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Xinnis

The Confessions of a Clinic Bomber

Part One: The Change

Wednesday, April 7th

Her hair drifts in weightless, snake-like slow motion around her neck and shoulders, as if she were under water. She holds the candle close to her face, the flames fluttering around the flow of her whisper. Her smile is familiar, inviting, seductive. The swaying movements of her hair, her hands and the flames are synchronized, driven by a delicate music he strains for, but can not quite hear. The rhythmic connection mesmerizes him. Strands of her dark blond hair travel through the writhing flames unharmed. He feels the desire, the deep need, to unravel the mystery of this, but, sharpening his focus, he sees another light behind her.

The source is bright chemical yellow, its tentacles spilling out of a dark alley into the street. It traces a twenty foot radius of sidewalk, a street lamp, a street sign, and finds its way into the gutter, running full of rain toward them along the curb. He wants to look at her but she is moving away, and he cannot pull his gaze away from the yellow light. Unexpectedly, a man's silhouette emerges from the alley; his features obscured by a long overcoat and hat. The man's foot steps down into the gutter and the light disappears, as if suddenly crushed.

"Did you see that?" he thinks, but cannot say the words. Her eyes are fixed, staring past him in shock. Her hair falls motionless; the energy departed.

Darkness.

And the sound of crows screaming.

The screeching of the large birds fighting for seeds brings Maxwell Xinnis to consciousness. Immediately and mechanically he slowly sits up and massages the back of his neck -- the shrieking birds just outside. Max opens his eyes and scans the floor. Automatically, his left hand reaches for the handle of the sliding glass door as his right dips to the floor to grip the tennis ball. He pulls the terrace door open and launches the ball at them, but the birds know the routine and are airborne.

What will I do, Max wondered, when I finally knock one out?

He stands, straightening his back, I really should stop feeding them, he concludes, watching the diminishing yellow arcs of the ball as it bounced twice down the driveway and plunked into the gutter. Then he remembered the dream. He closed his eyes and tried to recall it. Even now he could only barely see its faded outline, but he knew it had been about Janet. What does it mean? How many times has he dreamt of her since she left him? What had she been trying to say?

His eyes opened in time to see the ball disappear down the storm drain. He glanced at the army-issue chronograph perpetually strapped to his left wrist. Time to move out. He would try to remember the dream later.

Twenty minutes of stretching and he was on the pavement. Thinking of her would only slow him down, and he had promised himself that he would concentrate, just for these few minutes, only on the terrain before him.

This had been their little part of the world, and unconsciously he lost time by expecting to see her in the places they had been together. He ran past Nino's Cafe where they had spent nearly every Saturday morning since their honeymoon, then the Vanilla Tree Clothier, where she had spent hours, perhaps days, deciding which skirt and which blouse. He even expected he might see Janet through the jungle-obscured display window of Plantasm, where she had been working six years ago when they met. He had to talk with her, especially after yesterday's conversation with Ramsey and Kitt.

Rounding the final corner of the two mile jaunt he dropped his pace to a quick walk and checked his time. Twenty minutes, forty seconds. Slow again. Refusing to believe he had lost time for any other reason, he again blamed the head wind -- yet barely a breeze moved along the quiet morning streets of suburban Lewisburg. A light mist fell, and hung in the cool air over the well- trimmed lawns and modest middle-class homes. They had been living and playing here for over five years. He could not imagine the neighborhood without her.

Several trees near the curb were sporting carefully tied yellow paper ribbons, signaling a return home -- perhaps of a soldier. He had not seen one of these for a soldier missing-in-action for a long time. He looked at the home he was passing and the children's toys scattered on the lawn and the bicycles on the porch. It must be great to come home to your kids, he thought. Max had heard talk of more coming home now that the new administration was working so hard to close down the defense bases. There had even been talk that his job would be obsolete in a few years.

Sitting on the corner, as always, the two retarded boys stood waiting for their special school bus. John Robin was blowing bubbles from a little wand while Jeff Charles jumped in the air and tried to bite them.

"Good morning, boys!" said Max.

"Retard!" yelled John, as usual.

"Retard!" echoed Jeff.

They were only repeating what they heard the other kids saying, but Max knew it was their way of being friendly. Max had never heard them say anything else.

The cool down exercises, the hot shower and razor, the coffee and hard-boiled eggs, dry wheat toast and orange juice -- it was all minutiae of a daily pattern that was now meaningless without her. Janet had shared these things with him and somehow made it seem as if it had purpose. Now, her absence settled upon everything with an emptiness he could taste. Janet was gone and the day felt futile and wrong -- not because he expected her here, but because they had always been meant for each other. This separation was not just an incongruity he might later rectify with a quiet divorce and selective dating; it was wrong because some universal clockwork was out of sync when they were apart. It was the chaos of splitting atoms. This was not how their history was meant to be written.

That was yesterday. Today he knew they would be together soon, and the purpose had returned in his actions. He stirred a teaspoon of milk into his coffee and stared into the swirling whirlpool in the cup, allowing his mind to drift to a place that let him understand. This is wrong because I was wrong. Only I can fix it.

The vortex slowed and the chunks of curdled milk fat surfaced. Max smiled as he remembered; running into Ramsey and Kitt at the market had caused him to forget the fresh quart.

He lifted his jacket off the chair and walked to the door, dumping the coffee into the sink as he passed. Somehow I'll make things right.

The compact disc player in the Taurus SHO pounded out a Miles Davis recording as Max drove into the sun on his way to the office. He had wanted to take her to the Newport Jazz Festival last year, but something came up again. Now he wondered how important the distraction was that prevented it. He continued to accuse himself. How could I have allowed this to happen?

He forced himself to dredge up the past that he might forget it forever. He remembered a forgivable incident last September when the leaves were turning; a rough exchange in October as the cold rain fell; several harsh words over the holidays, and the lingering bad feelings into February. Neither of them had apologized. They were a lot alike.

During their last month together Janet had stopped running with him at the indoor track, and his birthday had come and gone without mention, but his pride ignored the significance of those events. Now he knew that when she said she needed some time alone, she had meant away from his form of manipulation. His small cutting comment, the condescending glance, and excuses to justify the time he spent away from her; withdrawals from an ill- maintained emotional account that was now bankrupt. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel, painfully realizing that he had even treated this machine with more respect at times. How wrong it all was! He had known it just moments after talking with Ramsey and Kitt.

He had been reaching for the half-and-half when they appeared out of nowhere, all smiles.

"Congratulations, Max!" Kitt burst out, a knowing smile filling her face.

"Yes, serious congratulations, old man!" Ramsey said. "Finally joining the daddy club, eh? And just a few months behind Kitt! They'll probably be in school together!"

Kitt had her hands on both sides of her rounded belly. As the realization sank into Max, the couple looked at each other, their smiles fallen.

"Uh-oh," said Kitt.

"Guess I ruined the surprise. Sorry, Max," said Ramsey.

"Are you sure, Kitt?" asked Max. "When was this?"

"Max, I'm sorry -- I thought Jan would have told you by now. I didn't mean to spoil the surprise." Seeing Max wanted his question answered, Kitt continued:

"Well, we were going to lunch last week to that new restaurant by the mall, and I noticed she wasn't feeling well. I had a one o'clock appointment -- just a check-up and a weigh-in, and she came along. I mentioned to the doctor that Jan wasn't well and he took her in right there, just for a quick look, you know. Wasn't that lucky, Max? Well, ten minutes later we knew."

"Is she okay, Kitt?" he asked, searching her eyes.

"What do you mean, Max? She's your wife." Kitt exchanged a worried glance with her husband.

Max felt a combination of embarrassment and overwhelming excitement flush through him. His mundane expression had been supplanted by the smile that now stretched across his face. He wondered how he might ease his friend's concern now that he had given himself away.

"Thanks for the congratulations, guys. I didn't know, but it's good news! You see, Jan and I have been taking something like separate vacations for a little while -- but the vacation is over," he said, shaking their hands. "We'll give you a call and plan something. What do you say?"

"Sure, Max, sure," Ramsey said, a question mark behind every word. Kitt was trying hard to look composed.

Max shook their hands and disappeared, leaving Ramsey holding the quart of cream as he half ran, half floated from the market; his heart full of forgiveness, his head full of possibilities.

Wedged between the cut stone of the Masonic Lodge and the bright blue awnings of Gusseppi's Pizzeria stood Lewisburg's Armed Forces Recruiting Office. The corners of the display window featured posters of vertical F-16's, gun-laden battleships, and smiling, camouflaged faces protruding from a tank's top hatch. The slogans were familiar, but between the lines they shouted the message, Success and Excitement Await! Max still wished it were true.

Lately Max had been feeling that the promises were just bitter icing, designed to entice the emotions of the young men and women into a career that was anything but a piece of cake. The numerous battles on foreign soil these past years had begun to raise deep questions in him. Do any of the recruits really know what they would be fighting for?

Max wondered if a poster that simply said, "ESCAPE AT ANY COST" would be as effective as all the hype. It was all he needed twenty years ago to get away from the state institutions and seek his own path in the world. It was exactly a year ago when it all started going sour -- just after he had seen the declassified reports on the cost-effectiveness of the Vietnam and Middle-East conflicts.

Janet accused him of being a part of the "big lie" that had everyone deceived about the role of government. She had suggested drilling holes in a steel cup, leaving it on his desk as an illustration -- a disclaimer. "The Army keeps promises like this cup holds water." At least then he could say he warned them.

He had admitted to Janet that those promises were subject to change at any time at the whim of ten thousand variables, and that the risk was an acceptable one for every recruit. Janet argued that those variables were not just pins in a map, or numbers in a computer combat program, but flesh and blood Americans being pushed around a worldwide chessboard to the advantage of the elite few who owned the weapons factories and charged rent for the battlefields. Her arguments were just beginning to make sense to him when she moved out.

His pen tapped a steady rhythm on the desk pad. From behind his desk he had a clear view of Lincolnway Boulevard as it passed in front of the courthouse adjacent to them. Seven vigilant protesters were marching there, braving a sudden gust of wind that buffeted their signs against them in an attempt to kite them away. Curious, but unable to read the signs at this distance, he reached for his glasses. He did not notice Swanson standing in the doorway.

