"So who does that leave? Neither Chester's nor June's spouse has any history of physical violence. Nor do their kids—except for Chester's boy Craig, and he's been in prison for more than six months. Tidy, June's boy, seems to take out his minimal frustrations in bridge tournaments. And her other son, Tacker, went surfing in the South Pacific four years ago and hasn't been seen since. He sends Dick and June an Australian Hallmark card every Christmas and Easter. That's it. There's nobody left. So who could it be? Chester? Nobody? Is this some paranoid delusion I'm having? Or that Eldon's having? Of course, Eldon started in on this conspiracy-theory stuff before he went into the hospital and went psychotic. Almost from the first, he thought the timing of Eric's murder was cause for suspicion, and then, in Eldon's mind, the Jet Ski incident clinched it that something truly hideous was happening."

I said, "Have Dan and your mother reported any threatening incidents?"

Janet shook her head. "No, but I've wondered if I should talk to them about Eldon's suspicions. I don't want to freak anybody out—especially not Mom. Yet on the other hand, what if there really is some danger?"

"How much do you know about Crewes-InfoCom?" I asked. "Have you ever heard of them using strong-arm tactics, or worse, in order to pull off a deal where some of the owners of a paper were resistant to selling?"

"The company is known for 'playing hardball,' to use the eighties macho-man vernacular," Janet said. "But actual violence, no. There's no history of bludgeoning balky shareholders to death, that I know of, if that's what you mean. Talk about your hostile takeover."

Timmy piped up and said, "It sounds as if someone well-qualified does need to investigate this thing, though—either to expose and finish off any plot against you or your mother or your brother, or to reassure you that no such plot exists so you can relax and get on with the job of saving the Herald. Don't you agree, Janet?"

She hesitated for just an instant, then said, "I think so. It looks that way."

"Well..." Timmy began. His voice faltered suddenly, and he looked away, overcome with emotion. We waited, awkwardly, Janet and Dale looking surprised and concerned. Then Timmy cleared his throat and went on. "The thing of it is," he said with effort, "helping you and

keeping you safe and saving the Herald are the main things Skeeter cares about right now. It's probably the main thing he wants to stay alive for. And because I care about Skeeter, and I, uh, owe him something, I think . . . I'd, uh . . . I'd like to finance the investigation. For Skeeter. And for you. And in Eric's memory."

We all looked at him and waited for someone else to react. Dale started to open her mouth, then apparently thought better of it.

Janet finally said, "Timmy, that's a generous and touching offer. And while I'd love to accept it—and I do accept and appreciate the sentiment behind it—I have to tell you that I believe this is an Osborne family matter that the Osbornes ought to take all the responsibility for, including financial. I'd never accept money from Eldon for this, and so I really can't accept any from you. And the Osbornes can handle it, believe me. As for a gift in Eric's memory, there's a fund in his name at the Wilderness Society and I'm sure they'd be extremely happy to hear from you. I'm sure that Eldon would be touched too by any donation to the society that you'd like to make."

Timmy looked disappointed and was about to speak, but Dale cut him off. "Wait a minute. Don, how much do you charge, anyway?"

"Four hundred a day, plus expenses, and a retainer of twelve hundred dollars is customary."

"That sounds reasonable if you're any good," Dale said. "But if this thing drags on, Janet could end up coughing up quite a wad. I want to contribute too, so let's go threesies. Janet pays a third, I pay a third, and, Timmy, you bring up the rear. Come on, Janet, we all want to help, so don't be such a hard-ass. Let us help out. I love you and I want that you should be well, and Timothy here wants to help because he's still carrying a torch of some kind for his old high-school hump buddy. Plus, the Herald is a good cause. Anyway, if you spread the expense three ways, and Mr. One-Man-Mod-Squad Strachey here doesn't produce, there'll be three of us to jump him and give his balls a good twist."

Janet looked uncertain but seemed to be mulling this over. Timmy glanced at my lap, then back at Dale. I said, "That sounds like a workable arrangement, Dale, for the most part."

Janet said, "The company is in no position to pay for this, and I've already taken two pay cuts. So I guess I'd better go along with this generous arrangement, at least for now. So, thanks. Believe me, I appreciate it."

We all looked at Timmy, who finally said, "Okay. But I want to help not just with money I really want to be involved. I really need to be doing this. For Skeeter."

Ol' Hump-Buddy Skeeter.

An hour later, the four of us were fifty or sixty feet out in the lake. We were all wearing bathing suits. Almost simultaneously, we heard a deep buzzing noise that got louder and louder very fast—too fast. I heard Janet scream, "It's him! Dive!"

Timmy and Janet were about twenty feet farther out than Dale and I. I thought I heard a light whomp as I dived, and when I surfaced, about halfway back to the dock, Janet was nowhere in sight. But I saw Timmy and Dale come up and take a quick look around—the skier had made a U, spotted us, and was speeding back our way—and then Timmy and Dale gulped in air and dived again. I did the same. My heart was pounding and I was sick with fright for Janet as I swept through the murky lake water, but when I broke the surface again ten feet from the dock, Janet came up ahead of me, unhurt, and scrambled gasping up the ladder onto the dock. The Jet Skier was zooming away now, up the birch-lined shoreline. Timmy and Dale shot up like two whales dancing, though not so gracefully, and swam toward the dock—Timmy lagging behind a bit—where I joined them.

"It was that guy!" Janet yelled. "It was that same mean-eyed homicidal creep!"

I clambered onto the dock and hollered to Janet, "Let's go! Up the shore! In my car!"

We sprinted up past the lodge and jumped into my Mitsubishi. Janet directed me out the driveway and up the shore road. The clutch pedal was sharp under my bare left foot, and the gas pedal felt weightless and weird under my right. We could hear but not see the skier, and then Janet caught a glimpse of him through the trees, and she yelled, "He's cutting out across the lake! Shit, we'll never catch him now!"

I said, "Who lives over there? Anybody you know?" I did a quick, gravelly turnaround in somebody's driveway.

"The Stebiks¹ I'll call the Stebiks and tell them to see where the guy docks that thing."

Back at Janet's, she tore into the house, me at her heels. She leafed frantically through her address book, then punched in a number. She

waited, pacing, peering out at the kitchen window, dripping lake water.

"Hell. No answer. They're not home."

"Do you know anybody else over there?"

"No. Not in that area. Shit."

We raced back outside and saw the maurauding Jet Ski disappear behind a long dock a good two miles on the far side of the lake. We picked out landmarks—a house with white dormers, a red outbuilding—for locating the dock where the Jet Ski landed.

I said, "Don't you have a power boat?"

Janet shook her head. "Don't let Dale hear you say that."