by then TrixieÆs father was already walking out of the toy store.

Zephyr watched him go. She didnÆt care that he thought she was a lousy friend. In fact, she was just the opposite. It was because sheÆd already wronged Trixie once that sheÆd done what she had.

Zephyr punched the key on the cash register that made the drawer open. Three hours had passed since sheÆd stolen all the twenty-dollar bills and had given them to Trixie. Three hours, Zephyr thought, was a damn good head start.

HAVE GONE TO LOOK FOR TRIXIE, the note said. BRB.

 

Laura wandered up to TrixieÆs room, as if this was bound to be a big mistake, as if she might open the door and find Trixie there, silently nodding to the beat of her iPod as she wrestled with an algebraic equation. But she wasnÆt there, of course, and the small space had been overturned. She wondered if that had been Trixie or the police.

Daniel had said on the phone that this was suddenly a homicide investigation.

That JasonÆs death had not been accidental after all. And that Trixie had run away.

There was so much that had to be fixed that Laura didnÆt know where to start. Her hands shook as she sorted through the leftovers of her daughterÆs life- an archaeologist, looking over the artifacts and trying to piece together an understanding of the young woman whoÆd used them. The Koosh ball and the Lisa Frank pencil-these belonged to the Trixie she thought she had known. It was the other items that she couldnÆt make sense of: the CD with lyrics that made LauraÆs jaw drop, the sterling silver ring shaped like a skull, the condom hidden inside a makeup compact. Maybe she and Trixie still had a lot in

common: Apparently, while Laura was turning into a woman she could barely recognize, her daughter had been, too.

She sat down on TrixieÆs bed and lifted the receiver of the phone. How many times had Laura cut in on the line between her and Jason, telling her that she had to say good night and go to bed? Five more minutes, Trixie would beg.

If sheÆd given Trixie those minutes, all those nights, would it have added up to another day for Jason? If she took five minutes now, could she right everything that had gone wrong?

It took Laura three tries to dial the number of the police station, and she was holding for Detective Bartholemew when Daniel stepped into the room. ôWhat are you doing?ö

ôCalling the police,ö she said.

 

He crossed in two strides and took the receiver from her hand, hung up the phone. ôDonÆt.ö

ôDaniel-ö

 

ôLaura, I know why she ran away. I was accused of murder when I was eighteen, and I took off, too.ö

At this confession, Laura completely lost her train of thought. How could you live with a man for fifteen years, feel him move inside you, have his child, and not know something as fundamental about him as this?

He sat down at TrixieÆs desk. ôI was still living in Alaska. The victim was my best friend, Cane.ö

ôDid youàdid you do it?ö

 

Daniel hesitated. ôNot the way they thought I did.ö

 

Laura stared at him. She thought of Trixie, God knows where right now, on the run for a crime she could not have committed. ôIf you werenÆt guiltyàthen why-ö

ôBecause Cane was still dead.ö

 

In DanielÆs eyes, Laura could suddenly see the most surprising things: the blood of a thousand salmon slit throat to tail, the blue-veined crack of ice so thick it made the bottoms of your feet hurt, the profile of a raven sitting on a roof. In DanielÆs eyes she understood something she hadnÆt been willing to admit to herself before: In spite of everything, or maybe because of it, he understood their daughter better than she did.

He shifted, hitting the computer mouse with his elbow. The screen hummed to life, revealing several open windows: Google, iTunes, Sephora.com, and the heartbreaking rapesurvivor.com, full of poetry by girls like Trixie. But MapQuest? When Trixie wasnÆt even old enough to drive?

Laura leaned over DanielÆs shoulder to grasp the mouse. FIND IT! the site promised. There were empty boxes to fill in: address, city, state, zip code. And at the bottom, in bright blue: We are having trouble finding a route for your location.

ôOh, Christ,ö Daniel said. ôI know where she is.ö

TrixieÆs father used to take her out into the woods and teach her how to read the world so that sheÆd always know where she was going. HeÆd quiz her on the identification of trees: the fairy-tale spray of needles on a hemlock, the narrow grooves of an ash, the paper-wrapped birch, the gnarled arms of a sugar maple. One day, when they were examining a tree with barbed wire running through the middle of its trunk-how long do you think that took?-TrixieÆs eye had been caught by something in the forest: sun glinting off metal.

The abandoned car sat behind an oak tree that had been split by lightning. Two of the windows had been broken; some animal had made its home in the tufted stuffing of the backseat. A vine had grown from the bottom of the forest floor through the window, wrapping around the steering wheel.

Where do you think the driver is? Trixie had asked.

 

I donÆt know, her father replied. But heÆs been gone for a long time.

He said that the person whoÆd left the car behind most likely didnÆt want to bother with having it towed away. But that didnÆt keep Trixie from making up more extravagant explanations: The man had suffered a head wound and started walking, only to wander up a mountain and die of exposure, and even now the bones were bleaching south of her backyard. The man was on the run from the Mob and had eluded hit men in a car chase. The man had wandered into town with amnesia and spent the next ten years completely unaware of who he used to be.

Trixie was dreaming of the abandoned car when someone slammed the door of the bathroom stall beside her. She woke up with a start and glanced down at her watch-surely if you left this stuff in your hair too long it would fall out by the roots or turn purple or something. She heard the flush of the toilet, running water, and then the busy slice of life as the door opened. When it fell quiet again, she crept out of the stall and rinsed her hair in the sink.

There were streaks on her forehead and her neck, but her hair-her red hair, the hair that had inspired her father to call her his chili pepper when she was only a baby-was now the color of a thicketÆs thorns, of a rosebush past recovery.

As she stuffed the ruined sweatshirt into the bottom of the trash can, a mother came in with two little boys. Trixie held her breath, but the woman didnÆt look twice at her. Maybe it was really that easy. She walked out of the bathroom, past a new Santa whoÆd come on duty, toward the parking lot. She thought of the man whoÆd left his car in the woods: Maybe he had staged his own death.

Maybe heÆd done it for the sole purpose of starting over.

If a teenager wants to disappear, chances are he or she will succeed. It was why runaways were so difficult to track-until they were rounded up in a drug or prostitution ring. Most teens who vanished did so for independence, or to get away from abuse. Unlike an adult, however, who could be traced by a paper trail of ATM withdrawals and rental car agreements and airline passenger lists, a kid was more likely to pay in cash, to hitchhike, to go unnoticed by bystanders.

For the second time in an hour, Bartholemew pulled into the neighborhood where the Stones lived. Trixie Stone was officially registered now as a missing person, not a fugitive from justice. That couldnÆt happen, not even if all signs

pointed to the fact that the reason sheÆd left was because she knew she was about to be charged with murder.

In the American legal system, you could not use a suspectÆs disappearance as probable cause. Later on, during a trial, a prosecutor might hold up TrixieÆs flight as proof of guilt, but there was never going to be a trial if Bartholemew couldnÆt convince a judge to swear out a warrant for Trixie StoneÆs arrest-so that at the moment she was located, she could be taken into custody.

The problem was, had Trixie not fled, he wouldnÆt be arresting her yet.

Christ, just two days ago, Bartholemew had been convinced that Daniel Stone was the perpàuntil the physical evidence started to prove otherwise. Prove, though, was a dubious term. He had a boot print that matched TrixieÆs footwear-and that of thousands of other town residents. He had blood on the victim that belonged to a female, which ruled out only half the population. He had a hair the same general color as TrixieÆs-a hair with a root on it full of

uncontaminated DNA, but no known sample of TrixieÆs to compare it to and no imminent means of getting one.

Any defense attorney would be able to drive a Hummer through the holes in that investigation. Bartholemew needed to physically find Trixie Stone, so that he could specifically link her to Jason UnderhillÆs murder.

He knocked on the StonesÆ front door. Again, no one answered, but this time, when Bartholemew tried the knob, it was locked. He cupped his hands around the glass window and peered into the mudroom.

Daniel StoneÆs coat and boots were gone.

 

He walked halfway around the attached garage to a tiny window and peered inside. Laura StoneÆs Honda, which hadnÆt been here two hours ago, was parked in one bay. Daniel StoneÆs pickup was gone.

Bartholemew smacked his hand against the exterior wall of the house and swore. He couldnÆt prove that Daniel and Laura Stone had gone off to find Trixie before the cops did, but he would have bet money on it. When your child is missing, you donÆt go grocery shopping. You sit tight and wait for the word that sheÆs being brought safely home.

Bartholemew pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think. Maybe this

was a blessing in disguise. After all, the Stones had a better chance of finding Trixie than he did. And it would be far easier for Bartholemew to track two adults than their fourteen-year-old daughter.

And in the meantime? Well, he could get a warrant to search the house, but it wouldnÆt do him any good. No lab worth its salt would accept a toothbrush from TrixieÆs bathroom as a viable known sample of DNA. What he needed was the girl herself and a lab-sanctioned sample of her blood.

Which, in that instant, Bartholemew realized he already had-sitting in a sealed rape kit, evidence for a trial that wasnÆt going to happen.

In eighth grade, as part of health class, Trixie had had to take care of an egg. Each student was given one, with the understanding that it had to remain intact for a week, could not ever be left alone, and had to be ôfedö every three hours. This was supposed to be some big contraceptive deterrent: a way for kids to realize how having a baby was way harder than it looked.

Trixie took the assignment seriously. She named her egg Benedict and fashioned a little carrier for it that she wore around her neck. She paid her English teacher fifty cents to babysit the egg while she was in gym class; she took it to the movies with Zephyr. She held it in the palm of her hand during classes and got used to the feel of it, the shape, the weight.

Even now, she couldnÆt tell you how the egg had gotten that hairline fracture. Trixie first noticed it on the way to school one morning. Her father had shrugged off the F she received-he said it was a stupid assignment, that a kid was nothing like an egg. Yet Trixie had wondered if his benevolence had something to do with the fact that in real life, he would have failed too: how else to explain the difference between what he thought Trixie was up to and what she actually was doing?

Now, she inched up the wrist of her coat and looked at the loose net of scars. It was her hairline crack, she supposed, and it was only a matter of time before she completely went to pieces.

ôHumpty freaking Dumpty,ö she said out loud.

A toddler bouncing on his motherÆs lap next to Trixie clapped his hands. ôDumpty!ö he yelled. ôFall!ö He lurched himself backward so fast that Trixie was sure that heÆd smash his head on the floor of the bus station.

His mother grabbed him before that happened. ôTrevor. Cut it out, will you?ö Then she turned to Trixie. ôHeÆs a big fan of the Egg Man.ö

The woman was really just a girl. Maybe she was a few years older than Trixie, but not by much. She wore a ratty blue scarf wrapped around her neck and an army surplus coat. From the number of bags around them, it looked like they were making a permanent move-but then again, for all Trixie knew, this was how people with kids had to travel. ôI donÆt get nursery rhymes,ö the girl said. ôI mean, why would all the kingÆs horses and all the kingÆs men try to put an egg back together anyway?ö

ôWhatÆs the egg doing on the wall in the first place?ö Trixie said.

 

ôExactly. I think Mother Goose was on crack.ö She smiled at Trixie. ôWhere are you headed?ö

ôCanada.ö

 

ôWeÆre going to Boston.ö She let the boy wriggle off her lap.

 

Trixie wanted to ask the girl if the baby was hers. If sheÆd had him by accident. If, even after you make what everyone considers to be the biggest mistake of your life, you stop thinking itÆs a mistake and maybe see it as the best thing that ever could have happened.

ôEw, Trev, is that you?ö The girl grabbed the baby around the waist and hauled him toward her face, rump first. She grimaced at the collection of duffels littering their feet. ôWould you mind watching my stuff while I do a toxic waste removal?ö

As she stood up, she banged the diaper bag against her open backpack, spilling its contents all over the floor. ôOh, shitàö

ôIÆll get it,ö Trixie said as the girl headed for the restroom with Trevor. She started jamming items back into the diaper bag: plastic keys that played a Disney song, an orange, a four-pack of crayons. A tampon with the wrapper half off, a

hair scrunchie. Something that might, at one time, have been a cookie. A wallet.

 

Trixie hesitated. She told herself she was only going to peek at the girlÆs name, because she didnÆt want to ask and run the risk of striking up a conversation.

A Vermont driverÆs license looked nothing like one from Maine. In the first place, there wasnÆt a photograph. The one time Zephyr had convinced Trixie to go to a bar, sheÆd used a Vermont license as fake ID. ôFive foot six is close enough,ö Zephyr said, although Trixie was four inches shorter. Brown eyes, it read, when she had blue.

Fawn Abernathy lived at 34 First Street in Shelburne, Vermont. She was nineteen years old. She was the same exact height as Trixie, and Trixie took that as an omen.

She left Fawn her ATM card and half of the cash. But she slipped the American Express card and the license into her pocket. Then Trixie hurried out of the Vermont Transit Bus terminal and threw herself into the first cab at the side of the curb. ôWhere to?ö the driver asked.

Trixie looked out the window. ôThe airport,ö she said.

ôI wouldnÆt be asking if it wasnÆt an emergency,ö Bartholemew begged. He glanced around Venice PrudhommeÆs office, piled high with files and computer printouts and transcripts from court testimony.

She sighed, not bothering to look up from her microscope. ôMike, for you, itÆs always an emergency.ö

ôPlease. IÆve got a hair with a root on it that was found on the dead kidÆs body, and I have TrixieÆs blood preserved all nice and neat in her rape kit. If the DNA matches, thatÆs all I need to get a warrant for her arrest.ö

ôNo,ö Venice said.

 

ôI know youÆve got a backlog and-ö

ôThatÆs not why,ö she interrupted, glancing at Bartholemew. ôThereÆs no way IÆm opening up a sealed rape kit.ö

ôWhy? Trixie Stone consented to having her blood drawn for it already.ö ôAs a victim,ö Venice pointed out. ôNot to prove she committed a crime.ö ôYouÆve got to stop watching Law and Order.ö

ôMaybe you ought to start.ö

 

Bartholemew scowled. ôI canÆt believe youÆre doing this.ö

 

ôIÆm not doing anything,ö Venice said, bending over her scope again. ôAt least not until a judge says so.ö

Summer on the tundra was dreamlike. Since the sun stayed out until two A.M., people didnÆt sleep much in Akiak. Kids would cluster around bootleg booze and weed if they could get it, or leave behind the skins of their candy bars and spilled cans of pop if they couldnÆt. Younger children splashed in the foggy green water of the Kuskokwim, even though by August they would still lose feeling in their ankles after only a few moments of submersion. Every year, in one of the YupÆik villages, someone would drown; it was too cold for anyone to stay in the water long enough to learn how to swim.

The year Daniel was eight, he spent July walking barefoot along the banks of the Kuskokwim. A wall of alders and willows lined one side of the river, on the other, sod sloughed into the water from a ten-foot-high embankment.

Mosquitoes beaded on the planes of his face every time he stopped moving; sometimes theyÆd fly into his ears, loud as a bush plane. Daniel would watch the fat backs of king salmon rise like miniature sharks in the center of the river. The men in the village were off in their aluminum fishing boats, the ones that had been sleeping on the shore like beached whales all winter. YupÆik fish camps dotted the bank: single-celled cities made of whitewalled tents, or knobby poles nailed together and covered with blue tarps that flapped like the aprons of flustered old women. On plywood tables, the women cut kings and reds into strips, then hung them on the racks to dry as they called out to their children: Kaigtuten-qaa? Are you hungry? Qinucetaanrilgu kinguqliin! DonÆt try to

provoke your little brother!

 

He picked up a crusted twig, a fan belt, and a binder clip before he saw it-a pitted peak jutting out of the silt. It couldnÆt beàcould it? It took a trained eye to look past the soaked driftwood to pick out an ivory tusk or a fossilized bone, but it had happened, Daniel knew. Other kids in school-the ones who teased him because he was kassÆaq, who laughed when he didnÆt know how to shoot a ptarmigan or couldnÆt find his way back from the bush on a snow-go-had found mastodon teeth along the banks of the river.

Crouching, Daniel dug around the base, even as the river rushed into the hole and buried his progress. It was an honest-to-God tusk, right here, under his hands. He imagined it reaching past the water table, bigger even than the one on display in Bethel.

Two ravens watched him from the bank, chattering a play-by-play commentary as Daniel pulled and heaved. Mammoth tusks could be ten or twelve feet long; they might weigh a couple hundred pounds. Maybe it wasnÆt even a mammoth but a quugaarpak. The Yupiit told stories of the huge creature that lived under the ground and came out only at night. If it was caught above the ground when the sun was up-even the slightest part of it-its entire body would turn into bone and ivory.

Daniel spent hours trying to extricate the tusk, but it was stuck too firm and wedged too deep. He would have to leave it and bring back reinforcements. He marked his site, trampling tall reeds and leaving a hummock of stones piled onto the bank to flag the spot where the tusk would be waiting.

The next day, Daniel returned with a shovel and a block of wood. He had a vague plan of building a dam to stave off the flow of water while he dug his tusk out of the silt. He passed the same people working at fish camp, and the bend where the alder trees had fallen off the bank right into the water, the two ravens cackling-but when he came to the spot where heÆd found the tusk yesterday, it was gone.

ItÆs said that you canÆt step into the same river twice. Maybe that was the problem, or maybe the current was so strong it had swept away the pile of rocks Daniel had left as a marker. Maybe it was, as the YupÆik kids said, that Daniel was too white to do what they could do as naturally as breathing: find history

with their own two hands.

 

It was not until Daniel reached the village again that he realized the ravens had followed him home. Everyone knew that if one bird landed on your roof, it meant company. A tiding of ravens, though, meant something else entirely: that loneliness would be your lot, that there was no hope of changing your course.

Marita Soorenstad looked up the minute Bartholemew entered her office. ôDo you remember a guy named David Fleming?ö she asked.

He sank down into the chair across from her. ôShould I?ö

 

ôIn 1991, he raped and attempted to kill a fifteen-year-old girl who was riding her bike home from school. Then he went and killed someone in another county, and there was a Supreme Court case about whether or not the DNA sample taken for the first case could be used as evidence in the next case.ö

ôSo?ö

 

ôSo in Maine, if you take a blood sample from a suspect for one case, you can indeed use it for subsequent tests in a different case,ö Marita said. ôThe problem is that when you took blood from Trixie Stone, she consented because she was a victim, and thatÆs very different from consenting because sheÆs a suspect.ö

ôIsnÆt there some kind of loophole?ö

 

ôDepends,ö Marita said. ôThere are three situations when youÆre talking about an individual sample that was given based on consent, as opposed to based on a warrant. In the first, the police tell the individual the sample will be used for any investigation. In the second, the police tell the individual the sample will be used only for a certain investigation. In the third, the police obtain consent after saying that the sample will be used to investigate one particular crime, but they donÆt make any mention of other uses. You with me so far?ö

Bartholemew nodded.

 

ôWhat exactly did you tell Trixie Stone about her rape kit?ö

He thought back to the night heÆd met the girl and her parents in the hospital.

Bartholemew could not be entirely sure, but he imagined that he said what he usually did with a sexual assault victim: that this was going to be used for the purposes of the rape case, that it was often the DNA evidence that a jury would hang their hat on.

ôYou didnÆt mention using it for any other potential case, did you?ö Marita asked.

ôNo,ö he scowled. ôMost rape victims have enough trouble with the current one.ö

ôWell, that means the scope of consent was ambiguous. Most people assume that when the police ask for a sample to help solve a crime, they arenÆt going to use the sample indefinitely for other purposes. And a pretty strong argument could be made that in the absence of explicit consent, retaining the sample and reusing it is constitutionally unreasonable.ö She pulled off her glasses. ôIt seems to me you have two choices. You can either go back to Trixie Stone and ask for her permission to use the blood sample youÆve got in the rape kit for a new investigation, or you can go to a judge and get a warrant for a new sample of her blood.ö

ôNeither oneÆs going to work,ö Bartholemew said. ôSheÆs missing.ö Marita glanced up. ôAre you kidding?ö

ôI wish.ö

 

ôThen get more creative. Where else would there be a sample of her DNA?