"Practicing your poker-face?" he asked, entering the room. Their uniforms were identical. "Oh, you've noticed them, eh? Did you see the memo? We can expect a picket line outside our door soon?"

"Negative, what's going on?" asked Max.

Sergeant Swanson dropped the paper onto Max's desk. "Seems that petition we all signed back in January -- the one asking the President to keep the fags in the closet -- the one the Commander faxed us, remember? Seems someone made it public. We're all on some faggot hit-list now. The Commander said we could go fishing when they show up."

"I'm not interested in interviewing anyone who wouldn't pass a pansy picket line -- and I would like to be here when a potential recruit does," said Max. "Leaving might be a diplomatic thing to do, but it would set a bad example to those we want." He had said it automatically, as if rehearsed. Max squinted at the marchers, one of them chasing his sign along the sidewalk. "Is that them over there?"

"Nah. Save the Whales, maybe, but not Homo-State, or whatever their name is. I've got a feeling we'd recognize that group, even from here." Swanson turned to leave. "Besides, they wouldn't want to muss their hair unless the television cameras were rolling -- and I didn't see any."

Nine forty-five. Fifteen minutes until the first scheduled interview with the Ramos boy and his friend. God, I wish I had a buck for every matched set of school buddies the Army promised not to separate. Then he realized that the bonuses they received were exactly that -- compensation for a lie well told.

Max had only promised them he would do everything he could to prevent their separation. But that was nothing, wasn't it? What was it Janet had said? "You're just a pimp for the government, Max. You're preying on the innocent, filling them with the same empty promises their dysfunctional society gave them, then buying their lives cheap."

He shook his head to clear the memory. If he was going to forgive her, he would have to do it unconditionally, without recalling the pain they inflicted on each other. He was willing to admit she was half right on that one, which was safer than telling her she was half wrong. Besides, he knew it was Blaine's influence talking that day.

Nearly ten o'clock. His hand flew to the phone and dialed. She should be at the shop by now. Five rings and the friendly voice of Janet's brother answered.

"Clausen's Antiques."

"Hi, Jerry, it's Max. Is your sister there?"

"I haven't seen her. She is coming in today, I hope."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she called me Monday and said she was sick, and needed a day or two. So, fine, but now it's Wednesday, and I'd like to get out of here this afternoon."

"Probably the flu?"

"I couldn't tell you. When are you two getting back together, anyway?"

"Real soon. We're getting back together real soon, Jerry. Maybe today if I can find her."

"Well, that's good to hear. Have her call me when you find her, okay?"

"Will do it. So long." Jerry continued to be the only family member that had their confidence, and he had faithfully tried to reunite them from the moment he first heard of their problems one night around the poker table. One of the guys mentioned that Max and Janet's house was beginning to look like a bachelor's apartment. Max could remember Jerry's response when he told them what had happened. "Separate vacations?! That's for old people who can't stand each other!" Still -- it sounded so much better than the truth.

A large, lightly mustached youth and a long-haired tagalong approached the building, both sporting fashionable rhinestone earrings. Her words came back to him again -- First Sergeant Maxwell Xinnis, government pimp.

Throughout the interview, Max was nervously distracted. Whether Ramos and company sensed it he could not tell, but when they signed the papers he concluded that the tension must be in his mind. The moment they had left the office he snatched up the phone. The numbers he punched would ring up Sasha Blaine's apartment, but he hoped Janet would answer. Conversation with Blaine was like putting his spine through a cheese grater.

Her real name was Betty Lane, but she hated the blandness of it so much that she had signed herself B. Lane in high school, and had it legally changed when she turned twenty-one. Max had always assumed she had chosen her first name replacement from a required reading assignment during her short stint of liberal arts studies at Lewisburg College. Sasha. The name change epitomized the pretentiousness of this spoiled dilettante.

Blaine was a self-proclaimed collector and seller of avant- garde neo-fashion; the definition of which changed monthly with the arrival of her fashion magazine subscriptions. Though still insubstantial, she kept herself off the welfare dole by recycling ancient clothing from the secondhand shops. It was only last summer when one of Blaine's scavenger hunts for raw material brought her to the antique shop owned by Janet's family. Kindred spirits of a sort, Blaine and Janet became fast friends, though he could never understand why.

Blaine had been with Max and Janet at a nightclub when an uptown sophisticate offered a compliment on her black beaded hat that must have been seventy years old. Five minutes later she had it sold and was buying a round of drinks with the profit. The beautiful thing about the transaction was Blaine's natural manner. Anyone else would have appeared awkward, even boorish, selling their clothes at the club. Somehow, Blaine made it look as if she was doing them a favor.

Max would agree, as most anyone would, that Blaine was cute, and had a quiet elegance to her way of living. Nevertheless, his attempts at enjoying her company had failed. He placed her half-baked feminist politics somewhere to the left of Gertrude Stein, but her philosophy seemed to have no reference point, causing his head to spin whenever she spoke her mind on anything political. Like so many of her friends, she considered philosophy to be fashion. She could always cast off the ideals of the morning for the more popular rumors of the afternoon. He had listened to her theories, custom-woven to entertain her Hillary Clinton- worshipping sycophants, until he felt he had to say something in the defense of reason. It wounded him when Janet defended her.

Twenty rings and no answer.

He hung up and dialed Janet's mother.

"Good morning!" sang Mrs. Clausen.

"Hi, Mom, how are you today?"

"Maxwell! I'm glad you called, Honey. Can you and Janet stop by for dinner Sunday night? Jan's cousins are stopping in from Pennsylvania on their way to Chicago."

"Mom, there's nothing I'd like more, really. But did you talk with Janet about it at all?"

"Well, I've only been back since last night, Max. We had such a delightful time on the tour!"

"Mom, I'll try to arrange it, and you can tell us all about the trip then -- but I need to get hold of Janet. Is she there?"

"No... She should be at the shop by now. Did you call?"

"Yeah. Well, she's been sick, you know? Late again today," he said, giving the illness rumor some roots.

"No, I didn't know. Nobody tells me anything! How is she?" Her concern flowed through the wire.

Again the subterfuge: "Oh, probably just the flu, Mom. I'll have her give you a call when I catch up with her. She might be out shopping," and that's probably another lie.

"Well, she can't be too sick if she's out," she said, relieved.

"Course not. If she stops in have her call me."

"I will, but I'm assuming you'll both be here Sunday."

The situation was intolerable. Janet's sick but not at Blaine's apartment, at work, or at her mother's house. There was nothing left to do but call her doctor, just to be sure. Jan, let's never lose track of one another again. He knew things would be better now. He thumbed through the phone directory. I'm going to be a daddy. Jan and Max. Mom and Dad. Max was punching the numbers on the phone when the front door to the office was thrown open.

The door hit the wall hard, shooting a violent tremor through it, but leaving the glass intact. Sergeant Swanson was at his desk only a few feet away, and he jumped to his feet at once. The girl who had burst in stepped backwards, closing the door as she leaned against it for support. Swan stepped forward, expecting to have to catch her fall, but she motioned him to stay back. Her chest heaved as she fought for breath. Max stepped through the doorway of his office, one hand deliberately behind his back. The girl hunched forward, gasping. The short bearskin coat with the trendy red dye streaks identified her immediately.

"Blaine! What the --!"

As she lifted her head, her eyes gave her away. She had been crying as well as running. This could only be about Janet.

"Are you okay, Miss?" Swanson looked confused.

"Where is Janet, Blaine?" There was force in Max's voice. It was clear that he did not care to know the answer to Swanson's question.

Her composure was returning, she bit her lower lip hard and looked out the window, perhaps thinking she should not have come. With his free hand, Max gripped her right arm.

"Blaine!"

She closed her eyes and forced herself to control her breathing.

"M-Max, I was with her all night. We didn't think it was s- so serious! Jan -- she needs you!"

Max thought she must be hysterical, and her rambling scared him and gave him cause to draw his hand back to slap her. Her red eyes widened in anticipation of the strike.

Swanson quickly stepped between them, took her shoulders and gently set her on one of the old oak chairs lining the wall in front of his desk.

"Calm down, Miss," he said in assuring tones. "Take a deep breath. Talk slowly." He looked to Max with an accusation. "You calm down too, Max. I'll get her some water." He squeezed past Max and into the narrow corridor.

Blaine's breathing sounded less desperate now. When she forced herself to look at him, her words were direct, charged with expression and urgency. Strands of her short brown hair were pasted against her face by her tears.

"Max, she needs you. Mercy Hospital, fourth floor." Then suddenly fearful of reprisals, she looked away.

Max saw Swanson returning and yelled at him as he turned back into his office. "I'm taking off, Swan. You'll need the two files on my desk." He pulled a top drawer open, returning the nine millimeter Browning handgun he had instinctively grabbed at the sound of the door crashing. He pulled the key from the desk lock, snatched his jacket off the rack, and began sprinting the seven blocks to the hospital.

God, let them be okay. Let Jan and our baby be okay.

Max made a khaki blur through the early lunch crowd. As he dodged the people, his imagination fabricated images of an automobile accident, Blaine's cardboard Yugo in pieces. He held back the images of what the consequences of that would mean.

The automatic sliding doors of the emergency room brushed his shoulders as he rushed through them. He followed the five color-coded stripes painted on the floor until he almost collided with two nurses standing in his path. Max, slightly winded, asked for directions to the elevators. He followed their instructions until he saw the stairway.

Emerging from the stairway at the fourth floor, he noticed that there was only a red line on the floor now. There was a sign attached to the corner indicating the direction of the intensive care ward, and he followed it. The hall seemed unusually dark and quiet in contrast to his raging desperation. Max could see the nurse's station ahead of him, and quickened his pace. The head nurse was speaking gently into the phone. "He's here now. Thank you."

"Mr. Xinnis?" She surprised him by pronouncing his name correctly -- with the silent X.

"Yes, I'm Max Xinnis, Janet is my wife."

"You certainly didn't waste any time getting here!" She stepped from behind the blue-gray Formica counter. "I only just heard you were coming, and there you are! Your wife is this way," she motioned for him to follow her along a better illuminated hallway.

