"What could I do?" I finally said.

"I've figured out a way to do it," he said, sweating and weaving a little.

"What do you mean?"

"There's a little sort of trapdoor in the IV tubing. It's called a port. It's where nurses can inject drugs into the patient's bloodstream. If I had a drug, I could inject it in there. I could do it in ten seconds while Al is asleep and Rhoda is in the bathroom, and then Rhoda would come out of the bathroom and the plug would be in the wall socket, and the machinery would be humming, and everything would look normal. And soon Stu would drift away. 'He went so peacefully,' Rhoda could say. And then it would be over and we could remember the real Stu and miss him." His face contorted.

"I don't think you could get away with it," I said. "They'd do an autopsy and figure it out. They'd find the drug in him, and if they didn't come after you right away, they'd come down on some innocent nurse. There would be an investigation and the Meseroles would fuel the flames. If it was traced back to you, the Meseroles might try to have you prosecuted for God-knows-what murder? You could lose your teaching job at a minimum."

"And your health benefits," Timmy added, not at all trivially, for we all knew what this eventually could mean for Mike himself.

"I've thought of all that," Sciola said. A nurse strode up the hall and Mike waited until she had disappeared into the bishop's room. "The thing is," he said, leaning close to me, "is that an autopsy isn't done routinely. It's not required by law. I called the state and checked. If it's requested by the family, it's done, or maybe if the patient is part of a research project. Or if there are extraordinary circumstances of some kind. But that wouldn't be the case here. Here it's a man in a coma with half his brain gone and his heart stops and that's the end. It wouldn't be medically surprising."

I looked into Mike's face and stood there. "What makes you think I could get whatever it is you would need?"

"You're a detective. You have connections. You could find out how."

Timmy was shaking his head. "Stu is not suffering," he said. "He doesn't know about things like dignity anymore. It's an irrelevant consideration."

"Well then, what about my dignity?" Sciola said in a harsh whisper. "How much longer am I supposed to endure this stupid-bullshit-nightmare crap?"

The nurse came out of the bishop's room and rolled down the hall. We waited. "Death is undignified," Timmy said. "It's undignified being around it. There's no getting away from it. It's an indignity we all have to experience. In a life full of ridiculous indignities, it's the most ridiculous indignity of all."

"Are you objecting on religious grounds?" I asked Timmy.

"I thought you knew me better than that, Donald. The church will always have my heart, but I reclaimed my mind decades ago.

No, I'm against it for the entirely practical reason that Mike might get caught and pay a price that's not worth it. If Stu were screaming in pain, maybe-okay, yes. But this is different. There's too much to lose for what it is you'd gain. I can see how awful you feel, Mike, but I'm afraid you'd regret it. Wait. See what happens.

Stu's life is lost, but yours isn't. Don't risk it for something that, as you've already faced up to, is already gone."

Sciola glared at both of us, turned and fled back into the room.

I looked at Timmy. "Maybe I can do something," I said.

"Let's go get something for you to eat," he said. "Nobody has to decide anything right now."

"I'll just say good-bye to Mike."

"What are you going to say to him?"

"Nothing. Just good-bye."

"All right. I'm not your mother."

"Yes, you are."

I went into the room and Mike looked up and met my gaze. I nodded once. His eyes brightened and he nodded back. Mrs.

Meserole said, "Thank you for coming, Donald," and I went out again.

Queequeg's had set up tables out on the sidewalk under a rickety canopy, and this meant it was possible to have a steak teriyaki platter and a beer while risking respiratory failure from the fumes of the New Scotland Avenue traffic or death from a stray bullet fired during a domestic quarrel in the apartment building across the street.

I was nonetheless chowing down happily, and Timmy was enjoying a small aperitif-we agreed not to discuss Mike Sciola's plea for the time being-when a colleague of Timmy's from the legislature came by and recognized us.

"Don, weren't you working for John Rutka? Somebody said he hired you."

"Briefly, I was. Why?" "Didn't you hear?" "Hear what? No."

"Rutka is dead. It was on the radio just now. He was killed in a fire tonight."

I stared at the man and couldn't think of a word to say. end user

We drove over to Crow Street. Timmy had re-hooked up the answering machine when he arrived home from work, and now there were two messages on it. Both were from Eddie Sandifer. The first, in a tremulous voice, said, "I think somebody took John. It looks like he was kidnaped. Please, I need your help. Call me at the house as soon as you can. I'm going to call the Handbag police." The second message, delivered in a monotone, said simply, "He's dead. John's dead and I don't know what to do."

I dialed Rutka's number in Handbag.

"Yell-o."

"Eddie?"

"This is Officer Hughs of the Handbag Police Department. Who do you want?"

"Edward Sandifer."

"Hold on."

Half a minute later, an all-but-lifeless voice: "Yes?"

"This is Strachey. What happened?"

"John's dead. Somebody killed him."

"That's- I can hardly believe it."

"I know."

"He was in a fire?"

"They took him from here and tied him up in an old house and burned it down."

"Oh, hell."

"Can you come out?"

"I'm surprised you want me to."

"I do. Please come out."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Do they have any idea who did it?"

"No. They keep questioning me. I don't know how much to say."

"How much to say about what?"

"Well, there are some things you should know."

"Uh-huh. Have the cops asked for the files?"

"They don't seem to know about them. They keep asking for the names of people who threatened John."

"Don't mention the files. I'll be out."

"Thank you. Please hurry."

We were on 787 North in three minutes with the windows down and the hot night air loud in our faces. My headache was back and I was unable to answer Timmy's questions.

"Was Sandifer there when Rutka was dragged away?"

"I don't know."

"Where was the fire?"

"In an old house. That's all I know."

"Was he badly burned? How do they know it was Rutka's body?"

"I don't know. I know what you're thinking."

"I guess they'll be thorough-the medical examiner. Whoever confirms the identification of the body."

"They tend to be. And in this case they'll be extra thorough."

A police cruiser turned out of Elmwood Place as we turned in, and as we pulled up in front of the house a second car made a U at the end of the block and came back down and out of the neighborhood.