Does she lick envelopes for the drama club or Teen Democrats?ö

 

ôShe was too busy carving up her arms for any other extra-curriculars,ö Bartholemew said.

ôWho treated her? The school nurse?ö

 

No, this had been TrixieÆs big secret; she would have gone to great pains to hide it, especially if she was cutting herself during school hours. But it did beg the question: What did she use to stanch the flow of blood? Band-Aids, gauze, tissue?

And was any of that in her locker?

The bush pilot from Arctic Circle Air had been hired to fly in a veterinarian headed to Bethel for the K300 sled dog race. ôYou going there too?ö the vet asked, and although Trixie had no idea where it was, she nodded. ôFirst time?ö

ôUm, yeah.ö

 

The vet looked at her backpack. ôYou must be a JV.ö

 

She was; sheÆd played junior varsity soccer this fall. ôI was a striker,ö Trixie said.

ôThe rest of the JVs headed up to the checkpoints yesterday,ö the pilot said. ôYou miss the flight?ö

He might as well have been speaking Greek. ôI was sick,ö Trixie said. ôI had the flu.ö

The pilot hauled the last box of supplies into the belly of the plane. ôWell, if you donÆt mind riding with the cargo, I donÆt mind giving a pretty girl a lift.ö

The Shorts Skyvan hardly looked airworthy-it resembled a Winnebago with wings. The inside was crammed with duffels and pallets.

ôYou can wait for the commuter flight out tomorrow,ö the pilot said, ôbut thereÆs a storm coming. YouÆll probably sit out the whole race in the airport.ö

ôIÆd rather fly out now,ö Trixie said, and the pilot gave her a leg up. ôMind the body,ö he said.

ôOh, IÆm okay.ö

 

ôWasnÆt talking about you.ö The pilot reached in and rapped his knuckles against a pine box.

Trixie scrambled to the other side of the narrow cargo hold. She was supposed to fly to Bethel next to a coffin?

ôAt least you know he wonÆt talk your ear off.ö The pilot laughed, and then he sealed Trixie inside.

She sat on the duffels and flattened herself against the riveted metal wall.

Through the mesh web that separated her from the pilot and the vet, she could hear talking. The plane vibrated to life.

Three days ago, if someone had told her sheÆd be riding in a flying bus beside a dead body, she would have flat-out denied it. But desperation can do amazing things to a person. Trixie could remember her history teacher telling the class about the starving man in a Virginia settlement whoÆd killed, salted, and eaten his wife one winter before the rest of the colonists ever noticed she was missing. What youÆd deem impossible one day might look promising the next.

As the plane canted off the ground, the pine box slid toward Trixie, jamming up against the soles of her shoes. It could be worse, she thought. He might not be in a coffin but in a body bag. He might not be some random dead guy but Jason.

They climbed into the night, a rich batter mixed with stars. Up here, it was even colder. Trixie pulled down the sleeves of her jacket.

Oooooh.

 

She leaned toward the mesh to speak into the front of the cockpit. The vet was already asleep. ôDid you say something?ö she called to the pilot.

ôNope!ö

 

Trixie settled back against the side of the plane and heard it again: the quiet long note of someone singing his soul.

It was coming from underneath the lid of the pine box.

 

Trixie froze. It had to be the engine. Or maybe the veterinarian snored. But even louder this time, she could trace the origin to the coffin: Ohhhhh.

What if the person wasnÆt dead at all? What if heÆd been stapled into this box and was trying to get out? What if he was scratching at the insides, splinters under his fingernails, wondering how heÆd ever wound up in there?

Ohhh, the body sighed. Noooo.

 

She came up on her knees, grabbing through the mesh at the bush pilotÆs shoulder. ôStop the plane,ö she cried. ôYou have to stop right now!ö

ôYou should have gone before we left,ö the pilot yelled back. ôThat bodyàitÆs not dead!ö

By now, sheÆd awakened the vet, who turned around in the passenger seat. ôWhatÆs the matter-ö

Trixie couldnÆt look back at the coffin; if she did there would be an arm reaching out of that box, a face she couldnÆt lose in her nightmares, a voice telling her that he knew the secret she hadnÆt told anyone else.

Ooooh.

 

ôThere,ö Trixie said. ôCanÆt you hear that?ö

 

The vet laughed. ôItÆs the lungs expanding. Like when you take a bag of potato chips on a plane and it puffs up after liftoff? ThatÆs all youÆre hearing- air going over the vocal cords.ö He grinned at her. ôMaybe you ought to lay off the caffeine.ö

Mortified, Trixie turned back toward the coffin. She could hear the pilot and the vet bonding over her stupidity, and her cheeks burned. The body-dead as could be, dead as the wood it was surrounded by-continued to sing: one lonely note that filled the hold of the plane like a requiem, like the truth no one wanted to hear.

ôThis really is a shock,ö said Jeb Aaronsen, the principal of Bethel High. ôTrixie seemed to be getting along so well in school.ö

Bartholemew didnÆt even spare him a sideways glance. ôBefore or after she stopped coming altogether?ö

He didnÆt have a lot of patience for this principal, who hadnÆt noticed any

change in his own daughterÆs behavior, either, when sheÆd been a student here. Aaronsen always put on his tragedy face but couldnÆt seem to keep the next one from happening.

Bartholemew was tired. HeÆd traced the Stones to the airport, where theyÆd boarded a plane to Seattle. That would connect to one that landed in Anchorage just shy of midnight. TheyÆd paid $1,292.90 per ticket, according to the American Express agent whoÆd given the detective the lead.

Now he knew where Trixie was headed. He just had to convince a judge that she needed to be brought home.

Bartholemew had awakened the principal and waved the search warrant. The only other people in the school at this time of night were the janitors, who nodded and pushed their rolling trash receptacles out of the way as the men passed. It was strange-almost eerie-to be in a high school that was so patently devoid of commotion.

ôWe knew theàincident wasàdifficult on her,ö the principal said. ôMrs. Gray in guidance was keeping an eye on Trixie.ö

Bartholemew didnÆt even bother to answer. The administration at Bethel High was no different from any other group of adults in America: Rather than see what was right under their noses, they pretended that everything was exactly like they wanted it to be. What had Mrs. Gray been doing when Trixie was carving up her skin and slitting her wrists? Or, for that matter, when Holly had skipped classes and stopped eating?

ôTrixie knew she could have come to us if she was feeling ostracized,ö the principal said, and then he stopped in front of a drab olive locker. ôThis is the one.ö

Bartholemew lifted the bolt cutters heÆd brought from the fire department and snipped the combination lock. He opened the metal latch, only to have dozens of condoms spring out of the locker like a nest of snakes. Bartholemew picked up one string of Trojans. ôGood thing she wasnÆt being ostracized,ö he said.

The principal murmured something and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bartholemew alone. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and pulled a

paper bag out of his coat pocket. Then he brushed the remaining condoms from the innards of the locker and stepped closer to investigate.

There was an algebra textbook. A dog-eared copy of Romeo and Juliet. Forty- six cents in assorted change. A ruler. A broken binder clip. Mounted on the swinging door underneath a sticker that said HOOBASTANK was a tiny compact mirror with a flower painted in the corner. It had been smashed hard enough to crack, and the bottom left corner was missing.

Bartholemew found himself looking at it and wondering what Trixie Stone had seen in there. Did she picture the girl sheÆd been at the beginning of ninth grade-a kid, really, checking out what was going on in the hall behind her and wishing she could be a part of it? Or did she see the shell sheÆd become-one of the dozens of faceless adolescents in Bethel High who made it through the day by praying, one step at a time, they wouldnÆt attract anyoneÆs notice?

Bartholemew peered into TrixieÆs locker again. It was like a still life, without the life.

There was no gauze or box of Band-Aids. There was no shirt crumpled into the corner, stained with TrixieÆs blood. Bartholemew was about to give up when he noticed the edge of a photo, jammed down into the joint between the back metal wall and the floor of the locker. Pulling a pair of tweezers out of his pocket. Bartholemew managed to inch it free.

It was a picture of two vampires, their mouths dripping with blood.

Bartholemew did a double take, then looked again and realized the girls were holding a half-eaten bucket of cherries. Zephyr Santorelli-Weinstein was on the left. Her mouth was a bright crimson, her teeth stained, too. The other girl must have been Trixie Stone, although he would have been hard-pressed to make an identification. In the photo, she was laughing so hard her eyes had narrowed to slits. Her hair was nearly the same color as the fruit and fell all the way down her back.

Until he saw that, heÆd forgotten. When Bartholemew had first met Trixie Stone, her hair had reached down to her waist. The second time theyÆd met, those locks had been brutally shorn. He remembered Janice the rape advocate telling him that it was a positive step, a donation Trixie had made to a charity that made wigs for cancer patients.

A charity that would have taken, recorded, and labeled Trixie StoneÆs hair.

Daniel and Laura sat in an airport bar, waiting. A snowstorm in Anchorage had delayed the connecting flight out of Seattle, and so far three hours had passed, three hours that Trixie was getting farther away from them.

Laura had tossed back three drinks already. Daniel wasnÆt sure if it was because of her fear of heights and flying in general, or her worry about Trixie, or a combination of both. There was, of course, the chance that they had been wrong-that Trixie was heading south to Mexico, or sleeping in a train station in Pennsylvania. But then again, Trixie wouldnÆt be the first kid in trouble to turn to Alaska. So many folks on the run from the law wound up there-the last great frontier-that states had long ago given up spending the money to come pick them up. Instead, the Alaska state troopers hunted down fugitives from justice. Daniel could remember reading newspaper stories about people who were dragged out of cabins in the bush and extradited on charges of rape or kidnapping or murder. He wondered if TrixieÆs picture was being e-mailed to sergeants around Alaska, if theyÆd already started to search.

There was a difference, though, between searching and hunting, one heÆd learned with Cane and his grandfather. You have to clear your mind of the thoughts of the animal, the old man used to say, or heÆll see you coming.

Daniel would focus, wishing he was less white and more like Cane-who, if you told him, ôDonÆt think of a purple elephant,ö could truly not think of a purple elephant.

The difference here was that if Daniel wanted to find Trixie, he couldnÆt afford to stop thinking about her. That way, sheÆd know that he was looking.

Daniel moved a martini glass that had been on the bar when they first sat down-someoneÆs leftovers. You didnÆt have to clean up after yourself; there was always waitstaff to do it for you. That was one difference between Eskimo culture and white culture heÆd never quite understood-people in the lower

forty-eight had no responsibility to anyone else. You looked out for number one; you fended for yourself. If you interfered in someone elseÆs business-even with the best of intentions-you might suddenly be held accountable for whatever went wrong. The good Samaritan who pulled a man from a burning car could be sued

for injuries caused during the process.

 

On the other hand, the Yupiit knew that everyone was connected-man and beast, stranger and stranger, husband and wife, father and child. Cut yourself, and someone else bled. Rescue another, and you might save yourself.

Daniel shuddered as more memories passed through him. There were disjointed images, like the Kilbuck Mountains in the distance flattened by an air inversion in the utter cold. There were unfamiliar sounds, like the plaintive aria of sled dogs waiting for their dinner. And there were distinctive smells, like the oily ribbon of drying salmon that blew in from fish camp. He felt as if he were picking up the thread of a life he had forgotten weaving and being expected to continue the pattern.

And yet, in the airport were a thousand reminders of how heÆd been living for the past two decades. Travelers belched out of jet-ways, dragging wheeled carry-ons and hauling wrapped presents in oversized department store bags. The smell of strong coffee drifted from the Starbucks stand across the way. Carols played in an endless loop on the speaker system, interrupted by the occasional call for a porter with a wheelchair.

When Laura spoke, he nearly jumped out of his seat. ôWhat do you think will happen?ö

Daniel glanced at her. ôI donÆt know.ö He grimaced, thinking of all that could go wrong from this point on for Trixie: frostbite, fever, animals she could not fight, losing her way. Losing herself. ôI just wish sheÆd come to me instead of running off.ö

Laura looked down at the table. ôMaybe she was afraid youÆd think the worst.ö

Was he that transparent? Although Daniel had told himself Trixie hadnÆt killed Jason, although heÆd say this till he went hoarse, there was a seed of doubt that had started to blossom, and it was choking his optimism. The Trixie he knew could not have killed Jason; but then, it had already been proved that there was a great deal about Trixie he didnÆt know.

Here, though, was the remarkable thing: It didnÆt matter. Trixie could have told him that she killed Jason with her bare hands, and he would have

understood. Who knew better than Daniel that everyone had a beast inside, that sometimes it came out of hiding?

What he wished he had been able to tell Trixie was that she wasnÆt alone. Over the past two weeks, this metamorphosis had been happening to him, too. Daniel had kidnapped Jason; heÆd beaten the boy. HeÆd lied to the police. And now he was headed to Alaska-the place he hated more than anywhere else on earth. Daniel Stone was falling away, one civilized scale at a time, and before long heÆd be an animal again-just like the Yupiit believed.

Daniel would find Trixie, even if it meant he had to walk across every mile of Alaska to do it. HeÆd find her, even if he had to slip into his old skin-lying, stealing, hurting anyone who stood in his way. HeÆd find Trixie, and heÆd convince her that nothing she could do or say would make him love her any less.

He just hoped when she saw what heÆd become for her, sheÆd feel the same way.

The race headquarters for the K300 were already in full swing when Trixie arrived with the veterinarian shortly after six oÆclock. There were lists posted on dry-erase boards: the names of the mushers, with grids to post their progress at a dozen race checkpoints. There were rule books and maps of the course.

Behind one table a woman sat at a bank of phones, answering the same questions over and over. Yes, the race started at eight P.M. Yes, DeeDee Jonrowe was wearing bib number one. No, they didnÆt have enough volunteers.

People who arrived by snow machine stripped off several layers the minute they walked into the Long House Inn. Everyone wore footwear with soles so thick they looked like moon boots, and sealskin hats with flaps that hung down over the ears. There were one-piece snowsuits and elaborately embroidered fur parkas. When the occasional musher came in, he was treated like a rock star- people lined up to shake his hand and wish him the best of luck. Everyone seemed to know everyone else.

YouÆd think that in this environment, Trixie would have looked ridiculously out of place, but if anyone noticed her presence, they didnÆt seem to care. She wasnÆt stopped when she took a bowl of stew from the Crock Pot on the back table and then went back seconds later for another helping. It wasnÆt beef-

frankly, she was a little scared to find out what it was-but it was the first food sheÆd eaten in almost two days, and at that point, anything would have been delicious.

Suddenly the woman behind the table stood up and started toward Trixie. She froze, anticipating a moment of reckoning. ôLet me guess,ö she said. ôYouÆre Andi?ö

Trixie forced a smile. ôHowÆd you know?ö

 

ôThe other JVs called from Tuluksak and said you were new and youÆd gotten snowed in Outside.ö

ôOutside where?ö

 

The woman grinned. ôSorry, thatÆs what we call all the other states. WeÆll get someone to run you to the checkpoint before the mushers arrive.ö

ôTuluksak,ö Trixie repeated. The word tasted like iron. ôI was hoping to get to Akiak.ö

ôWell, TuluksakÆs where we stick all the Jesuit Volunteers who work up here. DonÆt worry-we havenÆt lost one yet.ö She nodded toward a box. ôIÆm Jen, by the way. And it would be really great if you could help me carry that down to the starting line.ö

Trixie hefted the box, which was full of camera equipment, as Jen pulled her face mask up over her nose and mouth. ôYou might want your coat,ö she said.

ôThis is all I brought,ö Trixie replied. ôMy, um, friends have my stuff with them.ö

She didnÆt know if this lie would even make sense, since she hadnÆt understood any of JenÆs comments about Jesuit Volunteers and Tuluksak in the first place. But Jen just rolled her eyes and dragged her toward a table covered with K300 merchandise for sale. ôHere,ö she said, tossing her a big fleece jacket and mittens and a hat that Velcroed under the chin. She took a pair of boots and a heavy anorak from behind the headquarter tables. ôTheseÆll be too big, but HarryÆll be too drunk later to notice theyÆre missing.ö

As Trixie followed Jen out of the Long House, winter smacked her with an open hand. It wasnÆt just cold, the way it got in Maine in December. It was bone-deep cold, the kind that wrapped around your spine and turned your breath into tiny crystals, the kind that matted your eyelashes together with ice. Snow was piled on both sides of the walkway, and snow machines were parked at right angles in between a few rusted trucks.

Jen walked toward one of the pickups. It was white, but one of the doors was red, as if it had been amputated from a different junk heap for transplant onto this one. Tufts of stuffing and coils sprang out from the passenger side of the bench. There were no seat belts. It looked nothing like TrixieÆs fatherÆs truck, but as she slid into the passenger seat, homesickness slipped like a knife between her ribs.

Jen coaxed the truckÆs engine into turning over. ôSince when did the Jesuit Volunteers start recruiting on playgrounds?ö

TrixieÆs heart started to pound. ôOh, IÆm twenty-one,ö she said. ôI just look way younger.ö

ôEither that, or IÆm getting too damn old.ö She nodded toward a bottle of JSgermeister jammed into the ashtray. ôFeel free to have some, if you want.ö

Trixie unscrewed the cap of the bottle. She took a tentative sip, then spit the liquor across the dashboard.

Jen laughed. ôRight. Jesuit Volunteer. I forgot.ö She watched Trixie furiously trying to wipe the mess up with her mitten. ôDonÆt worry, I think that itÆs got enough alcohol in it to qualify as cleaning fluid.ö

She took a sharp right, turning the pickup over the edge of a snowbank. Trixie panicked-there was no road. The truck slid down an icy hill onto the surface of a frozen river, and then Jen began to drive to the center of it.

A makeshift start and finish line had been erected, with two long chutes cordoned off and a banner overhead proclaiming the K300. Beside it was a flatbed truck, on which stood a man testing a microphone. A steady stream of dilapidated pickups and snow machines pulled onto the ice, parking in ragged lines. Some pulled trailers with fancy kennel names painted across them; others had a litter of barking dogs in the back. In the distance was a belching

hovercraft, one that Jen explained brought the mail downriver. Tonight it was serving free hot dogs, in honor of the race.

A pair of enormous flood lamps illuminated the night, and for the first time since sheÆd landed in Bethel, Trixie got a good look at the Alaskan tundra. The landscape was layered in pale blues and flat silvers; the sky was an overturned bowl of stars that fell into the hoods of the YupÆik children balanced on their fathersÆ shoulders. Ice stretched as far as she could see. Here, it was easy to understand how people once thought you could fall off the edge of the world.

It all looked familiar to Trixie, as impossible as that might be. And then she realized it was. This was exactly how her father drew hell.

As mushers hooked dogs to their sleds, a crowd gathered around the chute. All the people looked immense and overstuffed in their outside gear. Children held their hands out to the dogs to sniff, getting tangled in the lead lines.

ôAndi. Andi?ö

 

When Trixie didnÆt answer-she forgot that was the name sheÆd been given this time-Jen tapped her on the shoulder. Standing beside her was a YupÆik Eskimo boy not much older than Trixie. He had a wide face the color of hazelnuts, and amazingly, he wasnÆt wearing a hat. ôWillieÆs going to take you up to Tuluksak,ö Jen said.

ôThanks,ö Trixie answered.

 

The boy wouldnÆt look her in the eye. He turned away and started walking, which Trixie assumed was the cue that she was supposed to follow. He stopped at a snow machine, nodded at it, and then walked away from her.