"Are you aware of her status?" she asked.

"I only just discovered she was here -- not ten minutes ago!"

She stopped at the door to room 411. "Mr. Xinnis, before you go in you need to know that her condition has stabilized, but she is unconscious and will not be able to respond to you."

"What?! What happened to her?"

"Her doctor will be returning for his next shift this evening. I think you'd better talk with him. All I know for sure is that she was hemorrhaging badly when she was brought in. She had lost a lot of blood, and was in shock and in and out of consciousness. She's been asleep since I came on duty this morning. Everything that we could do for her has been done. She needs to rest now."

"And why wasn't I called last night?"

"Sir, we hadn't heard your name until this morning when we asked Miss Blaine to sign the admittance papers. Usually we insist on that being done immediately, but I wasn't here last night, so I don't know what happened. I offered to call you as soon as she confided in me, but she said you were nearby, and ran out."

Max looked at her, searching, "And our baby?"

The nurse put on a cold mask. "I am sorry, Mr. Xinnis. Your wife was no longer pregnant when she arrived."

"I want to speak to the doctor on duty." Before she could respond, Max pushed into the room.

There was a tranquil hum in the room, and a monotonous low register of several monitors echoing quietly along the institutional green walls. The fluorescent light over her bed lit her pale face, still beautiful and unscratched. There were tubes transferring clear liquids into her arms.

"Janet," he whispered, putting her hand into his.

"Janet." Her delicate hand felt damp and her face seemed drained of life. Max had expected to find her covered with bandages from the accident he had imagined, but the only bruise he could see was where the needle fed her arm. The outline of her long frame was clearly unencumbered by casts or splints. Her anemic complexion had his heart moaning, and he felt an angry tremor in his chest at the sight of Janet's shortened blond hair, oriental and Blainesque.

Then began the long hour of waiting for answers. It was an expanse of desert he crawled through, blaming himself, spotted with an oasis in which he forgave her. Tasting what eternity must mean, he prayed to the God of the universe his mother had spoken of -- the One he had all but forgotten.

He listened to her shallow breathing and prepared himself for the worst possible news: spontaneous miscarriage, followed by heavy blood loss, shock, and coma. He gripped her hand, hoping he might penetrate her dreamless sleep, praying for a response -- praying to gaze into those dark eyes again.

When he felt he could keep his voice steady, he lifted the phone and asked for an outside line. He tried hard to keep his voice even to avoid raising any panic in Janet's mother. Max insisted that she have Jerry drive her. Mrs. Clausen was an emotional woman, and unsafe on the highway even under ideal conditions.

Max massaged Janet's hand steadily, kissed her cheek, and touched a wet cloth to her dry lips. He took a comb from his pocket and gently worked on the tangles in her hair. Her pulse seemed impossibly fast. When he put his ear to her chest he could feel her heartbeat, but could hear only the beep of the monitors, and the blood and saline solutions as they dripped, clicking away the long seconds.

The doctor came in looking at a clipboard, addressing Max without seeing him. A nurse was one step behind.

"You're her husband?"

"Yes, Max Xinnis."

"Uh-huh." The doctor moved to Janet and felt her pulse, looking concerned. "I'm Dr. Armstrong." He watched the monitors for a moment, then lifted Janet's right eyelid, shining a penlight into her pupil. He whispered to the nurse something about baro-receptor compensation. The nurse nodded, lowered Janet's head, adjusted the bed, and left the room.

"Your wife may regain consciousness soon, Mr. Xinnis, if we can keep her stable. The alarms on the monitors will alert us if we're needed, but sleep is the best thing right now." He looked at Max and immediately saw that this was an unsatisfactory conclusion. "We really won't know anything positive for a while."

"Is the bleeding under control, Doc?"

"Her blood pressure is low, but steady. Maintaining volume is critical now. I suspect she may be suffering some slight internal bleeding that the surgery didn't find. I wasn't present, but Dr. Carlstadt will be --"

"Wait. What surgery? What's happened to her? I've been waiting over an hour for someone to tell me and I want to know now!"

Armstrong disregarded any implied threat in Max's expression, and flipped through several pages on the clipboard he held. He read to himself, then paraphrased the information:

"The ambulance was called at four fifty-five yesterday afternoon -- arrived at the Sanger Clinic at five twelve. Paramedics found the patient semi-conscious, and hysterical. They noted that Mrs. Xinnis claimed she had been left in the operating room unattended for several hours after Dr. Kadill failed to stop the bleeding following the abortive procedure."

Max flinched visibly. Armstrong noted this reaction, and kept his eyes on his paper. His voice was hushed.

"The clinic refused to provide any information on the patient other than current vital stats. Then," Armstrong flipped a page, taking the moment to glance into Max's incredulous stare, "during our attempts to stop the bleeding it was discovered that a recent suction abortion had left the patient with numerous perforations along her uterine wall. Coagulants were administered after surgery." He looked up from the paper.

"Short of extensive surgery that could be dangerous in the extreme, we've done all we should at this point. The coma is self- induced by the body -- a defense mechanism to assist in the healing. We're also giving her sedatives to keep her quiet."

Max sat in the chair next to Janet, obviously stunned. "I can't believe Jan would do that. Why?"

"I'm sorry," said Armstrong. "I understand the girl accompanying your wife has verified this information. We've a counselor on staff you may wish to speak with. I'll ask her to stop in. And, as I said, Dr. Carlstadt will be here soon."

Max took her hand again, searching her face. What were you thinking?

Armstrong felt the professional imperative to leave the room, but sensed an opportunity. Perhaps he could afford a small risk here. This event could be a catalyst to end the greatest disgrace in Lewisburg's medical community. Kadill had been a hack as an intern at the hospital, and was constantly producing evidence that he had not changed. With the proper legal representation they might never see another botched abortion from the Sanger Clinic.

"It's a matter of public record that the clinic has sent other women here in similar condition, though few as serious." He had Max's attention. "Off the record, Sergeant, someone should investigate. That's off the record." Armstrong turned to leave.

"There is something you can do," said Max, quickly.

"What's that?"

"Don't tell her family about the abortion. I -- I don't know how they would handle it."

"That is your privilege. Actually, I didn't even want to tell you," He made a notation on the chart as he walked from the room.

The room was quiet, yet full of minute mechanical sounds that worried him. His head was hot, and a sharp knife pierced his temples. Without her I would be lost, he thought, and then he cursed his selfishness.

Hours seemed to pass as robot-like attendants shuffled in and out. The head nurse came and told him he was needed in the admitting office to complete the paperwork, but he insisted they bring the papers to him. When she did he only signed them, clipped his driver's license, military identification, and American Express card to the board and handed them back to her. She got the message and left them alone again.

The sun was retreating. He rotated the shaft on the venetian blind and the diffused light flooded into the room. Below, the green sculptured lawn stretched away to the northwest and patches of snow lingered stubbornly along the edges of the adjacent forest. Children chased each other, and two young lovers walked hand-in- hand along a path on its edge. All were oblivious to the pain. He slid back into the seat and closed his eyes. He repeated the question in his head a dozen times before it came to his lips. "What ever happened to us, Janet?"

When Janet's mother arrived with Jerry, the nurses indicated they would either expel or sedate her if she could not control herself. After a brief visit to room 411, they retired to a cubbyhole of a room set off for private conversations. Max decided to delay telling them the truth for as long as he could, and was already considering the possibility of never telling them. He had originally thought it had been a spontaneous miscarriage, and that is what he told them when they arrived. Then they took turns holding Janet's hands, and waiting.

At one o'clock in the morning, Mrs. Clausen was asleep in the waiting room with a hospital blanket draped over her, using her purse for a pillow. Jerry watched the credits of the Letterman show disappear, then switched off the overhead television. He stared at the blank screen until he fell asleep.

In room 411, Max gripped Janet's hand fearfully. He was living from moment to moment now, waiting for a change, for another evaluation, or even a nurse to check her vital signs. When a nurse did appear, she saw his ragged look, and, with empathy, looked worried herself.

"Would you like something to relax you?"

"No, I'm fine."

"They're very mild," she assured him.

He had not answered her, but she returned minutes later with a doctor Max had not met. He dropped a square of sealed foil into his Max's hand and they left the room. It was two fifteen when Max opened the package and swallowed the two yellow capsules without water. It was two twenty-six when he fell asleep.

5:15 a.m. Thursday, April 8th

Quick-marching past the army barracks, Max was surrounded by the harsh, insistent roar of his old drill sergeant. Janet's eyes were following him, peering into his dream through the windows of the barracks. The giant irises, framed by the windows, were rotating slowly. He felt the ground moving beneath him as she turned the box he was running in, trying to improve her view. Max's footing became difficult, his feet slipping on the glassy surface. The strange music he had heard drifting backwards in the air was now slowing and speeding as if his steps drove the turntable.

Max stands three feet from the barracks, facing the window -- her iris filling his field of vision. Moving closer and raising his hands, he sees himself reflected in the jet black center -- the image of a man sinking, his hands held up in distress, the black waves lapping around him.

The sound of a slamming door makes him spin around, but he sees nothing but shades of purple defining the inside corners of the box -- everything else was gone.

Looking back, he sees the convex lens hovering out of reach above him, her iris rotating steadily around the fully eclipsed moon of the dilated pupil. Great lightning discharges passed through its blackness, but the sound was not of thunder, but tearing.

The cords of the iris were spreading away from the center, the throbbing tentacles reaching downwards. They touched the earth and began traveling toward him. He stood frozen as they crawled to meet him -- white, rubbery ropes gripping his legs. One of the cords hung in the air several feet from him. Reaching to inspect it, he felt his wrist restrained. He tried harder to free his hand.

The grip tightened.

Max woke to the sound of the high pitched beeping from the monitor. Janet's hand clamped his wrist. The abrupt tension of the room brought him suddenly wide awake. Three nurses surrounded her bed sending intense signals to one another. One nurse manually verified the monitor's warning. Janet's heart was racing now, trying to compensate for the drop in blood pressure. Another nurse fully opened the I.V.'s.