Willie disappeared quickly into the dark ring of night outside the flood lamp. Trixie hesitated beside the snow machine, not sure what she was supposed to do. Follow him? Figure out how to turn this thing on herself?

Trixie touched one of the handlebars. The snow machine smelled like exhaust, like her fatherÆs lawn mower.

She was about to look for an On switch when Willie returned, holding an oversized winter parka with black wolf fur sewn into the hood. Still averting his

glance, he held it out to her. When she didnÆt take it, he mimed putting it on.

 

There was still heat trapped inside. Trixie wondered whom heÆd taken this jacket from, if he or she was shivering now in the cold. Her hands were lost in the sleeves, and when she pulled up the hood, it blocked the wind from her face.

Willie climbed onto the snow machine and waited for Trixie to do the same.

She glanced at him-what if he didnÆt know his way to Tuluksak? Even if he did, what was she going to do when everyone realized Trixie wasnÆt the person they were expecting? Most important, how was she supposed to get on the back of this thing without having to lean up against this boy?

With all of their layers, it was a tight fit. Trixie pushed herself back to the very edge of the seat, holding on to the rails at the sides with her mittened hands.

Willie pulled the rip cord to start the machine and they groaned forward slowly, to keep the dogs from startling. He maneuvered around the chute and then gunned the engine, so that they flew across the ice.

If it was cold standing around, it was fifty times colder on a snow machine blasting at full throttle. Trixie couldnÆt imagine not having the parka; as it was, she was shivering inside it and had curled her hands into fists.

The headlamp on the front of the machine cut a tiny visible triangle in front of them. There was no road whatsoever. There were no street signs, no traffic lights, no exit ramps. ôHey,ö Trixie yelled into the wind. ôDo you know where youÆre going?ö

Willie didnÆt answer.

 

Trixie grasped onto the handholds more firmly. It was dizzying, going at this speed without being able to see. She listed to the left as Willie drove up a bank, through a narrow copse of trees, and then back out onto a finger of the frozen river.

ôMy nameÆs Trixie,ö she said, not because she expected an answer but because it kept her teeth from chattering. After she spoke, she remembered that she was supposed to be someone else. ôWell, itÆs Trixie, but they call me Andi.ö God, she thought. Could I sound any more stupid if I tried?

The wind blew into TrixieÆs eyes, which-as they started tearing-froze shut.

She found herself huddling forward, her forehead nearly touching WillieÆs back. Heat rose off him in waves.

As they drove, she pretended that she was lying prone in the back of her fatherÆs pickup, feeling it vibrate underneath her as he bounced into the parking lot of the drive-in. The metal flatbed pressed against her cheek was still warm from a whole day of sun. They would eat so much popcorn that her mother would be able to smell it on their clothes even after sheÆd put them through the wash.

A frigid blast of air hit her full in the face. ôAre we going to be there soon?ö Trixie asked, and then, at WillieÆs silence, ôDo you even speak English?ö

To her surprise, he ground the brakes, until the snow machine came to a stop.

Willie turned around, still avoiding her gaze. ôItÆs fifty-five miles,ö he said. ôAre you going to yap the whole time?ö

Stung, Trixie turned away and noticed the eerie light that had spilled onto the surface of the river up ahead. She traced it to its overhead origina wash of pink and white and green that reminded her of the smoke trails left behind by fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Who knew that when you cut a slit in the belly of the night sky, it bled color? ôThatÆs beautiful,ö Trixie whispered.

Willie followed her gaze. ôQiuryaq.ö

 

She didnÆt know if that meant Shut up or Hold on or maybe even IÆm sorry. But this time when he started the sled, she tilted her face to the Northern Lights. Looking up here was hypnotic and less harrowing than trying to squint at the imaginary road. Looking up here, it was almost easy to imagine they were nearly home.

7

M ax Giff-Reynolds had made a career out of focusing on the things most people never saw: a carpet fiber trapped on the inside edge of a victimÆs coat, a grain of sand left at a crime scene that was indigenous to a certain part of the country, the dust of a coffee grinder on the makings of a dirty bomb. As one of two hundred forensic microscopists in the country, he was in high demand.

Chances were that Mike Bartholemew would never have gotten anywhere close to him for an analysis of TrixieÆs hair sample-if he hadnÆt known Max when he was a skinny little geek in college, back when they were roommates and Bartholemew served as bodyguard in return for private tutorials in chemistry and physics.

HeÆd driven to Boston that night with a hank of Trixie StoneÆs hair on the seat beside him. The salon, Live and Let Dye, hadnÆt even sent the sample in to Locks of Love yet; it had been languishing in a drawer in the back room near the peroxide and the paraffin wax. Now he was sitting on top of a counter, waiting for Max to tell him something useful.

The lab was piled with boxes of dust and hair and fiber for comparison. A poster of MaxÆs hero, Edmond Locard, hung over his polarized-light microscope. Bartholemew could remember Max reading books about Locard, the father of forensic science, even back at U Maine. ôHe burned off his fingerprints,ö Max had told him once with admiration, ôjust to see if they grew back in the same patterns!ö

It had been almost thirty years since theyÆd graduated, but Max looked the same. Balder, but still skinny, with a permanent curve to his back that came from bending over a microscope. ôHuh,ö he said.

ôWhatÆs that mean?ö

Max pushed back from his workspace. ôWhat do you know about hair?ö Bartholemew grinned at the other manÆs gleaming pate. ôMore than you do.ö ôHairÆs got three layers that are important, in terms of forensics,ö Max said,

ignoring his comment. ôThe cortex, the cuticle, and the medulla. If you think of a piece of hair as a pencil, the medulla is the graphite, the cortex is the wood, and the paint on the outside is the cuticle. The medulla is sometimes in pieces and differs from hair to hair on the same human head. The cells in the cortex have pigment, which is pretty much what IÆm trying to match up between your

two samples. You with me so far?ö Bartholemew nodded.

ôI can tell you, by looking at a hair, if itÆs human or not. I can tell you if it came from someone of Caucasian, Negroid, or Mongolian origin. I can tell you where it came from on the body and whether the hair was forcibly removed or burned or crushed. I can tell you that a hair excludes a suspect, but I canÆt use it to pinpoint a particular one.ö

He spoke as he bent over the microscope again. ôWhat IÆm seeing in both samples is a moderate shaft diameter and diameter variation, medulla continuous and relatively narrow, soft texture. That means theyÆre both hairs from a human head. The hue, value, and intensity of the color are nearly identical. The tip of your known sample was cut with a pair of scissors; the other still has a root attached, which is soft and distorted-telling me it was yanked out. Pigment varies a bit between the two samples, although not enough for me to draw any conclusion. However, the cortex of the hair you found on the victimÆs body is much more prominent than the hairs in the known sample.ö

ôThe known sample came from a haircut three weeks before the murder,ö Bartholemew said. ôIsnÆt it possible that during those three weeks, the cortex got moreàwhat did you say again?ö

ôProminent,ö Max answered. ôYeah, itÆs possible, especially if the suspect had some kind of chemical hair treatment or was excessively exposed to sunlight or wind. Theoretically, itÆs also possible for two hairs from the same human head to just plain look different. But thereÆs also the chance, here, that youÆre talking about two different heads.ö He looked at Bartholemew. ôIf you asked me to get up in front of a jury, I couldnÆt tell them conclusively that these two hairs came from the same person.ö

Bartholemew felt like heÆd been punched in the chest. HeÆd been so certain that heÆd been on the right track here, that Trixie StoneÆs disappearance flagged her involvement in the murder of Jason Underhill.

ôHey,ö Max said, looking at his face. ôI donÆt admit this to many people, but microscopyÆs not always an exact science. Even when I think I do see a match, I tell detectives to get a DNA analysis to back up what the scope says.ö

Mike sighed. ôI have a root on only one of the hairs. That rules out DNA.ö

 

ôIt rules out nuclear DNA,ö Max corrected. He leaned over and took a card out of his desk. He scribbled something on the back and handed it to Bartholemew. ôSkipÆs a friend of mine, at a private lab in Virginia. Make sure you say I sent you.ö

Bartholemew took the card. SKIPPER JOHANSSEN, he read. GENETTA LABS. MITOCHONDRIAL DNA.

By the time the storm blew in, Trixie had already lost feeling in her toes. She was nearly catatonic, lulled by the cold and the exhaust of the snow machine. At the first strike of ice against her cheek, Trixie blinked back to awareness. They were still somewhere on the river-the scenery looked no different than it had an hour ago, except that the lights in the sky had vanished, washed over by gray clouds that touched down at the line of the horizon.

Snow howled. Visibility grew even worse. Trixie began to imagine that she had fallen into one of her fatherÆs comic book panels, one filled with Kirby crackle-the burst of white bubbles that Jack Kirby, a penciler from years ago, had invented to show an energy field. The shapes in the darkness turned into villains from her fatherÆs art-twisted trees became the clawed arms of a witch; icicles were the bared fangs of a demon.

Willie slowed the snow machine to a crawl and then stopped it altogether. He shouted to Trixie over the roar of the wind. ôWe have to wait this out. ItÆll clear up by morning.ö

Trixie wanted to answer him, but sheÆd spent so long clenching her jaw shut that she couldnÆt pry it open wide enough for a word.

Willie moved to the back of the machine, rummaging around. He handed her a blue tarp. ôTuck this under the treads,ö he said. ôWe can use it to get out of the wind.ö

He left her to her own devices and disappeared into the whorls of snow. Trixie wanted to cry. She was so cold that she couldnÆt even classify it as cold anymore; she had no idea what he meant by treads, and she wanted to go home.

She clutched the tarp against her parka, not moving, wishing that Willie would come back.

She saw him moving in and out of the beam cast by the snow machineÆs headlight. He seemed to be snapping off the branches of a dead tree next to the riverbank. When he saw her still sitting on the snow machine, he walked up to her. She expected him to scream about not pulling her weight, but instead his mouth tightened and he helped her off. ôGet under here,ö he said, and he had her sit with her back to the snow machine before he wrapped it in the tarp and pulled it over her, an awning to cut the wind.

It wasnÆt perfect. There were three large slits in the tarp, and the snow and ice unerringly found those gashes. Willie crouched down at TrixieÆs feet and peeled some of the bark off the birch branches heÆd gathered, tucking it between lengths of cottonwood and alder. He poured a little gas from the snow machine on top of the pile and ignited it with a lighter from his pocket. Only when she could feel the fire against her skin did she let herself wonder how cold it might be out here.

Trixie remembered learning that the human body was, like, sixty percent water. How many degrees below zero did it have to get before you literally froze to death?

ôCome on,ö Willie said. ôLetÆs get some grass.ö

 

The last thing Trixie wanted to do right now was smoke weed. She tried to shake her head, but even that set of muscles had stopped working. When she didnÆt get up, he turned away, as if she wasnÆt even worth bothering with. ôWait,ö she said, and although he didnÆt look at her, he stopped moving. She wanted to explain how her feet felt like blocks and her fingers stung so bad that she had to keep biting down on her lower lip. She wanted to tell him how her shoulders hurt from trying not to shiver. She wanted to tell him she was scared and that when she imagined running away, this hadnÆt entered into it. ôI c- canÆt move,ö Trixie said.

Willie knelt beside her. ôWhat canÆt you feel?ö

 

She didnÆt know how to answer that. Comfort? Safety?

 

He began unlacing TrixieÆs boots. Matter-of-factly, he cupped his hands

around one of her feet. ôI donÆt have a sleeping bag. I let my cousin Ernie take it, heÆs one of the mushers, and the officials check to see if you have one before you start the race.ö Then, just when Trixie could move her toes again, just as a searing burn shot from her nails to the arch of her foot, Willie stood up and left.

He came back a few minutes later with an armful of dead grass.

 

It was still dusted with snow; Willie had dug it out from the edge of the riverbank. He packed the grass in TrixieÆs boots and mittens. He told her to stuff some under her parka.

ôHow long will it snow?ö Trixie asked. Willie shrugged.

ôHow come you donÆt talk?ö

 

Willie rocked back on his heels, his boots crunching in the snow. ôHow come you think you have to talk to say something?ö He pulled off his mittens and toasted his hands over the fire. ôYouÆve got frostnip.ö

ôWhatÆs that?ö

 

ôFrostbite, before it happens.ö

 

Trixie tried to remember what she knew about frostbite. DidnÆt the affected body part turn black and fall off? ôWhere?ö she panicked.

ôBetween your eyes. On your cheek.ö Her face was going to fall off?

Willie gestured, almost delicately, in a way that let her know he wanted to move closer to her, to place his hand on her. It was at that moment that Trixie realized she was in the company of a boy who was stronger than she was, in the middle of nowhere, a good twenty-five miles away from anyone whoÆd hear her scream. She leaned away from him, shaking her head, as her throat closed like a rose after dark.

His fingers caught her at the wrist, and TrixieÆs heart started hammering

harder. She closed her eyes, expecting the worst, thinking that maybe if youÆd lived a nightmare once it wasnÆt quite as bad the second time around.

WillieÆs palm, hot as a stone in the sun, pressed against her cheek. She felt his other hand touch her forehead, then sweep down the side of her face to cup her jaw.

She could feel calluses on his skin, and she wondered where theyÆd come from. Trixie opened her eyes and, for the first time since sheÆd met him, found Willie Moses looking right at her.

Skipper Johanssen, the mitochondrial DNA expert, was a woman.

Bartholemew watched her pour sugar into her coffee and look over the notes on the case that heÆd brought. ôUnusual name,ö he said.

ôMom had a Barbie thing going on.ö

 

She was beautiful: straight platinum hair that swept the middle of her back, green eyes hidden behind her thick-framed black glasses. When she read, sometimes her mouth formed the words. ôWhat do you know about mitochondrial DNA?ö she asked.

ôThat you can hopefully use it to compare two hairs?ö

 

ôWell, yeah, you can. The real question is what you want to do with that comparison.ö Skipper leaned back in her chair. ôThanks to C.S.I., everyoneÆs heard about DNA analysis. Most of the time theyÆre talking about nuclear DNA, the kind that comes, in equal halves, from your mother and your father. But thereÆs another kind of DNA thatÆs the up-and-comer in the forensic community-mitochondrial DNA. And even though you may not know a lot about it, you-and the rest of the world-know the largest case in history where it was used: 9/11.ö

ôTo identify the remains?ö

 

ôExactly,ö Skipper said. ôTraditional efforts didnÆt work-they couldnÆt find intact teeth, or bones that werenÆt crushed, or even anything to X-ray. But mtDNA can be used to profile samples that have been burned, pulverized, you

name it. All scientists need is a saliva sample from a family member of the deceased in order to make a comparison.ö

She picked up the hair sample that Max had scrutinized under a microscope the previous day. ôThe reason we can test this for DNA-without a root attached- is that a cell isnÆt made up of just a nucleus. There are many more parts- including the mitochondria, which are basically the powerhouses that keep the cell functional. There are hundreds of mitochondria in a cell, as compared to a single nucleus. And each mitochondrion contains several copies of the mtDNA weÆre interested in.ö

ôIf thereÆs so much more mtDNA than nuclear DNA, why isnÆt it used all the time for criminal profiling?ö Bartholemew asked.

ôWell, thereÆs a catch. Typically, when you get a nuclear DNA profile, the chances of finding another person with that profile are one in six billion.

Mitochondrial DNA stats are far less discriminating, because unlike nuclear DNA, you inherit mtDNA only from your mom. That means that you and your brothers and sisters all have the same mtDNA she doesàand that her mom and siblings do, and so on. ItÆs actually fascinating-a female egg cell possesses tons of mitochondria, as compared to the sperm cell. At fertilization, not only are the few sperm mitochondria totally outnumbered, theyÆre actually destroyed.ö Skipper smiled brightly. ôNatural selection at its finest.ö

ôItÆs a pity you have to keep us around for that whole fertilization thing in the first place,ö Bartholemew said dryly.

ôAh, but you should see whatÆs going on next door to me in the cloning lab,ö Skipper replied. ôAnyway, my point is that mtDNA isnÆt helpful if youÆre choosing between two biological siblings to pinpoint a suspect, but itÆs a nice tool if youÆre looking to exclude someone nonrelated from an investigation.

Statistically, if you test fifteen spots on the DNA strand, there are more than an octillion nuclear DNA profiles, which is awfully nice when youÆre in front of a jury and trying to pin down a particular individual. But with mtDNA, there are only forty-eight hundred sequences logged to dateàand another six thousand reported in scientific literature. With mtDNA, you might wind up with a relative frequency of point one four or something like that-basically, a subject will share a profile with four percent of the worldÆs population. ItÆs not specific enough to nail a perp without reasonable doubt in front of a jury, but it would allow you

to rule someone out as a suspect because he or she doesnÆt have that particular profile.ö

ôSo if the mtDNA profile of the hair found on the victimÆs body doesnÆt match the one for Trixie StoneÆs hair,ö Bartholemew said, ôthen I canÆt link her to the murder.ö

ôCorrect.ö

 

ôAnd if it does match?ö

 

Skipper glanced up. ôThen youÆve got reasonable cause to arrest her.ö

The sun skipped the Alaskan tundra. At least, thatÆs how it seemed to Laura, or why else would it be pitch-dark at nine in the morning? She anxiously waited for the flight attendant to open the hatch of the plane, now that they had landed in Bethel. It was bad enough that she had a fear of heights and hated flying, but this was only half a plane, really-the front end was devoted to cargo.

ôHow are you doing?ö Daniel asked.

 

ôFantastic,ö Laura said, trying to lighten her voice. ôIt could have been a Cessna, right?ö

Daniel turned just as they were about to exit the plane and pulled up the hood of her jacket. He tugged on the strings and tied them under her chin, just like he used to do when Trixie was tiny and headed out to play in the snow. ôItÆs colder than you think,ö he said, and he stepped onto the rollaway staircase that led to the runway.

It was an understatement. The wind was a knife that cut her to ribbons; the act of breathing felt like swallowing glass. Laura followed Daniel across the runway, hurrying into a small, squat building.

The airport consisted of chairs arranged in narrow rows and a single ticket counter. It wasnÆt manned, because the lone employee had moved to the metal detector, to screen passengers on the outbound flight. Laura watched two native girls hugging an older woman, all three of them crying as they inched toward the

gate.

 

There were signs in both English and YupÆik. ôDoes that mean bathroom?ö Laura asked, pointing to a doorway with the word ANARVIK overhead.

ôWell, thereÆs no YupÆik word for bathroom,ö Daniel said, smiling a little. ôThat actually translates to æthe place to shit.Æ ö

The single door split off to the right and the left. The menÆs and womenÆs rooms were not marked, but she could glimpse a urinal in one direction, so she walked the opposite way. The sinks were operated by push pedals; she pumped one to start the flow of water and then splashed some on her face. She looked at herself in the mirror.

If someone else walks into the bathroom, she thought, I will stop being a coward.

If the family outside has made it through security, to the gate. If Daniel is facing forward, when I come out.

She used to play this game with herself all the time. If the light changed before she counted to ten, then she would go SethÆs after class. If Daniel picked up before the third ring, she would stay an extra five minutes.

SheÆd take these random occurrences and elevate them to oracles; sheÆd pretend that they were enough to justify her actions.

Or lack therof.

 

Wiping her hands on her jacket, she stepped outside to find the family still crying near the metal detector and Daniel facing out the window.

Laura sighed with relief and walked toward him.

Trixie was shivering so hard that she kept shaking off the quilt of dead grass Willie had used to cover them for warmth. It wasnÆt like a blanket you could just pull over yourself; you had to burrow down and think warm thoughts and

hope for the best. Her feet still ached and her hair was frozen against her head. She was consciously awake-somehow she thought that sleeping was too close to the line of being blue and stiff and dead, and that you might pass from one side to the other without any fanfare.

WillieÆs breath came out in little white clouds that floated in the air like Chinese lanterns on a string. His eyes were closed, which meant Trixie could stare at him as much as she wanted. She wondered what it was like to grow up here, to have a snowstorm hit like this and to know how to save yourself, instead of needing someone to do it for you. She wondered if her father knew this sort of stuff too, if elemental knowledge about living and dying might be underneath all the other, ordinary things he knew, like how to draw a devil and change a fuse and not burn pancakes.

ôAre you awake?ö she murmured.

 

Willie didnÆt open his eyes, but he nodded the tiniest bit, and a stream of white flowed out of his nostrils.

There was a warm zone connecting them. They were lying two feet apart, with grass heaped in the space between their bodies, but every time Trixie turned his way she could feel heat conducting through the dried straw, pulsing like light from a star. When she thought he might not notice, she inched infinitesimally closer.

ôDo you know anyone who ever died out here?ö Trixie asked.

 

ôYeah,ö Willie said. ôThatÆs why you donÆt make a cave in a snowbank. If you die, no one can ever find you, and then your spirit wonÆt ever rest.ö

Trixie felt her eyes get damp, and that was awful, because almost immediately her lashes sealed shut again. She thought of the ladders sheÆd cut on her arms, the way sheÆd wanted to feel real pain instead of the hurt gnawed on her heart. Well, sheÆd gotten what she wanted, hadnÆt she? Her toes burned like fire; her fingers had swollen like sausages and ached. The thought of that delicate razor blade being drawn across her skin seemed, by comparison, ridiculous, a drama for someone who didnÆt really know what tragedy was.

Maybe it took realizing that you could die to keep you from wanting to do it.

Trixie wiped her nose and pressed her fingertips against her eyelashes to dissolve the ice. ôI donÆt want to freeze to death,ö she whispered.

Willie swallowed. ôWellàthere is one way to get warmer.ö ôHow?ö

ôTake off our clothes.ö ôYeah, right,ö Trixie scoffed.

ôIÆm not bullshitting you.ö Willie glanced away. ôWe both getàyou knowàand then huddle together.ö

Trixie stared at him. She didnÆt want to be pressed up against him; she kept thinking of what had happened the last time she was this close to a boy.

ôItÆs just what you do,ö Willie said. ôItÆs not like it means anything. My dadÆs stripped down naked with other guys, when they get stuck overnight.ö

Trixie pictured her father doing this-but stopped abruptly when she got to the part where she had to imagine him without clothes.

ôLast time it happened, my dad had to cuddle up to old Ellis Puuqatak the whole night. He swore heÆd never leave home again without a sleeping bag.ö

Trixie watched WillieÆs words crystallize in the cold, each as differentiated as a snowflake, and she knew he was telling her the truth. ôYou have to close your eyes first,ö she said, hesitant.

She shucked off her jeans, anorak, and sweater. She left on her bra and panties, because she had to.

ôNow you,ö Trixie said, and she looked away as he pulled off his coat and his shirt. She peeked, though. His back was the color of the outside of an almond, and his shoulder blades flexed like pistons. He took off his jeans, hopping around and making little sounds, like a person at the town pool who makes a big deal when he finally manages to get into the cold water.

Willie spread some grass on the ground, then lay down and motioned for

Trixie to do the same. He drew their jackets over them, like a blanket, and then covered these with more grass.

Trixie squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel the rustle of the straw as he moved closer and the itch of the grass on her bare skin as it caught between them. WillieÆs hand touched her back, and she stiffened as he came up behind her, curling his knees into the hollow bowl made by the bend of her own. She took deep breaths. She tried not to remember the last boy sheÆd touched, the last boy whoÆd touched her.

The inferno began where his fingers rested on her shoulder and spread to every spot where their skin was touching. Pressed up against Willie, Trixie didnÆt find herself thinking about Jason, or the night of the rape. She didnÆt feel threatened or even frightened. She simply felt, for the first time in hours, warm. ôDid you ever know someone who died?ö she asked. ôSomeone our age? ö

 

It took Willie a moment, but he answered. ôYes.ö

 

The bitter wind beat against their tarp and made its loose tongue rattle like a gossipÆs. Trixie unclenched her fists. ôMe too,ö she said.

Bethel was technically a city, but not by any normal standards. The population was less than six thousand, although it was the closest hub for fifty-three native villages along the river. There were only about thirteen miles of roads, most of them unpaved. Daniel opened the terminalÆs door and turned to Laura. ôWe can get a taxi,ö he said.

ôThere are taxis here?ö

 

ôMost people donÆt have cars. If youÆve got a boat and a snow-go, youÆre pretty much set.ö

The cab driver was a tiny Asian woman with a massive bun perched on her head like an avalanche waiting to happen. She wore fake Gucci sunglasses, although it was still dark outside, and was listening to Patsy Cline on the radio. ôWhere you go?ö

Daniel hesitated. ôJust drive,ö he said. ôIÆll tell you when to stop.ö

 

The sun had finally broken over the horizon like the yolk of an egg. Daniel stared out the window at the landscape: pancake flat, windswept, opaque with ice. The rutted roads had houses pitted along them, ranging from tiny shacks to modest 1970s split-levels. On the side of one road sat a couch with the cushions missing and its overstuffed arms dusted with frost.

They drove past the neighborhoods of Lousetown and Alligator Acres, the Alaska Commercial Company store, the medical center where YupÆik Eskimos received free treatment. They passed White Alice, a huge curved structure that resembled a drive-in movie screen but that actually was a radar system built during the Cold War. Daniel had broken into it a hundred times as a kid-climbed up through the pitch-black center to sit on top and get drunk on Windsor Whiskey.

ôOkay,ö he told the cab driver. ôYou can stop here.ö

 

The Long House Inn was covered with ravens. There were at least a dozen on the roof, and another group battled around the remains of a torn Hefty bag in the Dumpster off to the side. Daniel paid the driver and stared at the renovated building. When heÆd left, it was on the verge of being condemned.

There were three snow machines parked out front, something Daniel filed away in the recesses of his mind. HeÆd need one, after he figured out what direction to head to find Trixie. He could hotwire one of these, if he still remembered how, or take the honorable route and charge one to his MasterCard. They were sold in the Alaska Commercial store, at the end of the dairy aisle, past the $6.99 gallons of milk.

ôDid you know a group of ravens is called an unkindness?ö Laura said, coming to stand beside him.

He looked at her. For some reason, the space between them seemed smaller in Alaska. Or maybe you just had to get far enough away from the scene of a crime to start to forget the details. ôDid you know,ö he replied, ôthat ravens like Thai food better than anything else?ö

LauraÆs eyes lit up. ôYou win.ö

A banner had been strung across the doorway: K 300 HEADQUARTERS. Daniel walked inside, stamping his boots to get the snow off. HeÆd been a kid when this dogsled race was just getting organized, when locals like Rick Swenson and Jerry Austin and Myron Angst-man had won the pot of a few thousand dollars. Now the winnings were $20,000, and the mushers who came were stars with corporate backing for their dog kennels-Jeff King and Martin Buser and DeeDee Jonrowe.

The room was crowded. A knot of native kids sat on the floor, drinking cans of Coke and passing around a comic book. Two women answered phones, another was carefully printing the latest splits on a white board. There were YupÆik mothers carrying moon-faced babies, elderly men reading the scrapbooks of newspaper clippings, schoolgirls with blue-black braids giggling behind their hands as they helped themselves to the potluck stews and cobblers. Everyone moved pendulously in layers of winter clothing, astronauts navigating the surface of a distant planet.

Which, Daniel thought, this might as well be.

 

He walked up to the desk where the women were answering phones. ôExcuse me,ö he said. ôIÆm trying to find a teenage girlàö One woman held up a finger: Just a moment.

He unzipped his jacket. Before theyÆd left, heÆd packed a duffel full of winter gear; he and Laura were pretty much wearing everything theyÆd brought all at once. It was cold in Maine, but nothing compared to what it would be like in the Eskimo villages.

The woman hung up. ôHi. Can I-ö She broke off as the phone rang again.

 

Frustrated, Daniel turned away. Impatience was a trait you developed in the lower forty-eight, an attribute that a child who grew up here didnÆt possess. Time wasnÆt the same on the tundra; it stretched to elastic lengths and snapped back fast when you werenÆt looking. The only things that really operated on a schedule were school and church, and most Yupiit were late to those anyway.

Daniel noticed an old man sitting on a chair, staring. He was YupÆik, with the weathered skin of a person whoÆd spent his life outside. He wore green flannel pants and a fur parka. ôAliurturua,ö the man whispered. IÆm seeing a ghost.

ôNot a ghost.ö Daniel took a step toward him. ôCama-i.ö

 

The manÆs face wrinkled, and he reached for DanielÆs hand. ôAlangruksaaqamken.ö You amazed me, showing up unexpectedly.

Daniel had not spoken YupÆik in fifteen years, but the syllables flowed through him like a river. Nelson Charles had, in fact, taught him his very first YupÆik words: iqallukàfish, angsaqàboat, and terren purruaqàyou suck the meat off an asshole, which is what Nelson told him to say to kids who made fun of him for being kassÆaq. Daniel reached for Laura, who was watching the exchange with amazement. ôUna arnaq nulirqaqa,ö he said. This is my wife.

ôThat kindÆs pretty,ö Nelson said in English. He shook her hand but didnÆt look her in the eye.

Daniel turned to Laura. ôNelson used to be a substitute teacher. When the native kids got to go on field trips to Anchorage that were subsidized by the government, I wasnÆt allowed to go because I was white. So Nelson would take me on my own little field trip to check out fishnets and animal traps.ö

ôDonÆt teach these days,ö Nelson said. ôNow IÆm the race marshal.ö

 

That would mean, Daniel realized, that Nelson had been here since the start of the K300. ôListen,ö he said, and he found himself slipping back into YupÆik because the words, thorny on his tongue and in his throat, didnÆt hurt quite as much as they did in English. ôPaniika tamaumauq.ö

My daughter is lost.

 

He didnÆt have to explain to Nelson why he thought that his child, who lived a whole country away, might have wound up in Alaska when she went missing. The Yupiit understood that the person you were when you went to sleep at night might not necessarily be the person you were when you woke up. You could have become a seal or a bear. You might have crossed into the land of the dead. You might have casually spoken a wish aloud in your dreams and then found yourself living in the middle of it.

ôSheÆs fourteen,ö Daniel said, and he tried to describe Trixie, but he didnÆt know what to say. How could her height or weight or the color of her hair convey that when she laughed, her eyes narrowed shut? That she had to have the

peanut butter on the top side of the sandwich and the jelly on the bottom? That she sometimes got up and wrote poetry in the middle of the night because sheÆd dreamed it?

The woman who had been on the phone stepped out from behind the table. ôSorry about that-the calls have been crazy. Anyway, the only kids coming through here I didnÆt know are the Jesuit Volunteers. One girl flew in late, because of the snowstorm, but by now, theyÆre all up at Tuluksak, manning the checkpoint.ö

ôWhat did she look like?ö Laura asked. ôThe girl who was late?ö ôSkinny little thing. Black hair.ö

Laura turned to Daniel. ôItÆs not her.ö

 

ôThis girl didnÆt have a warm coat,ö the woman said. ôI thought that was pretty crazy for a kid who knew she was coming to Alaska. She didnÆt even have a hat.ö

Daniel remembered Trixie sitting in the passenger seat of his truck in the middle of the winter as they drove up to the high school entrance. ItÆs freezing out, heÆd said, and he handed her a hunter-orange wool stocking cap heÆd used when he was out cutting wood. Wear this. And her response: Dad, do you want people to think IÆm a total freak?

There had been times, when he lived in Akiak, that he would know things before they happened. Sometimes it was as simple as thinking of a red fox and then looking up and seeing one. Sometimes it was more profound: sensing a fight building up behind him, so that he could turn in time to throw the first punch. Once it had even wakened him out of his sleep: the sound of a gunshot and the echo of basketballs thudding when the bullet upset the cart they were stored on.

His mother had called it coincidence, but the Yupiit wouldnÆt. PeopleÆs lives were as tightly woven as a piece of lace, and pulling on one string might furrow another. And although heÆd dismissed it when he was a teenager in Akiak, he recognized now the tightening of the skin at his temples, the way light moved too fast in front of his eyes a moment before he pictured his daughter, not wearing a hat, or anything else for that matter, shivering in what seemed to be a

haystack.

 

Daniel felt his heart jump. ôI have to get to Tuluksak.ö ôIkayurnaamken,ö Nelson said. Let me help you.

The last time heÆd been here, Daniel hadnÆt wanted anyoneÆs help. The last time heÆd been here, heÆd actively pushed it away. Now he turned to Nelson. ôCan I borrow your snow machine?ö he asked.

The checkpoint in Tuluksak was at the school, close enough to the river for mushers to settle their dogs in straw on the banks and then walk up to the building for hot food. All mushers racing the K300 passed through Tuluksak twice-once on the way up to Aniak and once on the way back. There was a mandatory four-hour rest and vet check during one of those stops. When Trixie and Willie arrived, a team of dogs was idling without its musher down at the bank of the river, being watched over by a kid with a clipboard who asked if theyÆd run into anyone else on the trail. All but one of the mushers had passed through Tuluksak, detained, presumably, by the storm. No one had heard from him since heÆd checked in at Akiak.

Trixie hadnÆt really spoken much to Willie this morning. She had awakened with a start a little after six A.M., noticing first that it wasnÆt snowing and second that she wasnÆt cold. WillieÆs arm was draped over her, and his breath fell onto the nape of her neck. Most humiliating, though, was the hard thing Trixie could feel pressing up against her thigh. She had inched away from Willie, her face burning, and focused on getting herself fully dressed before he woke up and realized he had a boner.

Willie parked outside the school and climbed off the snow machine. ôArenÆt you coming in?ö Trixie asked, but he was already tinkering with the engine, not seeming the least bit inclined to finesse an introduction for her. ôWhatever,ö she muttered under her breath, and she walked into the building.

Directly in front of her was a trophy case that held a wooden mask decorated with feathers and fur and a loving cup with a basketball etched onto it. A tall boy with a long, horsey face was standing next to it. ôYouÆre not Andi,ö he said, surprised.

The Jesuit Volunteers who were in charge of the checkpoint at Tuluksak were a group of college-age kids who did Peace Corps-style service work at the native clinic in Bethel. Trixie had thought Jesuits were priests-and these kids clearly werenÆt. She asked Willie why they were called that, and he just shrugged.

ôI donÆt know about Andi,ö Trixie said. ôI was just told to come here.ö She held her breath, waiting for this boy to point a finger at her and scream

Imposter! but before he could, Willie walked inside, stamping off his boots.

ôHey, Willie, whatÆs up,ö the tall boy said. Willie nodded and walked into one of the classrooms, heading toward a table set up with Crock Pots and Tupperware. He helped himself to a bowl of something and disappeared through another doorway.

ôWell, IÆm Carl,ö the boy said. He held out his hand. ôTrixie.ö

ôYou ever done this before?ö

 

ôOh, sure,ö Trixie lied. ôTons of times.ö

 

ôGreat.ö He led her into the classroom. ôThings are a little crazy right now, because weÆve got a team that just came in, but hereÆs a five-second orientation: First and most important, thatÆs where the food is.ö He pointed. ôThe locals bring stuff all day long, and if you havenÆt had any, I recommend the beaver soup. On the other side of the door where you came in is another classroom; thatÆs where the mushers sleep when they come in for their layover. They basically grab a mat and tell you when they want to be woken up. We rotate shifts-every half hour someoneÆs got to sit out on the river, which is cruel and unusual punishment in this kind of weather. If youÆre the one on duty when a musher comes in, make sure you tell him his time and call it into headquarters, then show him which plywood corral has his gear in it. Right now everyoneÆs a little freaked out because one team hasnÆt made it in since the storm.ö

Trixie listened to Carl, nodding at the right places, but he might as well have been speaking Swahili. Maybe if she watched someone else doing what she was supposed to do, she could copy when it came her turn.

ôAnd just so you know,ö Carl said. ôMushers are allowed to drop dogs here.ö

Why? Trixie wondered. To see if they land on their feet?

 

A cell phone rang, and someone called out CarlÆs name. Left alone, Trixie wandered around, hoping to avoid Willie, who was doing such an effortless job of avoiding her. It seemed that the entire school consisted of two classrooms, and Trixie thought of Bethel HighÆs complex layout, a map she had memorized all summer before starting ninth grade.

ôYou made it.ö

 

Trixie turned to find the vet whoÆd been on the bush plane with her from Anchorage. ôGo figure.ö

ôWell, I guess IÆll see you outside. I hear thereÆs a nasty case of frostbite out there with my name on it.ö He zipped up his coat and waved as he walked out the door.

Trixie was starving, but not enough to want to eat something that might have beaver in it. She gravitated toward the oil stove at the corner of the room and held her hands out in front of it. It was no warmer than WillieÆs skin had been.

ôYou all set?ö

 

As if her thoughts had conjured him, Willie was suddenly standing next to her. ôFor what?ö

ôThis.ö

 

ôOh, yeah,ö she said. ôPiece of cake.ö He smirked and started to walk away. ôHey. Where are you going?ö

ôHome. This is my village.ö

 

Until that moment, it hadnÆt occurred to Trixie that she was going to be by herself again. As a teenager, she was always part of a greater whole-a family, a class, a peer group-and there was always someone sticking a nose in her business. How many times had she stormed off after a fight with her mother, yelling that she just wanted to be left alone?

Be careful what you wish for, Trixie thought. After a single day spent on her

own, here she was getting all upset about losing the company of a total stranger.

 

She tried to wipe all the emotion off her face, so that it reflected back at Willie the same indifference he was showing her. Then she remembered she was still wearing a coat that belonged to someone he knew, and she struggled to unfasten it.

 

Willie pushed her hands away from the zipper. ôKeep it,ö he said. ôIÆll come back for it later.ö

She followed him out of the school building, feeling the cold rake the hair from her scalp. Willie headed toward a cluster of small houses that seemed two- dimensional, sketched in shades of smoky brown and gray. His hands were dug deep into his pockets, and he spun around so that he wouldnÆt have to bear the bite of the wind. ôWillie,ö Trixie called out, and although he didnÆt look up, he stopped walking. ôThanks.ö

He ducked his head deeper, an acknowledgment, then kept moving backward toward the village. It was exactly how Trixie felt: If she was getting anywhere on this journey, it was still the wrong way. She watched Willie, pretending she could see him even when she couldnÆt, until she was distracted by the sound of barking near the river.

The JV theyÆd seen when they pulled up in their snow-go was still on the ice, watching over the same dog team, which panted in small frosty bites of punctuation. He grinned when he saw Trixie and passed her the clipboard. ôAre you my relief? ItÆs brutal out here. Hey, listen, Finn HanlonÆs up taking a leak while the vet finishes checking out the team.ö

ôWhat do I have to do?ö Trixie said, but the boy was already halfway up the hill, making a beeline for the warmth of the school. Trixie looked around, nervous. The vet was too busy to pay attention to her, but there were a few native kids kicking a Sprite can, and their parents, who hopped from foot to foot to ward off the cold and talked about who would win the race this year.

The lead dog looked tired. Trixie couldnÆt blame the poor thing; sheÆd traveled the same route on the back of a snow machine and it had nearly killed her; what would it be like to do that barefoot and naked? Taking a glance at the vet-he could keep an eye out, just in case that last musher came in, couldnÆt he?

-she walked away from the team to a set of plywood lockers. Rummaging inside

one, she grabbed a handful of kibble and walked back to the husky. She held out her palm, and the dogÆs tongue, rough and warm, rasped against her skin to devour the treat.

ôJesus,ö a voice yelled. ôYou trying to get me disqualified?ö

 

Staring down at her was a musher wearing a bib with the number 12 on it. She glanced at her clipboard: FINN HANLON.