The younger of the three pulled the blue sheet down to inspect the connection of the sensor on Janet's left leg. The nurse's hand went to her mouth to stifle the gasp as she saw her patient lying in a pool of blood, her abdomen a bluish black.

Janet's hand was limp, and Max stood in panic. The nurse closest to Max saw this and took Max's arm just as the doctor burst into the room. "You must leave now!" she said.

"I won't be leaving! Help her!" His command was unmistakably final. Max flattened his back against the wall and the nurse turned away and yelled, "Crash Cart!"

Harmonic pandemonium ensued to revive Janet Xinnis. The electrocardiograph was beeping steadily now. Carlstadt announced that his patient was in cardiac tamponade and the nurse next to him immediately handed him a large, empty syringe to extract the pooled blood within her. Max looked away as he positioned the long needle above her heart. The weak reading on the machine went flat-line a half minute before a technician pushed a defibrillator into the room.

But Max knew Janet died the moment he woke.

The team of nurses began chest compressions, counting together to keep time. Another nurse assisted the doctor in the bag- valve-mask ventilations until the anesthesiologist arrived to intubate the patient. A blood gas determination was delivered to the doctor and he ordered an amount of epinephrine to be injected into one IV bag, bicarbonate in the other.

"We have V-fib, prepare her for cardiac shock!" Several seconds elapsed before Carlstadt said, "Counter-shock at two- hundred -- stand clear!"

Her muscles contracted abruptly at the shock, bouncing her on the bed. The doctor and the nurses, absorbed in the moment, did not notice Max's set jaw, his clenched fists, or the look of terror in his eyes.

After two more attempts to revive her heart, Max heard Carlstadt give a final order to counter-shock at three-sixty; the desperation in his voice giving way to resignation. The regimented structure of their effort slowly broke down into a quiet randomness. The youngest nurse was crying.

Twenty minutes later only Max and Carlstadt remained. The nurses had covered Janet and removed the tubes from her arms and throat. The room stood in stark contrast to the events of the previous half hour. Completely silent now, Max could hear the footsteps and voices in the hallways around him. He could hear the sparrows calling to their cousins through the pre-dawn darkness.

"I really am sorry, Sergeant Xinnis. If we had received her earlier our chances would have been greatly improved. There was just too much undetectable blood loss."

Max was looking past him to the ring on Janet's hand, and had not heard anything Carlstadt had said. The doctor made a note to alert the counselor, and prepare the staff for a shock patient.

"I'll leave you alone for a few minutes."

Max took her slender hand for the last time and felt the chill sweep up his spine. He leaned over her and brushed his cheek against hers. The lips he had kissed so many times were bruised, dry, lifeless. He knew she was gone, yet he whispered to her. "I love you, Jan. Can you ever forgive me?" Though I could never forgive whoever did this to you?

The chill had gripped the base of his neck, and he felt the perspiration forming. Did he feel her living presence in the room, or only the strong memories? It didn't matter to him which it was. If she were here, she would tell him she freely forgave him. He was sure of that.

Jerry suddenly fell into the room, then froze, analyzing the scene before him, the realization spreading on his face. His mother cautiously appeared behind him, stunned and confused. Max went to them, took their hands, and tried to say something. He felt flushed and cold with sweat. I'm in no condition to comfort you -- I have to get out of here! He began to say this, but choked on the words. They had not noticed.

There were several nurses speaking quietly at the desk when the door of 411 flew open. Max moved like a man with a mission; his eyes glazed, his shoes beating a line to the stairwell.

"Mr. Xinnis," a nurse called after him, but he refused to acknowledge her presence.

Her hope for a formal introduction destroyed, the resident psychologist broke away from the group and attempted to pick up the slack between herself and the soldier moving quickly along the hallway.

"Mr. Xinnis -- Mr. Xinnis, I'm Dr. Twyst. Could I speak with you?" Her short legs were working hard to catch up. "You're in no condition to drive, Mr. Xinnis! I must insist!"

Twyst failed to reach him before he disappeared into the stairwell. She exhaled and stamped her foot. "Damn it!"

Carlstadt was behind her. "I wouldn't worry too much about him, Mindy, he seems tough enough. You're going to have your hands full with the other two anyway."

She joined him and they walked the hall together. "I'm more concerned with the people he'll come into contact with in the next few days." She was checking boxes on a form with Max's name at the top; CONSULTATION REFUSED.

"As a waiver of liability it's worthless without his signature," said Carlstadt. "Perhaps the sheriff would be willing to see that Mr. Xinnis arrives home safely. At least we can say we tried to do something if he goes up the wrong ramp on the freeway."

She ripped the yellow copy out of the form and handed it to him as the sound of Mrs. Clausen's screams echoed through the hall.

"Maybe you'd better do it," she said.

Max fought the noise overwhelming him. Jerry, Janet's mother, Ramsey and Kitt, and Blaine formed the inner circle. Behind them were the faceless others, urging them forward. They gathered in his head and shouted. He forced a primal scream from deep inside him, squinting hard. To his surprise, he could hear his scream above the voices.

Again, he screamed, and for a moment he saw himself as a child, running through the streets crying for his parents, the fire in his head out of control. His crying had not brought them back to life.

The flash of brake lights from the car only four feet in front of him sparked a reaction that forced the Taurus off the road; its tires digging deeply into the soft gravel shoulder. I must have been doing sixty. The noise in his head had stopped -- their echoes floating away slowly. He did not want them returning.

He randomly pulled a compact disk from the case, hoping to block them. Roxy Music's Avalon. Jan loved this. He turned off the engine and lights and let the cool love songs pour over him. He could see Bryan Ferry on the edge of that stage in Toronto, his hair in his eyes, the neon flooding the room.

I was blind, can't you see?
Through the long, lonely night.
Heaven knows, I believe,
Won't you take a chance with me?

Max had caught their concert the summer before he enlisted, back when Brian Eno was still weaving his strange electronic treatments through the music. A decade later Janet came across a notice in Rolling Stone magazine promising a concert in Toronto. Max took a three-day vacation and stuffed a quarter of his life's savings into his pocket for the trip. Janet permed her hair and bought a new dress, looking like a different person when he picked her up, and they flew north for a long weekend.

They spent that Saturday exploring the shops around the Shaw Theater, and were surprised to find two seats at a matinee performance of an Oscar Wilde play. It took little effort for them to find a romantic cafe to pass the time before the concert that evening.

Sunday morning they slept in until the maids knocked on the door. Their rented car broke down only a few miles from Niagara Falls, and they hiked the difference. They crested the last hill and the roar of the water, only several hundred yards away, engulfed them. They quickly ran down the hill where for hours they did nothing but watch the water crash below them. They saw the tourists come and go; the boys shooting Ping-Pong balls into the water with a slingshot, the busload of ecstatic, awestruck children, and their school teachers nervously guarding the rail. Janet never let go of his hand as they watched the endless waves of mist rise from the thunderous cataract. That evening as they flew out of Buffalo, Jan had told him it had been the best time of her life.

Max's composure was returning. With his eyes closed he could see Janet in the seat next to him. She looked at him with a smile. At the concert, Ferry had sung this song in French and the crowd roared. Except for the first time he had met her, Max thought she had never looked more beautiful than on that trip to Canada.

The liquid crystal display on the dashboard smoothly slid from 4:59 to 5:00. Too soon, he knew, he must gather with relatives and hear the voices screaming for real.

Max had heard Armstrong say the name of the doctor. Kadill. He could wait until he arrives at the clinic and kill him with his bare hands. Kadill would have used a knife. The clinic would be closed for hours. I could find where he lives and kill him while he eats his corn flakes.

The voices began growing in him again. He reached for the volume control to block them out. I must be insane! He would rest before he did anything. Someone should investigate, he heard Armstrong say. Someone...

He fired the engine and sped toward the house he would never again call home.

Blaine had been sitting on the porch for ten minutes, bundled tightly in her long coat. The sun would be rising soon, yet she had not slept. Her heavy eyelids closed now, reluctantly.

Max pulled into the circular drive, parking behind the car he did not immediately recognize. He left the headlights burning and stepped out of the Taurus and read the bumper stickers. The driver's side sticker mocked the second amendment supporters with "Guns Don't Kill People -- People With Guns Kill People." The opposite side cryptically and nostalgically demanded "ERA -- YES." The third one, stuck directly to the rear window, arrogantly proclaimed "Every Child A Wanted Child." It was the most politically correct Yugoslavian-made rust bucket in Lewisburg. He did know this car.

Max opened the trunk of the Taurus and felt around for the nylon bag containing his twelve gauge shotgun. His hand found his softball bat first, and he pulled it out with a motion suggesting he might be warming up for practice.

Blaine snapped from her brief sleep at the sound of the exploding glass. She stood up quickly, using the railing along the wooden steps for support. Several dogs began barking at the noise, and a light came on across the street.

She could see Max standing over the rear of the car, his face expressionless. "Will you kill me, Max?" It was just a question, void of caring. He looked at her and realized how childish he must look.

"Is that a request, Blaine?" He moved back to his car and switched off the headlights, threw the bat into the trunk and slammed it shut. The strides he took in her direction were too long, his path too straight not to frighten her. She was sure he was going for her jugular.

"Leave me alone, Blaine. There's no hope of forgiveness here -- not for you or me. And the next time I see a bumper sticker on a car promoting abortion you'd better not be in it!"

She was biting her lower lip. "Oh, That's why. I -- I thought you broke it because you thought I was in the car."

That would have been pleasant, he thought, pushing past her and through the front door. For some reason was unlocked.

"I let myself in with Jan's keys. She left her purse in my car."

"She won't be needing it," he said, taking the black and yellow silk clutch purse from her and tossing it to the table. In the light of the entryway he could see she had spent some time crying.

"Did you tell her mother or Jerry about the abortion?" Max asked.

"I was afraid to."

"Stay afraid."

"Max, I can understand you being angry, and if it makes you feel better to scare me, go ahead -- but she was the best friend I ever had -- ever. I was in the waiting room when she died. Can you imagine how I felt, seeing them running in and out of that room like that, and not knowing what was happening? Max, we both thought it was the right thing to do. I was helping her." She sounded desperate and pleading now. "It was that doctor, Max. He must be crazy!"