ôYouÆre feeding my dogs!ö

 

ôS-sorry,ö Trixie stammered. ôI thought-ö

 

Ignoring her, Hanlon turned to the vet. ôWhatÆs the verdict?ö

 

ôHeÆs going to be fine, but not if you race him.ö The vet stood up, wiped his hands on his coat.

The musher knelt beside the dog and rubbed him between the ears, then unhooked his traces. ôIÆm dropping him,ö he said, handing the neck line to Trixie. She held it and watched Hanlon reconfigure the tug line of the dog that had been JunoÆs partner, so that the sled would pull straight. ôSign me out,ö he ordered, and he stepped on the runners of his sled, holding on to the handle bow. ôAll right,ö he called, and the team loped north along the river, gaining speed, as the spectators on the bank cheered.

The vet packed up his bag. ôLetÆs get Juno comfortable,ö he said, and Trixie nodded, holding the neck line like a leash as she started to walk the dog toward the school building.

ôVery funny,ö the vet said.

 

She turned around to find him in front of a stake hammered into the grass along the edge of the river. ôBut itÆs so cold out hereàö

ôYou noticed? Tie him up, and IÆll get the straw.ö

 

Trixie clipped the dogÆs neck line onto the stake. The vet returned, carrying a slice of hay in his arms. ôYouÆd be surprised how cozy this is,ö he said, and Trixie thought of the night sheÆd spent with Willie.

A current suddenly energized the small tangle of spectators, and they began to point to the spot on the horizon where the river became a vanishing point. Trixie gripped the clipboard with her mittened hands and looked at the pinprick in the distance.

ôItÆs Edmonds!ö a YupÆik boy cried. ôHe made it!ö

 

The vet stood up. ôIÆll go tell Carl,ö he said, and he left Trixie to fend for herself.

The musher was wearing a white parka that came down to his knees and the number 06 on his bib. ôWhoa,ö he called out, and his malamutes slowed to a stop, panting. The swing dog-the one closest to the sled-curled up like a fiddlehead on the ice and closed her eyes.

The children spilled over the riverbank, tugging at the musherÆs coat. ôAlex Edmonds! Alex Edmonds!ö they shouted. ôDo you remember me from last year? ö

 

Edmonds brushed them off. ôI have to scratch,ö he said to Trixie.

 

ôUm. Okay,ö she answered, and she wondered why he thought he had to make an itch common knowledge. But Edmonds took the clipboard out of her hands and drew a line through his name. He handed it back and pulled the sleeping bag off the basket of the sled, revealing an old YupÆik man who reeked of alcohol and who was shaking even as he snored. ôI found him on the trail. He must have passed out during the storm. I gave him mouth to mouth last night to get him breathing again, but the weather was too bad to get him back to the medical center in Bethel. This was the closest checkpointàcan someone help me get him inside?ö

Before Trixie could run up to the school, she saw Carl and the other volunteers hurrying down to the river. ôHoly cow,ö Carl said, staring at the drunk. ôYou probably saved his life.ö

ôWhatever thatÆs worth,ö Edmonds replied.

 

Trixie watched the other volunteers drag the old man out of the dogsled and carry him up to the school. The bystanders whispered and clucked to each other, snippets of conversation in YupÆik and English that Trixie caught: Edmonds

used to be an EMTàKingurauten Joseph ought to pay for thisàdamn shame. One YupÆik woman with owl eyeglasses and a tiny bow of a mouth came up to Trixie. She leaned over the clipboard and pointed to the line splitting EdmondsÆs name. ôI had ten bucks riding on him to win,ö she complained.

With all the dog teams accounted for, the onlookers dispersed, heading into the village where Willie had gone. Trixie wondered if he was related to any of those little kids whoÆd been cheering for Edmonds. She wondered what heÆd done when he got home. Drunk orange juice out of the container, like she might have? Taken a shower? Lay down on his bed, thinking of her?

Just as suddenly as all the activity had arrived, there was nobody on the bank of the river. Trixie looked north, but she couldnÆt see Finn Hanlon and his team anymore. She looked south, but she couldnÆt tell where she and Willie had come from. The sun had climbed almost directly overhead, washing out the ice so that it made her eyes burn even to pick out the trail from the field of white.

Trixie sank down beside Juno on the straw and scratched the dogÆs head with her glove. The husky stared up at her with one brown eye and one blue, and when he panted, it looked like he was smiling. Trixie imagined what it was like to be a sled dog, to have to pull your weight or realize youÆd be left behind. She pictured how it would feel to trust your instincts in a strange land, to know the difference between where you had been and where you were going.

When the river froze in the winter, it got its own highway number, and at any given time you would see rusted trucks and dogsled teams driving over the ice in no particular direction or parallel course. Like most YupÆik Eskimos, Nelson didnÆt believe in a helmet or goggles; to brace himself against the wind on the old manÆs snow machine, Daniel had to crouch down close to the windshield.

Laura sat behind him, her face buried against the back of his coat.

 

In the middle of the river was a stationary white truck. As Daniel slowed the snow-go, he could feel Laura relax-she was freezing, even if she wasnÆt complaining. ôThis must be a checkpoint,ö he said, and he got off the machine with his thighs still thrumming from the power of the engine.

A dreadlocked white woman unrolled the driverÆs side window. ôKingurauten Joseph, for the love of God, go pass out in someone elseÆs

backyard.ö

 

Kingurauten was YupÆik for too late. Daniel pulled down the neck warmer that covered his nose and mouth. ôI think youÆve got me confused with someone else,ö he began, and then realized that he knew the woman in the truck. ôDaisy?ö he said hesitantly.

Crazy Daisy, that was what theyÆd called her when she used to run the mail out to the native villages by dogsled back when Daniel was a kid. She frowned at him. ôWho the hell are you?ö

ôDaniel Stone,ö he said. ôAnnette StoneÆs son.ö ôThat wasnÆt the name of AnnetteÆs kid. He was-ö ôWassilie,ö Daniel finished.

Daisy scratched her scalp. ôDidnÆt you bug out of here because-ö

 

ôNah,ö Daniel lied. ôI just left for college.ö It was common knowledge that Crazy Daisy had gotten that way by running with Timothy LearyÆs crowd in the sixties, and that sheÆd pretty much fried the functioning parts of her brain. ôDid you happen to see a snow-go pass by here with a kassÆaq girl and a YupÆik boy?ö

ôThis morning?ö ôYeah.ö

Daisy shook her head. ôNope. Sorry.ö She jerked her thumb toward the back of the truck. ôYou want to come in and warm up? I got coffee and Snickers bars.ö

ôCanÆt,ö Daniel said, lost in thought. If Trixie hadnÆt come past Akiak, then how had he missed her on the trail?

ôMaybe later,ö Daisy yelled, as he turned the ignition on the snow machine again. ôIÆd love to catch up.ö

Daniel pretended not to hear her. But as he circled around the truck, Daisy

started waving like a madwoman, trying to get his attention. ôNo oneÆs passed by this morning,ö she said, ôbut a girl and boy came through last night, before the storm hit.ö

Daniel didnÆt answer, just gunned the engine and drove up the riverbank into Akiak, the town heÆd run away from fifteen years earlier. The Washeteria-the place theyÆd gone with their laundry and for showers-was now a convenience store and video rental shop. The school was still a squat, serviceable gray building; the house beside it where heÆd grown up had two dogs staked out front. Daniel wondered who lived there now, if it was still the schoolteacher, if she had children. If basketballs still sometimes started to bounce in the gymnasium without being set in motion, if the last one to lock up the school building ever saw the old principal whoÆd killed himself, still hanging from the crossbeam in the only classroom.

He stopped in front of the house next door to the school, a shack with a slight pedigree. A snow-go sat in front of the building, and an aluminum boat peeked out from beneath a blue tarp. Paper snowflakes had been taped to the windows, as well as a red metallic crucifix. ôWhy are we stopping?ö Laura asked. ôWhat about Trixie?ö

He got off the snow machine and turned to her. ôYouÆre not coming with me.ö

She wasnÆt used to this kind of cold, and he couldnÆt slow down for her and risk losing Trixie for good. And a part of him wanted to be alone when he found Trixie. There was so much he needed to explain.

Laura stared at him, struck dumb. Her eyebrows had frosted over, her eyelashes were matted together with ice, and when she finally spoke, her sentence rose like a white banner between them. ôPlease donÆt do this,ö she said, starting to cry. ôTake me with you.ö

Daniel pulled her into his arms, assuming that Laura thought this was a punishment, retribution for leaving him behind when she had her affair. It made her seem vulnerable; it made him remember how easy it was for them to still hurt each other. ôIf we had to walk through hell to find Trixie, IÆd follow you. But this is a different kind of hell, and IÆm the one who knows where heÆs going. IÆm asking youàIÆm begging you to trust me.ö

Laura opened her mouth, and what might have been a reply came out only as a smoke ring full of what she could not say. Trust was exactly what they no longer had between them. ôI can go faster if I donÆt have to worry about you,ö he said.

Daniel saw true fear in her eyes. ôYouÆll come back?ö she asked. ôWe both will.ö

Laura glanced around at the rutted street with snow-go tracks, at the public water receptacles at the base of the street. The community was silent, windswept, frigid. It looked, Daniel knew, like a dead end.

ôCome with me.ö He led Laura up the set of wooden stairs and opened the door without knocking, entering a little antechamber. There were plastic bags stuck on nails in the frame overhead, and stacks of newspaper. A pair of boots toppled to the right, and a tanned hide was stretched on the back wall, beside the door that led into the house. Lying on the linoleum was a severed moose hoof and a half rack of frozen ribs.

Laura stepped hesitantly over them. ôIs thisàis this where you used to live?ö

 

The interior door opened, revealing a YupÆik woman about sixty years old, holding an infant in her arms. She took one look at Daniel and backed away, her eyes bright with tears.

ôNot me,ö Daniel said. ôCane.ö

Charles and Minnie Johnson, the parents of DanielÆs one and only childhood friend, treated him with the same sort of deference they might have given any other ghost who sat down at their kitchen table to share a cup of coffee.

CharlesÆs skin was as dark and lined as a cinnamon stick; he wore creased jeans and a red western shirt and called Daniel Wass. His eyes were clouded with cataracts, as if life were something poured into a body, a vessel that could hold only so much before memories floated across the windows of consciousness.

ôItÆs been a long time,ö Charles said. ôYes.ö

ôYouÆve been living Outside?ö ôWith my family.ö

There was a long silence. ôWe wondered when youÆd come home,ö Minnie said.

The Yupiit did not speak of the dead, and because of that, neither would Daniel. But he had less practice with silence. In a YupÆik household, ten minutes might pass between a question and the answer. Sometimes you didnÆt even have to reply out loud; it was enough to be thinking your response.

They sat around the kitchen table in the quiet, until a young woman walked through the front door. She was clearly MinnieÆs daughter-they had the same wide smile and smooth hickory skin-but Daniel remembered her only as a young girl who liked to story-knife-using a butter knife in the soft mud to illustrate the tales sheÆd tell. Now, though, she held in her arms her own fat, squirming baby, who took one look at Laura and pointed at her and laughed.

ôSorry,ö Elaine said shyly. ôHeÆs never seen anyone with that color hair before.ö She unwound her scarf and unzipped her coat, then did the same for the baby.

ôElaine, this is Wass,ö Charles said. ôHe lived here a long time ago.ö Daniel stood at the introduction, and when he did, the baby reached for him.

He grinned, catching the boy as he twisted out of his motherÆs arms. ôAnd

whoÆs this?ö

 

ôMy son,ö Elaine said. ôHis nameÆs Cane.ö

Elaine lived in the same house as her parents, along with her two older children and her husband. So did her sister Aurora, who was seventeen years old and heavily pregnant. There was a brother, too, in his late twenties; Laura could see him in the only bedroom in the house, feverishly playing Nintendo.

On the kitchen table was a hunk of frozen meat in a bowl-if Laura had to guess, she would have said it was intimately related to the moose parts in the

arctic entry. There was a stove but no sink. Instead, a fifty-five-gallon drum in the corner of the kitchen area was filled with water. Dusty ice-fishing lures and antique hand-carved kayak paddles were suspended from the ceiling; five-gallon buckets filled with lard and dried fish were stacked beside the threadbare couch. The walls were covered with religious paraphernalia: programs from church services, plaques of Jesus and Mary, calendars printed with the feast days of saints. Anywhere there was a spare square of paneling, a photograph had been tacked: recent pictures of the baby, old school portraits of Elaine and Aurora and their brother, the boy Daniel had been accused of murdering.

There was a curious irony to being left behind here, even if the very thought of it made Laura break into a sweat. She kept remembering what Daniel had said about the Alaskan bush: It was a place where people tended to disappear. What did that bode for Trixie, or for Daniel? And what might it mean for Laura herself?

In Maine, when LauraÆs life had been jolted off course, it had been terrifying and unfamiliar. Here, though, she had no standard for comparison-and not knowing what came next was the norm. She didnÆt know why no one would look her in the eye, why the boy playing video games hadnÆt come out to introduce himself, why they even had state-of-the-art video equipment when the house itself was little more than a shed, why a family that at one point had believed youÆd killed their son would welcome you into their home. The world had been turned inside out, and she was navigating by the feel of its seams.

Daniel was speaking quietly to Charles, telling him about Trixie. ôExcuse me,ö Laura said, leaning toward Minnie. ôCould I use your restroom?ö

Minnie pointed down the hall. At its end was a flattened cardboard refrigerator box, erected like a screen. ôLaura,ö Daniel said, getting to his feet.

ôIÆm fine!ö she said, because she thought if she could make Daniel believe it, then maybe heÆd convince her of it as well. She slipped behind the screen, and her jaw dropped. There was no bathroom; there wasnÆt even a toilet. Only a white bucket-like the ones in the living room that stored dried fish-with a toilet seat balanced on top of it.

She peeled off her ski pants and squatted, holding her breath the whole time, praying nobody was listening. When Laura and Daniel had moved in together,

there had still been a certain shyness between them. After all, she was pregnant, and that had speeded along a relationship that might have otherwise taken years to reach that level of commitment. Laura could remember Daniel separating his laundry from hers for the first few months, for example. And she had studiously avoided going to the bathroom if Daniel happened to be in there taking a shower.

She couldnÆt recall when, exactly, all their shirts and jeans and underwear had mixed in the washer together. Or when sheÆd been able to pee while he was two feet away from her, brushing his teeth. It was simply what happened when the histories of two people dovetailed into one.

Laura straightened her clothes-washing her hands wasnÆt even an option-and stepped out from behind the partition. Daniel was waiting for her in the narrow hallway. ôI should have warned you about the honey bucket.ö

She thought of how Daniel couldnÆt bear to run the dishwasher if it wasnÆt overflowing, how his showers lasted less than five minutes. SheÆd always considered it thrifty; now she saw that when you grew up with water as a luxury and plumbing a distant wish, it might simply be a habit too deeply rooted to break.

ôI need to get going,ö Daniel said.

 

Laura nodded. She wanted to smile at him, but she couldnÆt find it in herself.

So much could happen between now and the next time she saw him. She wrapped her arms around Daniel and buried her face against his chest.

He led her into the kitchen, where he shook CharlesÆs hand and spoke in YupÆik: ôQuyana. Piurra.ö

When Daniel walked into the arctic entry, Laura followed. She stood at the front door, watching him start the snow machine and climb aboard. He lifted one hand, a farewell, and mouthed words he knew she would not hear over the roar of the engine.

I love you.

 

ôI love you, too,ö Laura murmured, but by then, all that remained of Daniel was what heÆd left behind: a trail of exhaust, hatched tracks in the snow, and a truth neither of them had spoken for some time.

Bartholemew stared at the sheet of results that Skipper Johanssen had given him. ôHow sure are you?ö he asked.

Skipper shrugged. ôAs sure as this particular typing can be. One-hundredth of one percent of the worldÆs population has the same mito DNA profile as your suspect. YouÆre talking about six hundred thousand people, any of whom could have been at the scene of the crime.ö

ôBut that also suggests that ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent of the population wasnÆt there.ö

ôCorrect. At least not based on that piece of hair you found on the victim.ö Bartholemew stared at her. ôAnd Trixie Stone doesnÆt fall into that ninety-

nine point ninety-nine percent?ö

 

ôNope.ö

 

ôSo I canÆt exclude Trixie Stone.ö ôNot mitochondrially speaking.ö

The odds were looking better, when you glanced at them from this angle,

Bartholemew thought. ôEven though Max said-ö

 

ôNo insult to Max, but no court is going to put stock in an analysis done by the human eye, as compared to a validated scientific test like mine.ö Skipper smiled at him. ôI think,ö she said, ôyouÆve got yourself a suspect.ö

The Johnsons were addicted to the Game Show Network. They especially liked Richard Dawson, who kissed anything on two legs while hosting Family Feud. ôOne day,ö Minnie kept saying, elbowing her husband, ôIÆm gonna run away with Richard.ö

ôHeÆll run, all right, when he sees you coming after him.ö Charles laughed.

They had a satellite dish, a flat-screen TV, a PlayStation and a GameCube, as well as a DVD/VCR player and a stereo system that would have put LauraÆs own to shame. Roland, the antisocial brother, had bought all the equipment with his check this year from the Alaska Permanent Fund-the dividends on oil that every Alaskan was paid by the government since 1984. The Johnsons had lived the entire year on the $1,100 of CharlesÆs check alone, supplemented by hunting expeditions for caribou and dried salmon caught during the summer at fish camp. Roland had told her that Akiak residents could even get wireless Internet for free-they qualified for government-funded technology because they were both rural and native-but that no one could afford it. A person had to have a computer first, which would cost nearly a whole yearÆs Permanent Fund check.

When Laura had had her fill of Richard Dawson, she put on her coat and walked outside. On a telephone pole, someone had nailed a basketball hoop; the ball itself was half buried in a hummock of snow. She pulled it free and bounced it, amazed at how the sound echoed. Here there were no lawn mowers or blaring radios or rap music. No slamming of SUV doors, no clatter of kids spilling out of a school bus, no hum from a nearby highway. It was the sort of place where you could hear the tumblers of your mind falling into place as you pieced thought together, as you tried to match it to action.

Although Laura knew without a doubt that Trixie had not murdered Jason, she didnÆt understand what had made her daughter run away. Was Trixie just scared? Or did she know more about what had happened that night than sheÆd let on?

Laura wondered if it was possible to run away forever. Daniel had certainly managed to do it. She knew that his childhood had been foreign, but she never could have envisioned something as stark as this. If sheÆd believed that there was a vast dichotomy between the man sheÆd met in college and the one she lived with now-well, there was an even greater gap between who Daniel had been when she met him and where he had started. It made Laura wonder where all of DanielÆs jettisoned personalities had gone. It made her wonder if you could know a person only at a single moment in time, because a year from now or a day from now, he might be different. It made her wonder if everyone reinvented himself or herself, if that was as natural as other animals shedding skin.

If she was going to be honest now-and wasnÆt it time for that, already?-Laura

would have to admit that Trixie had changed, too. She had wanted to believe that behind that closed bedroom door, her daughter was still playing God with the denizens of her doll-house; but in fact Trixie had been keeping secrets, and pushing boundaries, and turning into someone Laura didnÆt recognize.

On the other hand, Daniel had been keeping a vigil for TrixieÆs metamorphosis. HeÆd been so nervous about the thought of their daughter getting older, taking on the world, being flattened by it. As it turned out, though, Trixie had grown up during the one instant Daniel had turned away, momentarily distracted by his wifeÆs betrayal.

It wasnÆt what you didnÆt know about the people you loved that would shock you; it was what you didnÆt want to admit about yourself.