Max turned on her, his face inches from hers. The heat from his skin and breath triggered an adrenaline release to her blood. The tiny hairs rose on the back of her neck.

"Save it, Betty. To me, you're an accomplice in the murder of my wife and child."

"M-murder? No, I --"

"You don't get it, do you Betty? You won't take responsibility for your actions any more than that butcher will! He left her in a room alone to bleed to death, but who drove her there?"

"Yes, who drove her there?" she retaliated. "It was you as much as me!"

Max hated her for saying that. "I'm willing to admit that I should have known she could be in danger hanging around with you, but it was her decision at that point. But I never would have taken her there, and I would have done anything I could to prevent it if I knew."

"Well, you said it yourself, Max -- it was her choice."

"And what choice did you offer my baby when you `helped' Janet? I don't believe she could kill the child on her own. I think you forced her somehow -- manipulated her to try to make her more like you and your screwed up friends."

"Listen to yourself. You're not rational."

"Of course. You couldn't be wrong, could you? Why don't you look at yourself? Your entire life is a series of contradictions. You spray fake blood on that bearskin coat to express some hatred for killing animals, but your up to your neck in my family's blood!"

She was looking past him. Her knees were buckling and she balanced herself against the door. The tears ran into her mouth as she talked. "Max. I was her friend."

"You're such a comfort, Blaine. Such a miserable comfort." He could see that arguing with her was pointless. She was close to drawing blood from her lip as she bit into it. She looked tired and beaten.

Max exhaled, and said, "Go home, Betty Lane."

She backed out and Max locked the door. After a few minutes her little sewing machine engine revved, and she was gone. Max could still imagine his hands around her neck, and was surprised he had not touched her.

He took a glass from the shelf and filled it with ice. He opened several drawers before he found Robert Clausen's gift he had presented last summer on Max's thirty-seventh birthday; a half- liter of fine Napoleon brandy.

Max had wanted to share it with him, but Clausen's doctor had him on drugs that would have reacted violently with the alcohol. Clausen died just two weeks after contracting pneumonia while playing golf in the rain.

Poor Mom, thought Max; losing two so close to her in less than a year.

Max was not considered even a casual drinker. Alcohol conflicted with his running and simply never appealed to his senses. The bottle had rested untouched, waiting for the opportunity to be poured into a snifter, an ounce at a time, and relished over a cold night and crackling fireplace.

Romantic use of the brandy was no longer possible, so he splashed it into the glass. Maybe it would kill his dreams for a few hours and let him sleep. He popped the lid from the aspirin bottle and took too many, washing them down with the alcohol. Dream- killer, he reasoned.

He wanted Janet back with him now, more than he had ever wanted her. He wanted to feel her next to him again on the floor while they watched that silly show she liked that made her laugh. He wanted to see her across the table from him at Nino's, or to hold her hand again in those Canadian restaurants. He gritted his teeth as he realized he would never again bait her hook and drift those long cool weekends away in one of Joey's boats. How many miles had they walked together? How few miles!

He loaded one of Janet's discs into the CD player, and threw himself onto the couch. The light was in his eyes, so he tossed a pillow at the lamp across the room. It smacked the shade, knocking it to the floor -- the impact breaking the filament in the bulb. Good.

Sade began singing quiet love songs in the dark room. Max's face flushed as his memories mocked him with the words he had spoken to Janet only a million years ago. I'll always be with you.

Max heard the ice melting and falling and ruining the brandy. The glass became cool to his touch, reminding him of its presence. Max drank the liquid and closed his eyes. The sharp heat soon found its course in his circulation and the artificial warmth enveloped him. Before he fell asleep he saw the purple color that he had never seen in nature. At times, as a child, he had squinted his eyes tight and had seen it rushing and changing shape, beautiful and deep beyond understanding.

It came to Max again as he fell into the dream; an image of his hands held up in distress as a blackness enveloped him. He could see Janet standing on the hill above him, looking through him. The harder he tried to reach her, the deeper he sank into the darkness.

Until the riptide pulled him under.

12:O5 p.m. Thursday, April 8th

The phone was ringing. Max sat up immediately, reaching for it instinctively. He managed a dry greeting.

"Sorry to wake you Max, but Mom wants to know if you're coming over today, or what?"

Max moved his jaw side-to-side and heard several cracks as yesterday's events came flooding back. The last thing he wanted was to talk with anyone.

"Max? I can't handle Mom by myself."

"Okay, Jerry. Should I bring anything?"

"Just you."

Max was not sure he had slept at all. He felt exhausted, yet the sun was pushing noon. He was beginning to doubt the therapeutic value of the brandy. It had affected his dreams like a wet blanket on a fire. The embers of his subconscious demons had burned and snapped and fought through the night -- their actions being only dimly perceived through the dark smoke.

Sergeant Swanson had called the hospital that morning and managed to persuade them to release the status of Janet Xinnis. When Max called the office Swan was ready with condolences and assurances that he would assist as well as he could. They briefly spoke of bereavement leave and insurance. Swanson would check with the Commanding Officer and get the paper moving. Max thanked him warmly; but after he had hung up, he realized he never wanted to see him again, or return to the paperwork and lies of that miserable little office.

His plan to make himself presentable failed as he stepped from the shower and saw his face in the mirror. He could not recognize the image staring back at him. It had the same general features; the high brow, the thin blue eyes, the squarish jaw and the straight, thin nose, but his pale expression looked to be a charcoal caricature. This man looked as if he would be as thin as a sheet of paper if he were to look at himself sideways. Max, not ready for such a shock, declined the urge to check. With as little accuracy as he could afford, he quickly shaved.

He dialed directory information and asked for the number of the Sanger Clinic. He memorized and then dialed the number, but it was busy. He would call on the way.

The Super High Output engine in the emerald Taurus was calm, barely touching fifty as Max drove to the Clausen home. Max put a hand in the glove compartment, feeling for a bottle of pain killers. The pain behind his eyes had returned. He knew he would soon feel his grief dwarfed by the pain of others. It was the law of entropy applied to human grieving; the more intense seeking the less intense, equalizing the pressure.

Why was the world made this way? The question fought for a solution, but was lost behind others that were solvable. Do they need to know everything? Need I tell them? Will they find out anyway? His temples were throbbing now with a deeply rooted pain that promised permanence. To admit to the family that they had been apart for a month would be enough for them to blame him -- even to hate him. He had been working when she needed him, and she had taken a witch's counsel against that of her family. These things would hurt them, especially her mother, as much as it had hurt Max.

And what would they think of her decision to abort the child? Would they eternally condemn her for it? Would they love her less? Even though most of them were politically fashionable democrats, Max was sure there had never been a single instance in which any family member defended the pro-choice position.

The least he could do now was to protect her memory against the ill feelings and gossip generators. Janet was his wife, and he would decide which information to disseminate about her. After all, she may not have been in a proper state of mind when she went there. If only he had been able to talk with her. If only he had called a day sooner -- or if she had waited another day.

If only...

Max decided then that he was protecting them all, and himself as well, by telling the half-truth. He doubted they would investigate, and unless they demanded more from Carlstadt how would they know? Blaine had better keep her mouth shut.

The junction ahead was desolate except for an ancient Sinclair gas station and an old red and white phone booth. Tires cut into the gravel and slid, stopping the machine at the collapsed door of the booth. Again he dialed the clinic's number, and again it rang busy. He would wait this time.

The old gas station mascot lay dead, but only half buried, in the deep grass and weeds. The dinosaur tail had faded from the dark forest green to the same color on those hospital walls. The brontosaur's long tail and neck were shattered beyond repair. "Stick around," said the smile on the creature's face to the passing motorists, "I'll be converted to fuel soon, myself."

"You and everyone else," said Max to the creature.

He dialed again and noticed that there had once been a grocery in the abandoned building across the street. There were small structures scattered about in ruins, all abandoned. What happened to this neighborhood?

"Sanger Women's Health Clinic."

Max fought the urge to argue that statement. "Hello. I need to speak with Dr. Kadill. Is he in?"

"I can check. Who is calling?"

I'm the husband of the woman he murdered. The father of the child...

"Sergeant Max Xinnis," he said.

"And the nature of the call?"

"It's a personal matter."

"Thank you. I'll see if he's in."

More than once he had gotten through a good secretarial screen by using his title of Sergeant. It was often mistaken for a police title.

"He'll be with you in a moment. Please hold."

The implication of what Kadill might be doing that moment unsettled his stomach. Max could see him, telling her to hold his calls, a scalpel in his hand, the carnage at his feet.

A wave of sickness rolled over him. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath, focusing on the dinosaur.

"Dr. Kadill." His voice came on abruptly, as if hurried.

"Doctor, I'm the husband of Janet Xinnis, the woman that was ambulanced to Mercy Hospital Tuesday. I was hoping you would take a few minutes to --"

"Sergeant Xinnis, I am afraid I must refer you to my lawyer, Charles Throckmorton. He'll handle any inquiry you may have."

"But legal action may not be necessary -- I just want to talk with you --"

"You are considering legal action, Mr. Xinnis?"

"I don't know. Perhaps we could avoid it." If you stop practicing, that is.

"Perhaps isn't good enough. Any conversation between us without a signed waiver on your part can only compromise this office. Please call Charles Throckmorton -- I'm sure he can help you. Good-bye, Mr. Xinnis." And immediately the line was dead.

Max dropped the receiver at the sound of the dial tone and stepped away from the booth in disbelief, his hands in fists. Max let the waves of anger rush over him without reacting to them, dismissing the urge to destroy the property of the telephone company.

"You will talk with me!" he promised himself.

He could call the military legal counsel, and let them fight it out, but he had a feeling that Kadill's lawyers would dominate any proceedings. How many times has this been played out before? How many plaintiffs have seen Throckmorton do his legal juggling act for Kadill? That would be something to check.

Max examined another possibility. Perhaps the only reason he still practices is that everyone is afraid or unable to fight him in court. Max had seen statutory law protect criminals in other arenas, and undoubtedly Kadill had learned how to use the law to his advantage. Max opened the degraded phone book attached to the wall, and thumbed the pages to the massive list of attorneys. He found his answer in one of only three full-page advertisements in the section. The page read, in part:

Throckmorton and Associates

Experienced Professionals with practice including:

Corporation, Partnership and Business Law

Federal Practice

Criminal Law

Environmental Law

With offices in Lewisburg, Chicago, and Indianapolis

The advertisement was intimidating.

Of course, he would be forced to let the family in on the details if he began proceeding at law. It would mean disgrace for them, and certain social embarrassment. Max wondered if this might be a factor Kadill depended on. He could hear Dr. Armstrong again, his voice echoing quietly in room 411. "Someone..."

He punched in the numbers to the office. Swanson answered.

"Swan, do me a favor and find me someone to call in our legal department. I need some advice."

"Military advice?"

"No, Civilian."

"Yeah. Anything else?"

"You could make an appointment for me. Monday, or as soon as you can. I'll call you in an hour."

Max spun the wheels off the gravel drive and onto the road heading east. At least he had found a reason to live until next week. Revenge is motivation enough, he thought.

His aggression poured itself into the accelerator. The specially designed Yamaha engine reacted warmly, seeming to enjoy the opportunity to open up again. The humming of the wheels vibrated his hands. He had always been happiest traveling at twice the speed limit.

The clusters of trees became more frequent, the scene progressively rural. He would be there soon.

Then he heard her laugh. A perfect memory, so vivid he turned to the empty seat beside him expecting her there, and he winced at the pain of the dagger turning deep within his heart.

How was he going to talk with them when he felt so guilty? Was it his own foolishness that put her under Kadill's knife? Would he ever be free of this question?

Max relaxed and eased the pressure off the accelerator, the car barely touching seventy now. He put the window down to let the cool air circulate, holding the vehicle's course with one hand and rubbing the muscles in his neck with the other. He could imagine the pearl handle of the dagger protruding from his chest as he drove, twisting as he turned the wheel.

Jerry met him in the drive and explained what had happened after Max left the hospital. Mrs. Clausen's emotional reaction had been frantic and violent. She had struck out at the doctors and nurses, crying relentlessly and begging heaven to return her little girl.

They sedated her. She slept fitfully on a hospital bed until almost nine o'clock. She could barely make it to the car, but she said she could not bear to stay in the hospital another moment. Jerry had to nearly carry her into the house.

She was sitting at the kitchen table when Jerry and Max came in, dressed in baggy cotton clothes and nursing a cup of tea. They sat together for a long time with the conversation unnatural and strained. The doctor had told them little enough; she had bled to death from the hemorrhage. Max had not found it necessary to elaborate. They still believed it was a spontaneous miscarriage.

When Mrs. Clausen decided they should discuss the funeral, Max suggested they wait until tomorrow to talk about the details, and volunteered to make the preliminary arrangements. Jerry's face had gone white, his fear of a funeral for his sister clearly showing. He excused himself to go to the market in town. "We'll need some things for tonight," he said, playing the part of the realist.

Mrs. Clausen had made a few calls before Max had arrived. Now the close family members would be dropping in around dinner time, and she wanted to have a plate of sandwiches for them, maybe some salad. They would need to bring the ice from the freezer in the basement.

She paused, lost in thought for a moment. Then she asked Max if he had ever seen Jan's icicle and frost drawings. With the exception of the doodles near the phone, Max could not remember seeing any artwork by her.

Mrs. Clausen explained that, at sixteen, Janet had become entranced by the crystalline formations as they grew on the windows. She purchased a superfine point for her father's Rapidograph pen and set to work that winter to study them in ink, spending hundreds of hours on the designs. Minutes later, they were on a mission to find them.

After a short time, the hunt became desperate as closets were emptied without effect. Half an hour later Max was ready to call the search a lost cause. Still, he was thankful for the relief the hunt had brought them. Every distraction seemed to give them this momentary salvation.

When Jerry returned, he found them upstairs in Janet's old room; her red patent leather portfolio in mother's lap, and Janet's drawings heaped around them on the floor. She and Max passed the papers to each other respectfully.

Max was surprised at this evidence of a talent Janet had never revealed to him, and wondered how many other secrets she had kept. He imagined her young hand holding the pen and etching those intricate lines. The drawings were a series of alternating grays -- high and low contrasts that shifted seamlessly. They displayed a perceptive sense of light for such a young artist. The dates under her signature allowed Max to arrange them chronologically, and he could see the subtle changes as she progressed.

A silver cigarette case slid from a pocket in the portfolio. Mrs. Clausen picked it up, rubbing her thumb on the engraving.

"Her father gave her this," she said, marveling at the discovery. She pushed the latch on the case and it fell open, the disassembled pen and extra points falling to the carpet. Her hand trembled and Jerry came to put his hand on her shoulder. She laid the case at her side, studying the photograph Janet had wedged in its lid.

There was Robert Clausen, alive and strong at Janet's right hand, wearing his Sunday golf gear -- yellow pants and a white cotton shirt. He wore a crumpled white hat, matching deck shoes, and a smile that his face could barely contain.

Holding Janet's left hand, her mother stood wearing a flowered sunsuit and sandals, waving to the camera that Jerry was undoubtedly holding. There was no trace of gray in her hair then.

Janet's smile was bright and natural. She was thin and tall, not yet flowered into the woman he loved. Max might not have recognized her except for her eyes. Even in this faded photograph he could see the sparkle in them.

Jerry took his mother's hand, steadying her, and helped her to stand. Max also started to stand, but she insisted he finish looking at the drawings. Her voice sounded tired.

Max picked up the last drawing in the stack. It was another window, this one drawn from a view outside looking into the house. Snow hung in the corners of the frosted panes, but the top of the glass was clear where it had been scraped with a fingernail. It was from there that an eye peered out at him from inside. It was Janet.

Jerry reentered the room.

"How's she doing now?" Max asked.

"She's in the kitchen, crying. I think it was a good idea to keep your `separate vacations' a secret. I don't think she would have understood."

"I figured if you thought she needed to know, you could tell her." Max had never known to what degree he could confide in Jerry. He wanted to know. "You know I'd been trying to reach her, Jerry. I -- I wanted to --"

Max broke eye contact and took a deep breath. Jerry was silent, wanting to hear this.

"I wanted to apologize. We had become selfish, and we were arguing a lot about nothing. But we were inseparable, you know... I woke up and couldn't believe how long we had been apart."

Jerry was quiet, letting the words soak in. He needed to hear them -- anything to keep him from blaming Max. Jerry saw no advantage in blaming anyone.

Max started pushing papers into the portfolio, but Jerry took over the task. "Seems to me, if you're feeling guilty, you'd better find a way to forgive yourself. You don't strike me as someone who could live with it forever."

Max pocketed the silver cigarette case and left the room to call Swanson from the phone in the hallway. He had managed an appointment for Max with the Army legal counsel on Monday, sixteen hundred hours.

Max found Mrs. Clausen at the dining table, holding an ice cube wrapped in a dish towel to the back of her neck.

"My nose started bleeding," she explained, lifting the towel from the base of her neck and moving it to her closed eyes. "It hasn't done that in years."

"Are you going to make it?"

"Are you?" she asked rhetorically, all singing gone from her voice. He had never heard her like this. Even when her husband had died she had been such an example of strength.

"I'll need to see L'Aust before too late."

"He never leaves the funeral home. He lives there. Please stay until a few people arrive. Will you, Max?"

"Of course I will," he said. He called the funeral director and set an appointment for later in the evening, then set about brewing a fresh pot of tea. They sat listlessly, quiet and tired, listening to the swaying of the pendulum in the grandfather clock.

The guests arrived before six-thirty. After a short time, their mourning became less personal, and everyone did their best to comfort one another. This handful of people had known Janet since she was born, and had been near during the eventful moments in her life. Sharing their memories dulled the sharp edge of their pain. It had slid into their hearts and was resting there, only waiting for another memory of her to twist it. They accepted each other's assurances that she was in a better place now, and that there was a reason for all this suffering. Max wanted to believe them, but resisted this consolation and their attempts to disperse his sorrow. His pain was his own.

Max threw a handful of sunflower seeds onto the balcony. The cool wind rattled the open screen door. His exhaustion was complete.

There was no moral dilemma to quell tonight as he simply poured the brandy into the glass until it went over the rim. No ice. He drank half the glass before he realized how evil it tasted. His eyes burned, the steady sharp pain punching its way through from behind with every heartbeat.

He switched on the television for an excuse to escape his own thoughts, but his eyes would not focus. Sitting back in the armchair, he heard the voice of Peter O'Toole. The tension was draining, but along with it went his life force.

His brief stop at L'Aust's funeral home had strained him even further. The man had seemed pretentiously solemn through the affair, though Max knew he could hardly be expected to grieve over everyone -- or anyone, for that matter. How many bodies does a mortician drain before losing that human attribute?

In a manner that seemed rehearsed, Max had been led through a decision making process that held few options. Max made a few quick choices as the energy dripped from his forehead. L'Aust offered him a nondescript pain reliever and Max swallowed them dry and signed the papers.

As L'Aust tore copies from the forms, Max caught sight of the yellow nameplate on his cluttered desk, and wondered if it was real gold. With Janet's funeral costing as much as the down payment for their house, Mortimer Taiuus L'Aust could afford a gold nameplate.

When L'Aust assured him his purchase had been a wise one, and that he was certain Janet would have approved, Max exhaled demonstrably, and walked out. He knew she would not have approved at all.

His weakened vision blurred the images from the television, but sharpened when he squinted. When he surrendered and closed his eyes, he noticed the pictures were still there -- sharper, still, in his imagination. Max could see himself on an old horse, his rusty armor glowing red with the reflection of the sun behind the windmill. Somewhere, someone said, "He lays down the melancholy burden of sanity and conceives the strangest project ever imagined! To become a knight errant!"

Max let his consciousness slip away to a battlefield he had known before. On the hills around him he saw the angels and demons battling for conquest. He stood in the valley alone, his armor at his feet, his horse standing patiently.

Waiting.