When the door opened, Laura jumped, her thoughts scattering like a flock of crows. Charles stood on the steps, smoking a pipe. ôYou know what it means if you go outside and there are no Yupiit around?ö

ôNo.ö

 

ôThat itÆs too damn cold to be standing here.ö He took the basketball from LauraÆs hands and sank a neat basket; together they watched it roll into a neighborÆs yard.

Laura dug her hands into her pockets. ôItÆs so quiet,ö she said. How ironic, she thought, to make conversation about the lack of it.

Charles nodded. ôEvery now and again someone will move to Bethel, and then come back because itÆs too loud. Down there, thereÆs too much going on.ö

It was hard to imagine this: Bethel was the last place Laura would ever have considered a metropolis. ôNew York City would probably make their heads explode.ö

ôI was there once,ö Charles said, surprising her. ôOh, I been lots of places you wouldnÆt think: to California, and to Georgia, when I was in the army. And to Oregon, when I went to school.ö

ôCollege?ö

Charles shook his head. ôBoarding school. Back before they made it a law to have education in every village, the government used to ship us off to learn the same things the whites did. You could pick your school-there was one in Oklahoma, but I went to Chemawa in Oregon because my cousins were already there. I got sick like you canÆt imagine, eating all that white foodàmelting in that heat. One time I even got in trouble for trying to snare a rabbit with one of my shoelaces.ö

Laura tried to imagine what it would be like to be sent away from the only home youÆd ever known, just because somebody else thought it was best for you. ôYou must have hated it.ö

ôBack then, I did,ö Charles said. He dumped the contents of his pipe and kicked snow over the embers. ôNow, IÆm not so sure. Most of us came back home, but we got to see what else was out there and how those folks lived. Now some kids donÆt ever leave the village. The only kassÆaqs they meet are teachers, and the only teachers who come up here either canÆt get hired in their own towns or are running away from something-not exactly role models. The kids today, they all talk about getting out of the village, but then when they do, itÆs like Bethel-only a hundred times worse. People move too fast and talk too much, and before you know it, they come back to a place they donÆt want to be- except now they know thereÆs nowhere left to run.ö Charles glanced at Laura, then tucked the pipe into his coat pocket. ôThatÆs how it was for my son.ö

She nodded. ôDaniel told me about him.ö

 

ôHe wasnÆt the first. The year before him, a girl took pills. And earlier still, two ball players hanged themselves.ö

ôIÆm sorry,ö Laura said.

 

ôI knew all along that Wass wasnÆt the one who killed Cane. Cane would have done that, no matter what, all by himself. Some people, they get down in a hole so deep they canÆt figure out what to hold on to.ö

And some people, Laura thought, make the choice to let go.

 

Although it was only two oÆclock, the sun was already sagging against the horizon. Charles headed back up the steps. ôI know this place must seem like Mars to you. And that you and me, weÆre about as different as different could

1. But I also know what it feels like to lose a child.ö He turned at the top landing. ôDonÆt freeze to death. WassilieÆd never forgive me.ö

He left Laura outside, watching the night sky bloom. She found herself lulled by the lack of sound. It was easier than youÆd think to grow accustomed to silence.

When the Jesuit Volunteers tried to raise Kingurauten JosephÆs body temperature by cutting off his frozen clothes and covering him with blankets, they found a dove fashioned delicately out of bone, a carving knife, and three hundred dollars in his boot. This was a cash economy, Carl told Trixie. That was JosephÆs health insurance, wadded up in his sock.

Trixie had just come in from her rotation on the riverbank, and she was still frozen to the core. ôWhy donÆt you two warm up together?ö Carl suggested, and he left her watching over the old man.

She didnÆt mind, actually. While the mushers raced from Tuluksak to Kalskag and Aniak and back, the volunteers were mostly catching some sleep. But Trixie was wide awake; sheÆd slept on the trail with Willie, and her body was all mixed up with jet lag. She remembered how every year when it was time to turn the clocks back, her father would insist that he was going to stay on daylight saving time and keep the extra hour, so that heÆd get more work done. The problem was, when he took the additional minutes every morning, heÆd conk out in front of the television earlier at night. Finally heÆd give in and live on the same schedule as the rest of the world.

She wished her father was here right now.

 

ôIÆve missed you,ö he answered, and Trixie whirled around in the dark classroom. Her heart was pounding, but she couldnÆt see anyone there.

She looked down at Joseph. He had the broad, chiseled features of a YupÆik and white hair that was matted down in whorls. His beard stubble glinted silver in the moonlight. His hands were folded over his chest, and Trixie thought they couldnÆt have looked more different from her fatherÆs-JosephÆs were blunt and calloused, the tools of a laborer; her fatherÆs were smooth and long fingered and ink stained, an artistÆs.

ôAw, Nettie,ö he murmured, opening his eyes. ôI came back.ö ôIÆm not Nettie,ö Trixie said, moving away.

Joseph blinked. ôWhere am I?ö

 

ôTuluksak. You nearly froze to death.ö Trixie hesitated. ôYou got really drunk and passed out on the K300 trail, and a musher quit the race to bring you in here. He saved your life.ö

ôShouldnÆt have bothered,ö Joseph muttered.

 

There was something about Joseph that seemed familiar to Trixie, something that made her want to take a second look at the lines around his eyes and the way his eyebrows arched. ôYou one of those juveniles for Jesus?ö

ôTheyÆre Jesuit Volunteers,ö Trixie corrected. ôAnd no. IÆm not.ö ôThen who are you?ö

Well, wasnÆt that the $64,000 question. Trixie couldnÆt have answered that if Joseph had held a gun to her head. It wasnÆt even a matter of giving her name, because that didnÆt explain anything. She could remember who she used to be-that picture was like an image sealed into a snow globe, one that went fuzzy when she shook it too hard but then, if she held her breath, might see clearly. She could look down at herself now and tell you how surprised she was that she had come this distance, how strange it was to discover that lying came as easily as breathing. What she couldnÆt put into words was what had happened in between to change her from one person into the other.

Her father used to tell her the story of how, when she was eight, sheÆd awakened in the middle of the night with her arms and legs burning, as if theyÆd been tugged from their sockets. ItÆs growing pains, heÆd told her sympathetically, and sheÆd burst into tears, certain that when she woke up in the morning, sheÆd be as big as him.

The amazing thing was, it did happen that quickly. All those mornings in middle school sheÆd spent scrutinizing her chest to see if it had budded the slightest bit, all the practice kisses sheÆd given her bathroom mirror to make sure her nose didnÆt get in the way on D-day; all the waiting for a boy to notice

her-and as it turned out, growing up was just as sheÆd feared. One day when your alarm clock rang, you got up and realized you had someone elseÆs thoughts in your headàor maybe just your old ones, minus the hope.

ôAre you sure youÆre not Nettie?ö Joseph said when Trixie didnÆt answer.

 

It was the name heÆd called her before. ôWho is she?ö ôWell.ö He turned his face to the wall. ôSheÆs dead.ö ôThen chances are pretty good IÆm not her.ö

Joseph seemed surprised. ôDidnÆt you ever hear about the girl who came back from the dead?ö

Trixie rolled her eyes. ôYouÆre still trashed.ö

 

ôA young girl died,ö Joseph replied, as if she hadnÆt spoken at all, ôbut she didnÆt know it. All she knew is that she went on a journey and reached a village. Her grandmother was at the village, too, and they lived together there. Every now and then, they went to another village, where the girlÆs father would give her fur parkas. What she didnÆt know was that he was really giving them to her namesake, the girl whoÆd been born just after his daughter had died.ö

Joseph sat up gingerly, sending a potent wave of alcohol fumes toward Trixie. ôOne day, they were going home from that other village, and the girlÆs grandmother said sheÆd forgotten some things. She asked the girl to go get them. She told her that if she came to a fallen evergreen tree, even though it might look like she could go under it or around it, she had to go over it instead.ö

Trixie folded her arms, listening in spite of her best intentions.

 

ôThe girl backtracked to the village, and sure enough, she came to a fallen tree. She tried to do what her grandmother had told her, but when she climbed over it she tripped, and that was the last thing she remembered. She couldnÆt figure out the way back to her grandmother, and she started to cry. Just then, a man from the village came out of the qasgiq and heard weeping. He followed the noise and saw the girl who had died years ago. He tried to grab on to her, but it was like holding only air.ö

Of course, Trixie thought. Because the more you changed, the less of you there was.

ôThe man rubbed his arms with food, and then he could grab her, even when the girl fought him. He carried her into the qasgiq, but they kept rising off the floorboards. An elder rubbed the girl with drippings from a seal oil lamp, and then she was able to stand without floating away. They all saw that this girl was the same one who had died. She was wearing the parkas her father had given to her namesake, all those years. And wouldnÆt you know it, after she came back, her namesake died not long after that.ö Joseph pulled the blanket up to his chest. ôShe lived to be an old woman,ö he said. ôShe told people what it had been like in Pamaalirugmiut-the place back there, obscured from their view.ö

ôOh really,ö Trixie said, not buying a word of the story. ôLet me guess: There was a white light and harp music?ö

Joseph looked at her, puzzled. ôNo, she used to say it was dry. People who die are always thirsty. ThatÆs why we send the dead on their way with fresh water. And why, maybe, IÆm always looking for a little something to wet my throat.ö

Trixie drew her knees into her chest, shivering as she thought of Jason. ôYouÆre not dead.ö

Joseph sank back down on the mat. ôYouÆd be surprised,ö he said.

ôItÆs not too cold to keep me from going for a walk,ö Aurora Johnson said to Laura in perfect, unaccented English, and she stood there, waiting for Laura to respond, as if sheÆd asked her a question.

Maybe Aurora wanted someone to talk to and didnÆt know how to ask. Laura could understand that. She got to her feet and reached for her coat. ôDo you mind company?ö

Aurora smiled and pulled on a jacket that fell to her knees but managed to zip up over her swollen belly. She stepped into boots with soles as thick as a firemanÆs and headed outside.

Laura fell into step beside her, moving briskly against the cold. It had been

two hours since Daniel had left, and the afternoon was pitch-dark now-there were no streetlamps lighting their way, no glow from a distant highway. From time to time the green cast of a television set inside a house would rise like a spirit in the window, but for the most part, the sky was an unbroken navy velvet, the stars so thick you could cut through them with a sweep of your arm.

AuroraÆs hair was brown, streaked with orange. Long tendrils blew out from the edges of her parkaÆs hood. She was only three years older than Trixie, yet she was on the verge of giving birth. ôWhen are you due?ö Laura asked.

ôMy BIB date is January tenth.ö ôBIB date?ö

ôBe-in-Bethel,ö Aurora explained. ôIf you live in the villages and youÆre pregnant, you have to move into the prematernal home in the city six weeks or so before youÆre due. That way, the docs have you where they need you.

Otherwise, if thereÆs some kind of complication, the medical center has to get the anguyagta to fly in a Black-hawk. It costs the National Guard ten thousand bucks a pop.ö She glanced at Laura. ôDo you just have the one? Baby, I mean?ö

Laura nodded, bowing her head as she thought of Trixie. She hoped that wherever Trixie was now, it was warm. That someone had given her a bite to eat, or a blanket. She hoped that Trixie was leaving markers the way she had learned ages ago in Girl Scouts-a twig broken here, a cairn of rocks there.

ôMinnieÆs my second mom, you know,ö Aurora said. ôI was adopted out.

Families are like that here. If a baby dies, your sister or aunt might give you her own. After Cane died, I was born and my mom sent me to be MinnieÆs daughter too.ö She shrugged. ôIÆm adopting out this baby to my biological momÆs cousin.ö

ôYouÆre just going to give it away?ö Laura said, shocked.

 

ôIÆm not giving her away. IÆm making it so sheÆll have both of us.ö ôWhat about the father?ö Laura asked. ôAre you still involved with him?ö ôI see him about once a week,ö Aurora said.

Laura stopped walking. She was talking to a YupÆik girl who was heavily pregnant, but she was seeing TrixieÆs face and hearing TrixieÆs voice. What if Laura had been around when Trixie had met Jason, instead of having her own affair? Would Trixie have ever dated him? Would she have been as crushed when they broke up? Would she have been at ZephyrÆs house the night of the party? Would she have gotten raped?

For every action, there was an opposite reaction. But maybe you could undo your wrongs by keeping someone else from making the same mistakes of misjudgment. ôAurora,ö Laura said slowly, ôIÆd love to meet him. Your boyfriend.ö

The YupÆik girl beamed. ôReally? Now?ö ôThat would be great.ö

Aurora grabbed her hand and dragged her through the streets of Akiak. When they reached a long, low gray building, Aurora clattered up the wooden ramp. ôI just need to stop off at the school for a sec,ö she said.

The doors were unlocked, but there was nobody inside. Aurora flipped on a light switch and hurried into an adjoining room. Laura unzipped her jacket and glanced toward the gymnasium on the right, its polished wooden floors gleaming. If she looked closely, would she still see CaneÆs blood? Could she retrace the steps Daniel had taken all those years ago, when he ran away and into her own life?

Laura was distracted by the sound ofàwell, it couldnÆt be a toilet flushing, could it? She pushed through the door that Aurora had entered, marked NasÆak. Aurora was standing in front of a serviceable white porcelain sink with running water. ôThat oneÆs sitting on my bladder,ö Aurora said, smiling.

ôThereÆs plumbing here?ö Laura glanced around. On the upper lip of the bathroom stall, various items of clothing had been draped: bras and panties, long-sleeved Tshirts, socks.

ôJust in the school,ö Aurora said. ôOn any given day, the lineÆll be out the door with girls waiting to wash their hair. This is the only place it wonÆt freeze solid.ö

She gave Laura a chance to use the facilities-use wasnÆt really the word as much as relish or give thanks for-and then they struck outside again. ôDoes your boyfriend live far away?ö Laura asked, wondering what might happen if Daniel returned to find her missing.

ôHeÆs just over that hill,ö Aurora said, but as they crested the rise, Laura didnÆt see any homes at all. She followed Aurora inside a picket fence, careful to stay on the trodden path instead of hiking through the drifts that were hip- high. In the dark, it took her a moment to realize that they were walking to the far end of a tiny cemetery, one scattered with white wooden crosses that were almost entirely buried in snow.

Aurora stopped at a cleared grave. A name was engraved on the wooden cross: ARTHUR M. PETERSON, June 5, 1982-March 30, 2005. ôHe was mushing, but it was the end of March, and he went through the ice. His lead dog chewed through the lead and came to our house. I knew the minute I saw the dog that something was wrong, but by the time we got to the river, Art and the sled had both gone under.ö She faced Laura. ôThree days later I found out I was pregnant.ö

ôIÆm so sorry.ö

 

ôDonÆt be,ö Aurora said, matter-of-fact. ôHe was probably drinking when he went out on the trail, like usual.ö As she spoke, though, she leaned down and gently swept the cross clean of its most recent dusting of snow.

Laura turned away to give Aurora privacy and saw one other grave that had been carefully cleared. In front of the marker was a collection of ivory-full mammoth tusks and partial ones, some nearly as tall as the wooden cross. On each tusk, numerous flowers had been carved in exquisite detail: roses and orchids and peonies, lupine and forget-me-nots and ladyÆs slippers. It was a garden that had been bleached of its color and none of its beauty, flowers that would never die, flowers that could bloom even in the most inhospitable climate.

She imagined the artist whoÆd crafted these, walking through sleet and hail and ice storms to plant this endless garden. It was exactly the sort of romance and passion she would have expected of Seth, who had tucked poems into the flustered leaves of her date book and the prim mouth of her change purse.

Wistfully, Laura let herself imagine what it was like to be loved that deeply.

She envisioned a wooden cross labeled with her own name. She saw someone fighting the elements to bring gifts to her grave. But when she pictured the man weeping over what heÆd lost, it wasnÆt Seth.

It was Daniel.

 

Laura brushed the snow off the marker, wanting to know the identity of the woman who had inspired such devotion.

ôOh, I was going to show you that one,ö Aurora said, just as Laura read the name: ANNETTE STONE. DanielÆs mother.

Trixie had gone AWOL. She couldnÆt say why she felt guilty about this, especially since it wasnÆt like she was really supposed to be working the Tuluksak checkpoint in the first place. She ran beside Willie in the dark, small puffs of her breath leaving a dissipating trail.

As promised, Willie had come back to the school, although Trixie hadnÆt really expected him to. She had planned to leave his coat behind with one of the volunteers when she got ready to leave-whenever and toward wherever that would be. But Willie had arrived while Trixie was still babysitting Joseph.

HeÆd knelt down on the other side of the snoring old man and shook his head. He knew Joseph-apparently everyone did in an eight-village radius, since Joseph didnÆt discriminate when it came to where heÆd go on a bender. The Yupiit called him Kingurauten-Too Late-Joseph because heÆd promised a woman heÆd return, only to turn up a week after sheÆd died.

Willie had come to invite Trixie to steam. She didnÆt know what that meant, but it sounded heavenly after shivering for nearly two days straight. SheÆd followed Willie, tiptoeing past Joseph, past the sleeping Jesuit Volunteers, and out the front door of the school.

They ran. The night was spread like icing over the dome of the sky; stars kept falling at TrixieÆs feet. It was hard to tell if it was the uncovered beauty of this place that took her breath away, or the seize of the cold. Willie slowed when they came to a narrow road lined with tiny homes. ôAre we going to your house? ö Trixie asked.

ôNo, my dadÆs there, and when I left he was drinking. WeÆre going to my cousinÆs. He was having a steam with some of his buddies, but theyÆre leaving for a city league basketball game downriver.ö

Several dogs that were chained up outside houses started to bark. Willie fumbled for her hand, probably to get her to move faster, but if that was the intent it didnÆt work. Everything slowed inside Trixie: her heartbeat, her breathing, her blood.

Although Janice had tried to tell her otherwise, Trixie had believed she would never want another guy to lay hands on her again. But when Willie touched her, she couldnÆt really remember what it had felt like to touch Jason. It was almost as if one canceled out the other. She knew this: WillieÆs skin was smoother than JasonÆs. His hand was closer to hers in size. The muscles in his forearms werenÆt thick, the product of a million slap shots-they were lean and ropy, almost sculpted. It made no sense, given their upbringings, but she had this weird feeling that she and Willie were equals, that neither of them was in control, because they were both so skittish in each otherÆs company.

They stopped behind one of the houses. Through the buttery light of the windows, Trixie could see a sparse living room, a single couch, and a few young men putting on their coats and boots. ôCome on,ö Willie said, and he tugged her away.

He opened the door to a wooden shack not much bigger than an outhouse. It was divided into two rooms-they had entered the larger one; the other room lay through the closed door directly ahead of Trixie. Once the sound of his cousinÆs snow machine winnowed away, Willie shrugged out of his coat and boots, gesturing to Trixie to do the same. ôThe good news is, my cousin already did all the hard work tonight-hauling water and chopping wood. He built this maqi a few years ago.ö

ôWhat do you do in it?ö

 

Willie grinned, and in the dark his teeth gleamed. ôSweat,ö he said. ôA lot.

The men usually go in first, because they can handle the real heat. Women go in later.ö

ôThen how come weÆre here together?ö Trixie asked.

 

it.

Willie ducked his head. She knew he was blushing, even if she couldnÆt see

 

ôI bet you take girls here all the time,ö she said, but she was only half joking,

waiting for his answer.

 

ôIÆve never been with a girl in the steam before,ö Willie said, and then he shucked off his skirt. Trixie closed her eyes, but not before she saw the bright white flash of his underwear.

He opened a door and disappeared inside the adjoining room. Trixie waited for him to come back, but he didnÆt. She heard the hiss of rising steam.

She stared at the wooden door, wondering what was on the other side. Was he trying to show her how tough he was, by taking the real heat? What did he mean when he said that he hadnÆt been with a girl in the steam before? Did he take them other places, or was that an invitation for her to follow? She felt like she had fallen into one of her fatherÆs comic book universes, where what you said was not what you meant, and vice versa.

Hesitantly, Trixie pulled off her shirt. The action-and WillieÆs proximity- immediately made her think about playing strip poker the night of ZephyrÆs party. But nobody was watching this time; there were no rules to the game; no one was telling her what she had to do. It was entirely different, she realized, when the choice was up to her.

If she went in there in her bra and panties, that was just like wearing a bikini, wasnÆt it?

She shivered only a moment before she opened the stunted door and crawled inside.

The heat slammed into her, a solid wall. It wasnÆt just heat. It was a sauna and a steam room and a bonfire all rolled together, and then ratcheted up a notch. The floor beneath her bare feet was slick plywood. She couldnÆt see, because of all the steam.

As the clouds drifted, she could make out a fifty-five-gallon oil drum on its side with a fire burning hot in its belly. Rocks were nestled in birdcage wire on top, and a metal container of water sat beside it. Willie was hunkered down on

the plywood, his knees drawn up to his chest, his skin red and blotched.

 

He didnÆt say anything when he saw her, and Trixie understood why-if she opened her mouth, surely her throat would burst into flame. He wasnÆt wearing anything, but the region between his thighs was only a shadow, and somehow, she was the one who felt overdressed. She sat down beside him-in that small a space there wasnÆt much choice-and felt him wrapping something around her head. A rag, she realized, that had been dipped in water, to cover her ears and keep them from burning. When he knotted it, the skin of his upper arm stuck to hers.

The orange light that spilled through the cracks in the stove door illuminated Willie. His silhouette glowed, lean and feline; at that moment, Trixie wouldnÆt have been surprised to see him turn into a panther. Willie reached for a ladle, a wooden stick wired to a soup can. He dipped it into the bucket of water, pouring more over the rocks and causing a fresh cloud of steam to fill the chamber.

When he settled down beside Trixie, his hand was so close to hers on the plywood that their pinkies touched.

It hurt, almost past the point of pain. The room had a pulse, and breathing was nearly impossible. Heat rose off TrixieÆs skin in the shape of her soul.

Perspiration ran down her back and between her legs: her entire body, crying.

 

When TrixieÆs lungs were about to explode, she ran through the door into the cold room again. She sat down on the floor, warmth rolling off her in waves, just as Willie burst in with a towel wrapped around his waist. He sank down beside her and passed her a jug.

Trixie drank it without even knowing what was inside. The water cooled the lining of her throat. She passed the jug to Willie, who tipped his head back against the wall and drank deeply, the knot of his AdamÆs apple following each swallow. He turned to her, grinning. ôCrazy, huh?ö

She found herself laughing, too. ôTotally.ö

 

Willie leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. ôI always kind of figured thatÆs what FloridaÆs like.ö

ôFlorida? ItÆs nothing like this.ö

ôYouÆve been to Florida?ö Willie asked, intrigued. ôYeah. ItÆs just, you know, another state.ö

ôIÆd like to see an orange growing on a tree. IÆd pretty much like to see anything thatÆs somewhere other than here.ö He turned to her. ôWhat did you do when you went to Florida?ö

It was so long ago, Trixie had to think for a moment. ôWe went to Cape Canaveral. And Disney World.ö

Willie started picking at the wooden floor. ôI bet you fit in there.ö ôBecause itÆs so tacky?ö

ôBecause youÆre like that fairy. The one who hangs out with Peter Pan.ö Trixie burst out laughing. ôTinker Bell?ö

ôYeah. My sister had that book.ö

 

She was about to tell him he was crazy, but then she remembered that Peter Pan was about a boy who didnÆt want to grow up, and she decided she didnÆt mind the comparison.

ôShe was so pretty,ö Willie said. ôShe had a light inside her.ö Trixie stared at him. ôYou think IÆm pretty?ö

Instead of answering, Willie got up and crawled back into the hot room. By the time she followed, heÆd already poured water over the rocks. Blinded by steam, she had to find her way by touch. She drew her fingers over the rough run of the wooden floor, up the joints of the walls, and then she brushed the smooth curve of WillieÆs shoulder. Before she could pull away, WillieÆs hand came up to capture hers. He tugged her closer, until they were facing each other on their knees, in the heart of a cloud. ôYeah, youÆre pretty,ö Willie said.

Trixie felt like she was falling. She had ugly chopped black hair and scars up and down her arms, and it was like he didnÆt even notice. She looked down at their interlaced fingers-a weave of dark and pale skin-and she let herself pretend

that maybe there could be a light inside of her.

 

ôWhen the first white folks came to the tundra,ö Willie said, ôthe people here thought they were ghosts.ö

ôSometimes thatÆs what I think I am, too,ö Trixie murmured.

 

They leaned toward each other, or maybe the steam pushed them closer. And just as Trixie was certain that there wasnÆt any air left in the room, WillieÆs mouth closed over hers and breathed for her.

Willie tasted like smoke and sugar. His hands settled on her shoulders, respectfully staying there even when she itched to have him touch her. When they drew back from each other, Willie looked down at the ground. ôIÆve never done that before,ö he confessed, and Trixie realized that when heÆd said heÆd never been with a girl in a steam, heÆd meant that heÆd never been with a girl.

Trixie had lost her virginity a lifetime ago, back when she thought it was a prize to give to someone like Jason. TheyÆd had sex countless times-in the backseat of his car, in his bedroom when his parents were out, in the locker room at the hockey rink after hours. But what she had done with him compared in no way to the kiss she had just experienced with Willie; it was impossible to draw a line to connect the two. She couldnÆt even say that her own participation was the common denominator, because the girl she was back then was completely different from the one here now.

Trixie leaned toward Willie, and this time, she kissed him. ôMe neither,ö she said, and she knew she wasnÆt lying.

When Daniel was eleven, the circus had come for the first and only time to the tundra. Bethel was the last stop for the Ford Brothers Circus, on an unprecedented tour of bush Alaska. Cane and Daniel werenÆt going to miss it for the world. They worked odd jobs-painting an elderÆs house, putting a new roof on CaneÆs uncleÆs steam bath-until they each had fifteen dollars. The flyers, which had been put up in all the village schools, including Akiak, said that admission would be eight bucks, and that left plenty of money for popcorn and souvenirs.

Most of the village was planning to go. DanielÆs mother was going to hitch a ride with the principal, but at the last minute, Cane invited Daniel to go in his familyÆs boat. They sat in its belly, the aluminum sides cold against their backs and bottoms, and told each other elephant jokes on the way down.

Why is an elephant gray, large, and wrinkled?

 

Because if he was small, white, and round, heÆd be an aspirin. Why does an elephant have a trunk?

Because heÆd look stupid with a glove compartment.

 

Six thousand people from all over the delta showed up, many coming just after midnight so that they could see the MarkAir Herc fly in at dawn with the performers and the animals. The circus was going to take place at the National Guard Armory gym, with the bathrooms converted to costume changing areas. Cane and Daniel, running ragged around the edges of the activity, even got to hold a rope as the big top was pitched.

During the show, there were trained dogs in ratty tutus, and two lions named Lulu and Strawberry. There was a leopard, which waited for its cue outside the big top, drinking from a mud puddle. There was calliope music and peanuts and cotton candy, and for the little children, an inflatable house to jump in and Shetland pony rides. When Shorty Serra came thundering out to do rope tricks with his monstrous horse, Juneau, the beast stood on his hind legs to tower over everyone, and the crowd shrieked.

A group of YupÆik boys sitting behind Daniel and Cane cheered, too. But when Daniel leaned over to say something to Cane, one of them spit out a slur: ôLook at that: I always knew kassÆaqs belonged in the circus.ö

Daniel turned around. ôShut the fuck up.ö

 

One YupÆik boy turned to another. ôDid you hear something?ö

 

ôWant to feel something instead?ö Daniel threatened, balling his hand into a fist.

ôIgnore them,ö Cane said. ôTheyÆre assholes.ö

The ringmaster appeared, to the roar of applause. ôLadies and gentlemen, IÆm afraid we have some disappointing news. Our elephant, Tika, is too ill for the show. But IÆm delighted to introduceàall the way from MadagascaràFlorence and her Amazing Waltzing Pigeons!ö

A tiny woman in a flamenco skirt walked out with birds perched on each shoulder. Daniel turned to Cane. ôHow sick could an elephant be?ö

ôYeah,ö Cane said. ôThis sucks.ö

 

One of the YupÆik boys poked him. ôSo do you. And I guess you like white meat.ö

All of his life, Daniel had been teased by the village kids-for not having a father, for being kassÆaq, for not knowing how to do native things like fish and hunt. Cane would hang out with him, but the YupÆik boys in school let that slide, because after all, Cane was one of them.

These boys, though, were not from his village.

 

Daniel saw the look on CaneÆs face and felt something break loose inside of him. He stood up, intent on leaving the big top. ôHang on,ö Cane said.

Daniel made his gaze as flat as possible. ôI didnÆt invite you,ö he said, and he walked away.

It didnÆt take him long to find the elephant, penned up in a makeshift fence with no one to watch over it. Daniel had never seen an elephant up close; it was the one thing that he had in common with kids who lived in normal places. The elephant was limping and throwing hay in the air with its trunk. Daniel ducked under the wire and walked up to the animal, moving slowly. He touched its skin, warm and craggy, and laid his cheek along the haunch.

The best part about his friendship with Cane was that Cane was an insider, and that made Daniel one by association. HeÆd never realized that it could go the other way, too, that their acquaintance might make Cane a pariah. If the only way to keep Cane from being ostracized was to stay away from him, then Daniel would.

You did what you had to, for the people you cared about.

The elephant swung its massive head toward Daniel. Its dark eye winked; the loose-lipped drip of its mouth worked soundlessly. But Daniel could hear the animal perfectly, and so he answered out loud: I donÆt belong here either.

It was still dark out the next morning when the cargo plane arrived, puddle- jumping from village to village to pick up the dogs that had been dropped by mushers along the trail. TheyÆd be flown back to Bethel where a handler could pick them up.

Willie was driving his cousinÆs pickup truck to the airstrip, and Trixie was in the passenger seat. They held hands across the space between them.

In the flatbed were all of Alex EdmondsÆs dogs, Juno, and Kingurauten Joseph, who was being transported back to the medical center. Willie parked the truck and then began to pass the dogs to Trixie, who walked them over to the chain-link fence and tethered them. Every time she returned for another one, he smiled at her, and she melted as if she were back in the steam again.

Last night, after the steam had died out, Willie bathed her with a rag dipped in warm water. HeÆd run the makeshift sponge right over her bra and her panties. Then theyÆd gone back to the cold room, and heÆd toweled her dry, kneeling in front of her to get the backs of her knees and between her toes before theyÆd dressed each other. Fastening and tucking seemed so much more intimate than unbuttoning and unzipping, as if you were privy to putting the person back together whole, instead of unraveling him. ôI have to take my uncleÆs coat back,ö Willie had said, but then he had given her his own lined canvas jacket.

It smelled like him, every time Trixie buried her nose in the collar.

 

The lights on the airstrip suddenly blazed, magic. Trixie whirled around, but there was no control tower anywhere nearby. ôThe pilots have remotes in their planes,ö Willie said, laughing, and sure enough ten minutes hadnÆt passed before Trixie could hear the approach of an engine.

The plane that landed looked like the one that had flown Trixie into Bethel.

The pilot-a YupÆik boy not much older than Willie-jumped out. ôHey,ö he said. ôIs this all youÆve got?ö

When he opened the cargo bay, Trixie could see a dozen dogs already tethered to D rings. As Willie loaded the sled dogs, she helped Joseph climb down from the back of the pickup. He leaned on her heavily as they walked to the runway, and when he stepped into the cargo bay, the animals inside started barking. ôYou remind me of someone I used to know,ö Joseph said.

You already told me that, Trixie thought, but she just nodded at him. Maybe it wasnÆt that he wanted her to hear it but only that he needed to say it again.

The pilot closed up the hatch and hopped back into his plane, accelerating down the airstrip until Trixie could not tell his landing lights apart from any given star. The airstrip blinked and went black again.

She felt Willie move closer in the dark, but before her eyes could adjust, another beacon came at them. It glinted directly into her eyes, had her shielding them from the glare with one hand. The snow machine pulled up, its engine growling before it died down completely and the driver stood up on the runners.

ôTrixie?ö her father said. ôIs that you?ö

8

I n the middle of the Alaskan tundra, staring at a daughter he could barely recognize, Daniel thought back to the moment heÆd known that everything between him and Trixie was bound to change.

It was, like so many of those minutes between a father and a little girl, unremarkable. The season might have been summertime, or it could have been fall. They might have been bundled up in winter coats, or wearing flip-flops.

They could have been heading to make a deposit at the bank, or leaving the bookstore. What stuck in DanielÆs mind was the street-a busy one, in the middle of town-and the fact that he was walking down it with Trixie, holding her hand.

She was seven. Her hair was French-braided-badly, heÆd never quite gotten the hang of that-and she was trying not to walk on the breaks in the sidewalk.

They reached the intersection, and like always, Daniel reached for TrixieÆs hand.

She very deliberately slipped it free and stepped away from him before she looked both ways and crossed by herself.

It was a hairline crack, one you might never have noticed, except for the fact that it grew wider and wider, until there was a canyon between them. A childÆs job, ostensibly, was to grow up. So why, when it happened, did a parent feel so disappointed?

This time, instead of a busy street, Trixie had crossed an entire country by herself. She stood in front of Daniel, bundled in an oversized canvas coat, with a wool cap pulled over her head. Beside her was a YupÆik boy with hair that kept falling into his eyes.

Daniel didnÆt know what was more shocking: seeing a girl heÆd once carried on his shoulders and tucked into bed and wondering if sheÆd committed murder, or realizing that heÆd hide in the Alaskan bush with Trixie for the rest of his life if that was what it took to keep her from being arrested.

ôDaddyà?ö Trixie launched herself into his arms.

 

Daniel felt a shudder work down his spine; relief, when you came right down to it, was not all that different from fear. ôYou,ö he said to the boy who stood a distance apart, watching them with a guarded expression. ôWho are you?ö

ôWillie Moses.ö

 

ôCan I borrow your rig?ö Daniel tossed him the keys to the snow-go, a trade.

 

The boy looked at Trixie as if he was about to speak, but then he dropped his gaze and walked to the snow machine. Daniel heard the lionÆs growl of its engine, and the high-pitched whine as it sped away, and then led Trixie to the truck. Like most Alaskan vehicles, this one would never have passed inspection in the lower forty-eight. It was rusted clean through on the side panels; its speedometer was stuck at 88 mph, and first gear didnÆt work at all. But the light over the rearview mirror did, and Daniel turned that on to scrutinize his daughter.

With the exception of dark circles under her eyes, she seemed to be all right.

Daniel reached up and pulled off her wool cap, revealing a sleek cap of black hair. ôOh,ö she said when his eyes widened. ôI forgot about that.ö

Daniel slid across the bench seat and pulled her into his arms. God, was there anything more solid, more right, than knowing your child was where she ought to be? ôTrixie,ö he said, ôyou scared the hell out of me.ö

He felt her grab a fistful of his coat. He had a thousand questions for her, but one sprang to the surface first, the one that he couldnÆt help but ask. ôWhy here?ö

ôBecause,ö Trixie murmured, ôyou said itÆs where people disappear.ö Daniel drew away from her slowly. ôWhy did you want to?ö

Her eyes filled with tears, until finally one spilled over and ran to the point of her chin. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Daniel held on to her, as her thin body started to shake. ôI didnÆt do what everyone thinksàö

Daniel threw his head back and winged a prayer to a God heÆd never quite believed in: Thank you.

ôI wanted him back. I didnÆt really want to fool around like Zephyr told me to, but I was willing to do anything if it got things back to the way it was before Jason broke up with me.ö She swallowed hard. ôWhen everyone left, he was so nice at first, I thought maybe it had worked. But then everything started happening so fast. I wanted to talk, and he didnÆt. When he startedàwhen we startedàö She took a ragged breath. ôHe said that this was exactly what he needed-a friend with benefits. And thatÆs how I realized that he didnÆt want me back. He just wanted me for fifteen minutes.ö

Daniel didnÆt move. Surely if he did, heÆd shatter.

 

ôI tried to get away, but I couldnÆt. It felt like I was underwater, like when I told my arms and legs to move, they didnÆt work fast enough, strong enough. He thought it was a game, me fighting just a little bit, like I was still playing hard to get. He pinned me down andàö TrixieÆs skin was flushed and damp. ôHe said, DonÆt tell me you donÆt want this.ö She looked up at Daniel in the halo of the overhead light. ôAnd IàI didnÆt.ö

Trixie had once seen a science fiction movie that suggested we all had doppelgSngers, we just couldnÆt ever run into them because our worlds would collide. It was like that, now that her father had come to rescue her. Just this morning, walking back with Willie from the maqi, she had entertained the thought of what it would be like to stay in Tuluksak. Maybe they needed someone to be a teaching assistant. Maybe she could move in with one of WillieÆs cousins. But with her fatherÆs arrival, the world had jarred to a stop. He didnÆt fit here, and neither did she.

She had told him her secret: that she was a liar. Not just about being a virgin and playing Rainbowàbut even more. SheÆd never said no to Jason that night, although sheÆd told the DA she had.

And the drugs?

 

She was the one whoÆd brought them.

 

She hadnÆt realized, at the time, that the guy at the college who sold pot to the high school kids was sleeping with her mother. SheÆd gone to buy some for ZephyrÆs party, in the hopes that she could take the edge off. If she was going to be as wild as Zephyr planned for her to be, she needed a little pharmaceutical help.

Seth was out of pot, but Special K was supposed to be like Ecstasy. It would make you lose control.

Which, in a completely different way, she had.

 

This much wasnÆt a lie: She hadnÆt taken it that night, not on purpose. She and Zephyr had planned to get high together, but it was a real drug, not pot, and at the last minute, Trixie had chickened out. SheÆd forgotten about it, until the DA brought up the fact that she might have had a drug in her system. Trixie didnÆt really know what Zephyr had done with the vial: if sheÆd used it herself, if sheÆd left it sitting on the kitchen counter, if someone else at the party had found it first. She couldnÆt say for a fact that Jason had slipped it into her drink. SheÆd had so much to drink that night-half-empty cans of Coke left lying around, screwdrivers with the ice cubes melting-it was possible that Jason had had nothing to do with it at all.

Trixie hadnÆt known that adding drugs into the legal mix would mean Jason was tried as an adult. She hadnÆt been looking to ruin his life. SheÆd only wanted a way to salvage her own.

It was not a coincidence, Trixie thought, that no and know sounded the same.

You were supposed to be able to say the magic word, and that was enough to make your wishes-or lack of them-crystal clear. But no one ever said yes to make sex consensual. You took hints from body language, from the way two people came together. Why, then, didnÆt a shake of the head or a hand pushing hard against a chest speak just as loudly? Why did you have to actually say the word no for it to be rape?

That one word, spoken or not, didnÆt make Jason any less guilty of taking something Trixie hadnÆt wanted to give. It didnÆt make her any less foolish. All it did was draw a line in the sand, so that the people who hadnÆt been there to witness it-Moss and Zephyr, her parents, the police, the district attorney-could take sides.

But somewhere along the line, it also made her realize that she couldnÆt blame Jason, not entirely, for what had happened.