9:45 a.m. Friday, April 9th

The crows fought, ate their fill of seeds, and flew away after a while. Max had heard them, declined their invitation to play, and now sat in the humming silence of the house. He felt its superfluous weight and wondered if he would always wake up alone in this room, hating these eternal moments.

The trace of brown liquid in the glass at his fingertips explained why he had awakened in the armchair, fully dressed except for his shoes that seemed to have disappeared. But what day is it? He felt heavy and hung over; his blood over-oxygenated.

He made his way to the kitchen where the brandy bottle stood. He gripped it in vengeance and poured it into the sink, turning on the cold water to eliminate any evidence of the ether stench. He splashed the cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth before drinking any.

The television had burned all night. The pictures on the screen now flashed another ATF assault on a group of so-called cultists. There was a comparison being made by the news anchor, and they inserted pictures from the earlier escapade in Waco, Texas, driving home the intended point to the viewer; this is just another religious cult barricaded in their church in Anytown, USA. They deserve what they get for believing differently than the government believes. Don't they have anything better to do?

Max dragged his body around the house trying to find a track of routine to fall into, but the disorientation made everything he touched seem unfamiliar. The phone rang at ten thirty but he ignored it, and when it stopped ringing he unplugged it. On his way to the bathroom he threw the clothes that littered the floor into the washing machine.

Instead of a customary shower, he soaked in the steaming bath for over half an hour, adding hot water whenever he detected the temperature drop a degree. The size of the tub had been more suited to Janet's frame, and Max found himself wishing they had installed a whirlpool.

It was difficult for Max to leave the tub. The straight razor Janet had bought him had always been a decoration in the bathroom until now. Max swirled a few drops of hot water in the mug of soap and lathered his face with the horsehair brush. He surprised himself by cutting the soap and whiskers from his face without a scratch, but while dressing into his civilian clothes he closed the blade into the pearl handle and superficially cut into his left hand.

The razor felt as if it should have always been in his hand, despite the cut. He wiped the blade dry and slipped it into his pocket. He would keep it with him.

He would prefer to stay inside today, keeping the ineffable anguish to himself. Fighting the inertion, he began pulling the wet clothes from the washer and found several clumps of wet and faded Federal Reserve Notes stuck to them. When he opened the refrigerator, an egg hit the floor. It was then that Max knew he should get outside before he accidentally burnt down the house.

He had little appetite, but decided to let Nino fix something for him. He left the house unlocked and walked toward the restaurant, unconsciously clutching the razor in his jacket pocket.

Max sat among the oak-paneled walls, the brass rails, and the hanging plants in a corner of the restaurant that the morning sun was still warming. He ordered his eggs hard-boiled, with dry wheat toast, grapefruit, and a glass of the fresh-squeezed carrot juice. Unless you stopped him, Nino would add a pinch of cayenne pepper to the juice, and would always mix it into the soy burgers. He claimed it was "good for everything bad."

It was unusual that he did not recognize the waitresses, and he tried to calculate how long it had been since he and Janet had been there together. November? No, it was early December. She wore the green dress and brown suede boots. She ordered the smoked salmon in crushed almonds. And she was asking me to resign.

Max was both sorry and relieved that Nino had not been in the restaurant. Nino would want to know about Janet, and Max had wanted to ask him to cater the gathering, but he lacked the energy to explain it all. Max scribbled a note and asked the cashier to pass it on to Nino. He left the restaurant and turned south, following a flow of skateboarding youths.

Impulsively, Max jumped aboard a bus that was loading for downtown. He imagined that he would stay on the bus until it turned around at the end of the line and returned. He had time to kill, though he knew he would end up at the Clausen's today to check on them. But he was unable to drive now. He did not even want to think.

Max fell into a dream, watching the faces of the passengers change as the machine slugged through the traffic, past the great lawns of the college campus and the Victorian renovations of the northern neighborhoods.

The bus rolled over the National Road Parkway Bridge, allowing the bored passengers a spectacular view of the downtown skyline. Below them the abandoned stockyards lined the Lewis River that stretched away from them southward on both sides of the bridge, wrapping around downtown Lewisburg like a moat.

From the elevated viewpoint he could see the neighborhood from which he sprang. Two blocks down that road was where he had lived with his parents for nine perfect years. Six blocks farther south was the street where they were murdered.

The memory triggered something in him, and he looked over his shoulder to the scene behind him. He could see the spires of the college several miles beyond the tree line. He searched the north bank of the river and found the shell of a building overlooking the stockyards. It was the orphanage he had once known so well, now in ruins.

The bus came to a stop at the first street off the bridge. Through the window he saw the sign of the Sanger Woman's Health Clinic on the side street. He grabbed the vertical rail at the rear door and swung himself out, the closing door nearly catching his right hand.

Was this the same place where Janet's life, and that of their child, had been ripped from her? Suddenly a simple question occurred to him, the answer to which seemed so important that his life hinged on it. He thought he might even be able to snap out of this nightmare if he could only ask the question; or was the answer part of the nightmare?

Max followed the sign west around the corner and immediately noticed the matching pair of blue police vehicles parked on the street. He looked around for a clue to explain their presence.

The clinic sat recessed almost a hundred feet from the street. A semi-circular drive cut a path in front of the entrance. In the wide median strip between the sidewalk and the drive were crowded perhaps twenty anti-abortion demonstrators.

Their signs were posterboard stapled to one inch wooden slats with stenciled black on white slogans, giving them the appearance of generic labels. Their signs said "Stop Abortion Now!" and "Everyone Deserves A Birthday!" and "Abortion Stops A Beating Heart." They filed along the walk chanting a monotonous and half-hearted "We Shall Overcome," never getting past the chorus.

Max thought it strange that they chose that tune. He had heard the leftists, including the pro-choice people, sing that song as well. He remembered someone (was it Blaine?) having mentioned that the song had been written for the early days of America's labor movement. Maybe the two sides have more in common than they know, thought Max.

Max had slowed his steps, unsure what to say if confronted by them. He was sympathetic to their cause, especially now, but would spurn any attempts to discuss the issue. They would probably be pleased if they knew Max intended on suing with the purpose of ruining Kadill's reputation and bankrupting the clinic. Perhaps this actually made him a confederate to these people. Nevertheless, Max was not interested in talking with them, fellow- travelers or not. He took the walkway along the east side of the building. He would go in the back.

Max turned the corner of the building and saw a lone protester standing near the rear door. Max looked to the cement in front of him. At least there's only one. Unavoidable, I guess. Why do I feel apprehensive? I don't have to talk. Am I ashamed?

He was a comfortably dressed gentleman, perhaps fifteen years older than Max, leaning on a short length of board to which he had stapled a colorful poster, the image of which was undecipherable to Max. The man seemed thin, his clothes hanging on him like a broom scarecrow. He was looking right into Max's eyes.

Max forcing a smile in the man's direction. "Hello," Max said in a friendly enough tone. The man smiled and nodded as Max brushed past. Max grabbed the handle on the door, dropping the latch with his thumb.

"Do you know what they're doing in there?" the man asked from behind him.

Max froze for a second, then jerked the handle. It was locked. He exhaled and slowly turned to face the man, showing himself to be both annoyed and resigned.

"What?"

"I asked you, do you know what is happening in that building?"

"I think so," Max lied. "I believe they're maintaining sterile conditions to perform legal medical procedures." Max squeezed the words through his teeth, words that Kadill himself might use against Max when confronted. Does this man know their antidote?

"A legal procedure, yes, but not a lawful one. God's law is unchanging -- but governments can make it legal to kill!" The man looked deep into Max, gauging his reaction. "And the workers at this abortuary perform several thousand a year; but have you ever seen the result of one of those performances?"

The man gestured to his poster. It was a painting of something organic -- that much was clear -- but the surreal blend of colors kept it from making sense. Max was deliberately uncooperative, something inside of him refusing to understand what was to be seen in it.

"Why aren't you out front singing `We Shall Overcome' with the others?" Max taunted.

Not happy with the change of subject, the man looked thoughtful for a moment, perhaps sorry he had ever smiled at Max.

"My God has already overcome. He won the battle when He died on the cross at Calvary. Those people sing a song for losers, and I'm glad to be ostracized from them."

"Ostracized?"

"My sign embarrasses them." Max forced himself to look at the poster again. "It frightens some of that crowd outside as much as the butchers inside."

A realization hit Max as the picture shot into focus in his mind. It's a photograph!

Max looked away, stunned. "I've got to go." He inhaled deeply and looked up the walk that led to the front of the building. He felt dizzy.

The man saw the terror on his face and took his arm, steadying him and holding him fast.

"Son, why are you here?"

Max clinched his fist tight, not wanting to break in front of this stranger. The man sounded sincere, but why share this with him? I can deal with it, he lied to himself.

"My wife," he said, choking, "she came here. It had to be a mistake."

"God help her!" his hands tightening on Max's arm.

"She's dead." Max said faintly, looking past him.

The man nodded in empathy. "Tell me about it." His grip was urgent.

"Not now. I've got to go inside first. Talk with Dr. Kadill."

"I'll be here. You do what you have to do. I'll be here," he said, releasing his arm. "My name is Reynolds. Pastor Reynolds."

"Max," he said, shaking Reynolds' hand politely.

"Good to meet you, Max. Whatever you're going in there for, may the Lord be with you."

Max took another deep breath and walked away.

"The Lord is good!" the man called after him. "A stronghold in the day of trouble!"

Max ignored the group out front and walked directly to the front entrance. A uniformed policeman was escorting several women toward the crowd. One woman carried a bullhorn. The cop noticed Max, and their eyes met momentarily before Max opened the door.

The receptionist eyed him coolly. "May I help you?"

"My name is Max Xinnis," he said quietly. "I'd like to speak with Dr. Kadill for a minute."

"Did you have an appointment?" she asked, but then, remembering, "Oh, you called yesterday, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, but --"

"The doctor has instructed me to refer you to his lawyer, Mr. Throck --"

"Yeah, I know, but I just want to get one question answered -- off the record -- if he could spare a minute." He could feel his face flushing, his mouth drying.