She had thought of what it would be like when the trial started, when it was a hundred times worse than it was now, and JasonÆs lawyer would get up in court and paint Trixie as a complete slut and a liar. She had wondered how long it would be before she just gave in and admitted they were right. SheÆd started to hate herself, and one night, when the dark had folded itself around Trixie like the wings of a heron, she wished that Jason Underhill would drop dead. It was just a secret, silent thought, and she knew better than anyone at this point that what was not said aloud didnÆt count. But then one thing led to another: Jason was charged as an adult, not a minor. Jason ran into her at the Winterfest. And then, before she knew it, her wish had come true.

Trixie knew the police were looking for her. WeÆll take care of it, her father kept saying. But Jason was dead, and it was her fault. Nothing she said now-or didnÆt say-was going to bring him back.

She wondered if she would be sent to jail in JasonÆs place, and if it would be horrible there, like you saw in the movies, or if it would be full of people like Trixie, people who understood that there were some mistakes you never got to

erase.

 

While her father explained to the Jesuit Volunteers that they were about to lose a fake staff member, Trixie sat in the truck and cried. She had thought that by now, she would have been bone dry, a husk, but the tears didnÆt ever stop. All she had wanted was for something to feel right again in her life, and instead, everything had gone impossibly wrong.

There was a knock at the window of the truck, and she looked up to see Willie, his fingers stuck in a bowl of something pink. He scooped out a bit with his middle and index fingers as she unrolled the window.

ôHey,ö he said.

 

She wiped her eyes. ôHey.ö ôYou okay?ö

Trixie started to nod, but she was so sick of lying. ôNot so much,ö she admitted.

It was nice, the way Willie didnÆt even try to say something to make her feel better. He just let her sadness stand. ôThatÆs your dad?ö he asked.

She nodded. She wanted to explain everything to Willie, but she didnÆt know how. As far as Willie had been concerned, she was a Jesuit Volunteer, one who had been stranded by the storm. With him, she had not been a rape victim or a murder suspect. How did you tell someone that you werenÆt the person he thought you were? And more importantly, how did you tell him that youÆd meant the things youÆd said, when everything else about you turned out to be a lie?

He held out the dish. ôWant some?ö ôWhat is it?ö

ôAkutaq. Eskimo ice cream.ö Trixie dipped her finger in. It wasnÆt Ben & JerryÆs, but it wasnÆt bad-berries and sugar, mixed with something she couldnÆt recognize.

ôSeal oil and shortening,ö Willie said, and she wasnÆt in the least surprised that he could read her mind.

He looked down at her through the window. ôIf I ever get to Florida, maybe you could meet me there.ö

Trixie didnÆt know what was going to happen to her tomorrow, much less after that. But she found that in spite of everything that had happened, she still had the capacity to pretend, to think her future might be something it never actually would. ôThat would be cool,ö she said softly.

ôDo you live nearby?ö

 

ôGive or take fifteen hundred miles,ö Trixie said, and when Willie smiled a little, so did she.

Suddenly Trixie wanted to tell someone the truth-all of it. She wanted to start from the beginning, and if she could make just one person believe her, at least it was a start. She lifted her face to WillieÆs. ôAt home, I was raped by a guy I thought I loved,ö Trixie said, because that was what it was to her and always would be. Semantics didnÆt matter when you were bleeding between your legs, when you felt like youÆd been broken from the inside out, when free will was taken away from you.

ôIs that why you ran away?ö

 

Trixie shook her head. ôHeÆs dead.ö

 

Willie didnÆt ask her if she was responsible. He just nodded, his breath hanging on the air like lace. ôI guess sometimes,ö he said, ôthatÆs the way it works.ö

It was bingo night at the village council offices, and Laura had been left alone in the tiny house. She had read every Tundra Drums newspaper twice, even the ones stacked in the entryway for disposal. SheÆd watched television until her eyes hurt.

She found herself wondering what kind of person would choose to live in a

place like this, where conversation seemed abnormal and where even the sunlight stayed away. What had brought DanielÆs mother here?

Like Annette Stone, Laura was a teacher. She knew you could change the world one student at a time. But how long would you be willing to sacrifice your own childÆs happiness for everyone elseÆs?

Maybe she hadnÆt wanted to leave. Daniel had told Laura about his wandering father. There were some people who hit your life so hard, they left a stain on your future. Laura understood how you might spend your whole life waiting for that kind of man to come back.

It was a choice DanielÆs mother had made for both of them, one that immediately put her son at a disadvantage. To Laura, it seemed selfish, and she ought to know.

Was it tough love, putting your child through hell? Or was it the best of parenting, a way to make sure your child could survive without you? If Daniel hadnÆt been teased, he might have felt at home on the tundra. He might have become one of the faceless kids, like Cane, who couldnÆt find a way out. He might have stayed in Alaska, forever, waiting for something that didnÆt come.

Maybe Annette Stone had only been making sure Daniel had an escape route, because she didnÆt herself.

Outside, a truck drove into the yard. Laura jumped up, running out the arctic entry to see if Daniel and Trixie had returned. But the truck had a bar of flashing blue lights across the top of the cab, casting long shadows on the snow.

Laura straightened her spine. YouÆd do whatever it took to protect your child. Even the things that no one else could possibly understand.

ôWeÆre looking for Trixie Stone,ö the policeman said.

Trixie fell asleep on the ride back to Akiak. Daniel had wrapped Trixie in his own balaclava and parka; she rode the snow machine with her arms around his waist and her cheek pressed up against his back. He followed the setting sun, a showgirlÆs tease of pink ribbon trailing off the stage of the horizon.

Daniel didnÆt really know what to make of his daughterÆs confession. In this part of the world, people believed that a thought might turn into an action at any moment; a word held in your mind had just as much power to wound or to heal as the one that was spoken aloud. In this part of the world, it didnÆt matter what Trixie had or had not said: What Jason Underhill had done to Trixie did count as rape.

He was also painfully aware of the other things Trixie had not said out loud: that she hadnÆt killed Jason; that she was innocent.

In Akiak, Daniel revved up the riverbank and past the post office to reach CaneÆs house. He turned the corner and saw the police truck.

For just a moment, he thought, I have reinvented myself before, I can do it again. He could drive until the gas ran out of the snow-go, and then he would build a shelter for himself and Trixie. HeÆd teach her how to track and how to hunt and, when the weather turned, where to find the salmon.

But he could not leave Laura behind, and he couldnÆt send for her later. Once they left, he would have to make sure they could never be found.

He felt Trixie stiffen behind him and realized that she had seen the policemen. Even worse, when the officer got out of the car, he understood that theyÆd been seen, too.

ôDonÆt talk,ö he said over his shoulder. ôLet me take care of this.ö

 

Daniel drove the snow-go toward CaneÆs house and turned off the ignition.

Then he got off the vehicle and stood with his hand on TrixieÆs shoulder.

 

When you loved someone, you did whatever you thought was in her best interests, even if-at the time-it looked utterly wrong. Men did this for women; mothers did it for sons. And Daniel knew heÆd do it for Trixie. HeÆd do anything. What made a hero a hero? Was it winning all the time, like Superman? Or was it taking on the task reluctantly, like Spider-Man? Was it learning, like the X-Men had, that at any moment you might fall from grace to become a villain? Or, like Alan MooreÆs Rorschach, was it being human enough to enjoy watching people die, if they deserved it?

The policeman approached. ôTrixie Stone,ö he said, ôyouÆre under arrest for

the murder of Jason Underhill.ö

 

ôYou canÆt arrest her,ö Daniel insisted. ôMr. Stone, IÆve got a warrant-ö

Daniel didnÆt take his eyes off his daughterÆs face. ôYes,ö he said. ôBut IÆm the one who killed him.ö

Trixie couldnÆt talk, she couldnÆt breathe, she couldnÆt think. She was frozen, rooted to the permafrost like the policeman. Her father had just confessed to murder.

She stared at him, stunned. ôDaddy,ö she whispered. ôTrixie, I told you. Not a word.ö

Trixie thought of how, when she was tiny, he used to carry her on his shoulders. She, like her mother, got dizzy up high-but her father would anchor her legs in his hands. I wonÆt let you fall, he said, and because he never did, the world from that vantage point stopped being so scary.

She thought of this and a thousand other things: how for one entire year, heÆd cut her lunch box sandwiches into letters so that they spelled out a different word each week: BRAVE, SMART, SWEET. How heÆd always hide a caricature of her in one of the pages of his comic books. How she would rummage in her backpack and find, tucked in a pocket, peanut M&MÆs that she knew heÆd left for her.

Her eyes filled with tears. ôBut youÆre lying,ö she whispered. The policeman sighed. ôWell,ö he said, ôsomebody is.ö

He glanced toward the truck, where TrixieÆs mother already sat in the passenger seat, staring at them through the glass.

It had been almost comical, getting the call. The state troopers in Alaska had served the arrest warrant for Trixie Stone, they told Bartholemew. But in doing so, two other people had confessed to the crime. What did they want him to do?

Short of getting governorÆs warrants, the detective had to fly out there himself, interview the Stones, and decide who-if anyone-he wanted to arrest.

Daniel Stone had been brought into the conference room at the Bethel Police Station, where he and his wife had been taken following their individual confessions. Trixie, a minor, was in custody at the Bethel Youth Center, a juvenile detention facility. A radiator belched out erratic heat, stirring tinsel that had been draped above its casing.

Tomorrow, he realized, was Christmas.

 

ôYou know this doesnÆt change anything,ö Bartholemew said. ôWe still have to hold your daughter as a delinquent.ö

ôWhat does that mean?ö

 

ôAfter we go back to Maine, she stays at a juvy lockup until sheÆs certified to be tried as an adult for murder. Then if she doesnÆt get bail-which she wonÆt, given the severity of the charge-sheÆll be sent back there after the arraignment.ö

ôYou canÆt hold her if IÆm the one who committed the crime,ö Daniel pointed out.

ôI know what youÆre doing, Mr. Stone,ö Bartholemew said. ôI donÆt even blame you, really. Did I ever tell you about the last conversation I had with my daughter? She came downstairs and told me she was going to watch a high school football game. I told her to have a good time. Thing is, it was May.

Nobody was playing football. And I knew that,ö Bartholemew said. ôThe people who were at the scene said she never even braked as she went around the curve, that the car went straight over at full speed. They said it rolled three, maybe four times. When the medical examiner told me sheÆd ODÆd before she went over the railing, I actually said thank God. I wanted to know she didnÆt have to feel any of that.ö

Bartholemew crossed his arms. ôDo you know what else I did? I went home,

and I tossed her room, until I found her stash, and the needles she used. I buried them in the bottom of the trash and drove to the dump. She was already dead, and I still was trying to protect her.ö

Stone just stared at him. ôYou canÆt prosecute all of us. Eventually, youÆll let her go.ö

ôIÆve got evidence that puts her at the bridge.ö ôThere were a thousand people there that night.ö

ôThey didnÆt leave behind blood. They didnÆt get their hair caught in Jason UnderhillÆs watchband.ö

Stone shook his head. ôTrixie and Jason were arguing, near the convenience store parking lot. ThatÆs when her hair must have gotten caught. But I showed up just as he grabbed Trixie, and I went after him. I was already a suspect once. I told you I got into a fight with the kid. I just didnÆt tell you what happened afterward.ö

ôIÆm listening,ö Bartholemew said.

 

ôAfter he ran off, I tracked him to the bridge.ö ôAnd then?ö

ôThen I killed him.ö

 

ôHow? Did you sock him in the jaw? Hit him from behind? Give him a good shove?ö When the other man remained silent, Bartholemew shook his head. ôYou canÆt tell me, Mr. Stone, because you werenÆt there. YouÆre excluded by the physical evidenceàand Trixie isnÆt.ö He met StoneÆs gaze. ôSheÆs done things before that she couldnÆt tell you about. Maybe this is one more.ö

Daniel Stone glanced down at the table.

 

Bartholemew sighed. ôBeing a cop isnÆt all that different from being a father, you know. You do your damnedest, and itÆs still not good enough to keep the people you care about from hurting themselves.ö

ôYouÆre making a mistake,ö Stone said, but there was a thread of desperation in his voice.

ôYouÆre free to go,ö Bartholemew replied.

In juvenile jail, the lights did not go out. In juvenile jail, you werenÆt in cells.

You all slept single-sex in a dormitory that reminded Trixie of the orphans in Annie.

There were girls in here whoÆd stolen cash from the stores where they worked, and one who had thrown a knife at her principal. There were drug addicts and battered girlfriends and even an eight-year-old who was everyoneÆs mascot-a kid who had hit her stepfather in the head with a baseball bat after he finished raping her.

Because it was Christmas Eve, they had a special dinner: turkey with cranberry sauce, gravy, mashed potatoes. Trixie sat next to a girl who had tattoos up and down her arms. ôWhatÆs your story?ö she asked.

ôI donÆt have one,ö Trixie said.

 

After dinner, a church group came to give the girls presents. The ones whoÆd been in the longest got the biggest packages. Trixie got a colored pencil set with Hello Kitty on the plastic cover. She took them out, one by one, and drew on her fingernails.

If she were at home now, theyÆd have turned off all the lights in the house except for the ones on the Christmas tree. TheyÆd open one present-that was the tradition-and then Trixie would go to bed and fake being asleep while her parents traipsed up and down the attic stairs with her gifts, the semblance of Santa for a girl whoÆd grown up years before they wanted her to.

She wondered what the fake Santa at the amusement park in New Hampshire was doing tonight. Probably it was the only day of the year he got off.

After lights out, someone in the dorm started to sing ôSilent Night.ö It was thready at first, a reed on the wind, but then another girl joined in, and another. Trixie heard her own voice, disembodied, floating away from her like a balloon.

All is calm. All is bright.

 

She thought she would cry her first night in juvenile jail, but it turned out she didnÆt have any tears left. Instead, when everyone forgot the extra verses, she listened to the eight-year-old who sobbed herself to sleep. She wondered how trees became petrified, if the same process worked with a human heart.

In the small holding cell where Laura had been for the past four hours, there was nothing soft, only cement and steel, and right angles. SheÆd found herself dozing off, dreaming of rain and cirrus clouds, of angel food cake and snowflakes-things that gave way the moment you touched them.

She wondered how Trixie was, where theyÆd sent her. She wondered if Daniel was on the other side of this thick wall, if they had come to question him as they had questioned her.

When Daniel came into the room, on the heels of a policeman, Laura stood up. She pressed herself against the bars and reached out to him. He waited until the policeman left, then walked up to the bars and reached inside to Laura. ôAre you okay?ö

ôThey let you go,ö she breathed.

 

He nodded and rested his forehead against hers. ôWhat about Trixie?ö

ôTheyÆve got her at a juvenile center down the road.ö

 

Laura let go of him. ôYou didnÆt need to cover for Trixie,ö she said. ôI donÆt think either one of us was about to let her get sent to jail.ö

ôShe wonÆt be,ö Laura said. ôBecause IÆm the one who killed Jason.ö Daniel stared at her, all the breath leaving his body. ôWhat?ö

She sank onto the metal bench in the cell and wiped her eyes. ôThe night of

the Winterfest, when Trixie disappeared, we said that IÆd go home and wait there, in case she turned up. But when I headed back to my car, I saw someone on the bridge. I called out her name, and Jason turned around.ö

She was crying in earnest now. ôHe was drunk. He saidàhe said that my bitch of a daughter was ruining his life. Ruining his life. He stood up and started coming toward me, and IàI got scared and pushed him away. But he lost his balance, and he went over the railing.ö

Laura unconsciously brought her hand up to her ear as she spoke, and Daniel noticed that the small gold hoop earring she usually wore was gone. The blood. The red hair on the watchband. The boot prints in the snow. ôIt caught on his sweater. He ripped it out when he fell,ö she said, following DanielÆs gaze. ôHe was hanging on to the railing with one hand and reaching up with the other.

Looking down-I was so dizzy. He kept yelling for me to help. I started to reach for his handàand thenàö Laura closed her eyes. ôThen I let him go.ö

It was no coincidence that fear could move a person to extremes, just as seamlessly as love. They were the conjoined twins of emotion: If you didnÆt know what was at stake to lose, you had nothing to fight for.

ôI went home, and I waited for you and Trixie. I was sure the police were going to find me before you got there. I was going to tell youàö

ôBut you didnÆt,ö Daniel said. ôI tried.ö

Daniel remembered bringing Trixie home from the Winterfest, how Laura had been so shaken. Oh, Daniel, she had said. Something happened. HeÆd thought at the time that his wife was just as frantic about TrixieÆs disappearance as he had been. He thought Laura had been asking him a question when, in fact, sheÆd been trying to give him an answer.

She hugged her arms across her middle. ôAt first, they said it was a suicide, and I thought maybe IÆd only dreamed it, that it hadnÆt happened the way I thought at all. But then Trixie ran away.ö

And made herself look guilty, Daniel thought. Even to me.

ôYou should have told me, Laura. I could have-ö

 

ôHated me.ö She shook her head. ôYou used to stare at me like IÆd hung the stars in the sky, Daniel. But after you found out aboutàyou know, that IÆd been with someone elseàit was different. You couldnÆt even look me in the eye.ö

When a YupÆik Eskimo met another person, he averted his glance. It wasnÆt out of disrespect, but rather, the opposite. Sight was something to be conserved for the moments when you really needed it-when you were hunting, when you needed strength. It was only when you looked away from a person that you had the truest vision.

ôI just wanted you to look at me like you used to,ö Laura said, her voice breaking. ôI just wanted it to be the way it used to be. ThatÆs why I couldnÆt tell you, no matter how many times I tried. IÆd already been unfaithful to you.

What would you have done if IÆd told you IÆd killed someone?ö

 

ôYou didnÆt kill him,ö Daniel said. ôYou didnÆt mean for that to happen.ö

 

Laura shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together, as if she was afraid to speak out loud. And he understood, because heÆd felt this himself: Sometimes what we wish for actually comes true. And sometimes thatÆs the very worst thing that can happen.

She buried her face in her hands. ôI donÆt know what I meant and what I didnÆt. ItÆs all mixed up. I donÆt even recognize myself anymore.ö

Life could take on any number of shapes while you were busy fighting your own demons. But if you were changing at the same rate as the person beside you, nothing else really mattered. You became each otherÆs constant.

ôI do,ö Daniel said.

 

It was possible, he decided, that even in todayÆs day and age-even thousands of miles away from the YupÆik villages-people could still turn into animals, and vice versa. Just because you chose to leave a place did not mean you could escape taking it with you. A man and a woman who lived together long enough might swap traits, until they found parts of themselves in each other. Jettison a personality and you just might find it taking up residence in the heart of the person you loved most.

Laura lifted her face to his. ôWhat do you think is going to happen?ö

 

He did not know the answer to that. He wasnÆt even certain he knew the right questions. But he would get Trixie, and they would go home. HeÆd find the best lawyer he could. And sooner or later, when Laura came back to them, theyÆd reinvent themselves. They might not be able to start over, but they could certainly start again.

Just then, a raven flew past the police station, soaring in the courtyard, imitating the sound of running water. Daniel watched carefully, the way he had learned to a lifetime ago. A raven could be many things-creator, trickster- depending on what form it felt like taking. But when it looped in a half circle and turned upside down, it could mean only one thing: It was dumping luck off its back-anyoneÆs for the taking, if you happened to see where it landed.

Dear Reader:

 

In The Tenth Circle, Daniel Stone-a comic book penciler-woos his future wife, Laura, by drawing a sketch of her and including a hidden message in the background: letters that spell out a place to meet. In this spirit, IÆve included a hidden message for you to find in the artwork in this novel. Beginning on page 10, each page of art has several letters hidden in the background-two or three per page, eighty-six letters in all. The letters spell out a quotation that sums up the theme of The Tenth Circle, and the name of the quotationÆs author. Readers can go to my website, www.jodipicoult.com, to see if theyÆre right. (If youÆre eagle-eyed enough to be successful, please donÆt spoil the fun for someone elseàkeep the answer a secret!)

Jodi Picoult

 

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