"That is impossible. I'm sure Mr. Throckmorton can answer your questions." Her receptionist voice was gone now, replaced by a tense inflection.

"Could you just tell him I'm here? After all, it isn't much to ask." He was commanding rather than requesting.

"My wife couldn't answer this for me! I just want to know..."

She picked up the phone, turning away from him as she dialed.

"... was the baby a boy or a girl?"

"This is the Sanger Woman's Health Clinic. We have a disturbance inside the building. Could you radio one of the officers?"

Max studied her, nodding his head. Typical. She hung up the phone.

"Thanks for your help."

She stood as if to express her authority, and to fill her lungs to scream for him to get out, but Max stepped past her desk and down the hallway, causing her to lose her breath in surprise.

He could hear her stuttering as he opened the first door. Lights off. He took a few steps farther and opened another door, her protests beginning to gain volume. Washroom. He walked to the last door on the left side of the hall. He would do this until they stopped him. He looked back. The receptionist had stopped yelling, but was now holding the entrance door open, waving to someone.

The door swung open with his weight.

A woman in a nurse's uniform stood at a table. Her left hand held the lid to a stainless steel container. Her right hand --

"What are you doing in here?" Her right hand --

"Looking for..." his voice trailed off in disbelief. Her right hand held a miniature female child, perfectly formed, perhaps ten inches long. She was suspended above the opening of the container, held tight in the grip of the locked forceps.

"What are you doing?" he heard himself say, dreamlike.

"Get out of here at once!" she screamed.

The child's leg gave a jerk, as if reacting to her voice, and Max jumped back, hitting the wall behind him. The sickness filled him.

He turned and quickly covered the distance to the end of the hall, hitting the exit door hard. He took some deep breaths and looked at the sky, expecting to vomit at any moment. It was just a muscle spasm, he said to himself. I have to keep my head screwed on! He stood silent for a moment, trying to breathe steady again.

The man he had met was gone. What was his name? Reynolds? His posterboard lay in the mud beside a hedge. One side will be ruined, he thought, as he picked up the sign. Again, the image hit him like a sledgehammer, but now it was manageable. There was a place in his head to file this now. He could feel his blood pressure ease as he stared into the photograph.

The eyes of the child had never opened. The pieces of skin tissue, blood and bone were randomly scattered on the table below. Among those pieces he could recognize a tiny hand with fingernails, a dismembered leg, and a perfect foot.

The horror multiplied in the image of its jawless head, being held above the table with forceps clamped tightly against the upper palate and cheek. It was a child's face, beautiful, innocent as if asleep, but without a lower jaw. It was not in the picture. The torn flesh inferred that it had been the application of violent force behind the abortionist's stainless steel tools that murdered the child.

It's a photograph, he heard his mind scream. It really happened.

Max wiped the poster on the grass, and held it high over his head, following the path to the front of the building again. The mud ran and dripped onto his hands and arms.

He stood on the corner, the picture overhead, taking in the scene as his right hand turned over the razor in his pocket. Several protesters looked at him with disapproval, as if he had broken a rule, and continued their walking and chanting.

The police cars were still there, but no sign of their drivers. Then Max saw Reynolds locked in the back seat of the nearest car. Max lifted his hand in a subtle wave. The man was smiling and nodding in approval, but the police had cuffed his hands behind his back and he was unable to gesture to him.

A smaller group of counter-demonstrators were now sharing the patch of grass with the pro-lifers. The pro-choice feminists were attempting to make up in decibels what they lacked in numbers. A woman in her forties, her heavy cosmetics hiding her identity more than her age, spoke abrasively into the bullhorn. Her face twisted into ugly shapes as she spat foul poetry at her audience. He walked toward her.

She saw him approaching and ignored him at first. Then she looked directly at him, her face twisted hatefully, her venomous words spewing. She knew she could get the best of him -- drive him and his pornographic picture away. She howled a dramatic plea into the bullhorn; "We're tired of men who have control over their own bodies telling us what to do!"

A bearded youth from the sidewalk screamed back at her, "Then only murderers should sit in judgment of accused murderers! What happened to the moral law of God?!" But his voice was drowned out.

Max stood in front of her, leaning on the emotionless wall of reason embodied in the photograph. The nameless child in the picture was his own lost child, now. He pushed the slat of wood into the ground so that it stood facing them.

Max wondered what it was about the picture that elicited such response in them. Did it scare them because it was real? Because it indicts everyone who never seriously did enough to stop it? Because it forces the feminists to confront the product of their philosophy? Does it scare these lukewarm pro-lifers because they know they should be burning this house of horrors to the ground?

The policeman cautiously approached Max from behind, unsnapping the holster on his belt.

"Mr. Xinnis!"

Handcuffed to the chair in the police station, Max felt his blood boiling. He had done nothing to deserve being arrested, and believed the police could at least offer some degree of respect to Pastor Reynolds, who was refusing to be fingerprinted.

"I have a religious conviction concerning this," said Reynolds. "Ask Captain Miller. He'll tell you! He's processed me before, many times, without them!"

The policewoman was applying pressure to the small bones in his hand with the kubotan attached to her keychain. "I don't care about your convictions, mister! We're doing our job here!"

"They're my personal property given to me by my Creator. I don't give you permission to take them, and I won't surrender them voluntarily!"

"You're going to be cited for resisting arrest in a minute!" The veins were showing in the woman's heavy neck muscles. She was pushing her foot into his shin and pulling him forward to put him off balance, the small wooden cylinder bit into his hand.

"You've already arrested me! How could I be resisting something that's already happened? I'm trying to keep you from stealing my property!"

"We have the right to take them --"

"You have the force to take them, you don't have any right! I haven't been convicted yet!"

Max was calculating the best possible angle of attack, and decided to smash her across the back with the chair he was handcuffed to.

"He's right, Lindsey," said the policeman typing the report. "Miller never prints him."

She released her grip suddenly, causing Reynolds to fall backwards against the counter. "I'm writing you up for refusal to be processed," she said.

Max relaxed his grip on the arms of the chair, though he still wanted to hit her with it. Reynold's argument had made sense to Max, and when she made a move toward him he addressed her with authority.

"Officer Lindsey, I'm a military sergeant. And after hearing what Mr. Reynolds has said, I'm going to have to verify your jurisdiction with my Commanding Officer before releasing that information."

She grabbed his wrist, unlocked the cuffs, and he stood. He opened his hand in apparent submission, but countered her weight that now pulled on his arm. He was not moving -- he was only showing her his hands.

"These fingerprints are the property of the United States Army, an independent branch of the federal government. Until convicted in your courts, or until I am advised by my superiors, I am sworn to protect that property."

She leveled a mocking stare at him. "We can take them from you, you know."

"That's the only way you'll get them." It was an offer for her to try. She waited for him to drop his stare. When he did she would put him in a wrist lock and print him against his will. Max looked into her steel-gray eyes with an expression that told her he was looking forward to her attempt.

"Forget it, Lindsey!" said the cop at the desk. "If we need them that bad we'll get them later. I'll ask Miller about it when he gets back."

She released him, but he did not recoil as Reynolds had. She shoved the print kit into the top drawer of the counter and walked out without another word.

Reynolds turned to face him.

"I know a girl who had her wrist broken when they tried forcing her hand open. By the way, you shouldn't call them `officers' unless they're at least sergeants. Gives them a big head."

"Shut up," said the man typing.

"I'd like to use the telephone now," said Reynolds.

Reynolds dialed the phone they pushed in front of him. Max could not help but wonder if he would be capable of freeing himself in time to attend Janet's funeral. His choices seemed bleak. If he called Jerry, he would certainly discover the reason Max was arrested at the clinic. Calling Swanson would mean risking rumors at the command, though they would probably be notified soon enough.

As a last resort he could call Blaine. Though he would rather die in prison than ask her for a favor, he knew he could trust her to come. Max disqualified Ramsey simply because he could keep secrets from everyone except his wife, who kept them from no one.

Reynolds spoke into the phone loudly enough for Max to hear. "Lena, I'm at the county jail. I'll need you to bail me out." Then he turned to look out the window, and lowered his voice.

The man typing with two fingers asked, "Why were you carrying a razor, Mr. Xinnis?"

A nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .38 Special with walnut grips lay on the desk beside the policeman. Max eyed the weapon thoughtfully. One bullet for each letter in Kadill's name -- or one for each of his own.

The concrete ledge on which they sat looked recently painted, but smelled musty. The other three walls to their cage consisted of vertical bars less than five inches apart. Their cell was in the basement, connected on both sides to the other five cells. Only one other prisoner shared the room, two cells away, and he stopped talking to them once they had convinced him they had no cigarettes.

Max had no way of knowing how long he would be in the concrete and steel room, and was unconcerned -- if not apathetic -- about it. Leaving here would mean the funeral. It would mean dealing with Kadill, and the dead end of his future.

The police had taken the contents of Max's pockets, and so it surprised him when Reynolds pulled a Bible, a mere quarter of an inch thin, from his breast pocket.

"You should be a smuggler."

Reynolds smiled. "Have you ever read this, Max?"

"Some of it -- a long time ago. When I was a kid."

"But you should be reading it now! Every warrior should. It will answer the questions you carry with you. This is how God gives us direction -- through His Word."

"Yeah? What does it say about our situation?"

"Which situation? Your duty to the Lord Jesus Christ as a husband whose wife was murdered? Or our duty to Him as prisoners in this jail? Or my duty as His disciple to witness to you?"

"All those things, I guess."

"It's all the same, Max. Duty to Christ. Our lives are either service or disservice to our Creator. We either embrace the Savior, or turn our back on Him. Either way, His Word promises we will all bow down before Him one day."

"Yeah. I remember that from somewhere."

"Max. Have you ever accepted Christ as your personal Savior?"

The question sank in and Max shifted his weight. Haven't I? he wondered. How many hours had he spent at the vacation Bible schools, and the church outings at the orphanage? Surely he must have done that, but he could not remember if he had, or even why it was relevant.

He could remember a colorful book of pictures held in his mother's hands. In it was a picture of a brook moving through a valley of purple clover. A flock of sheep grazed on a hill, and their shepherd stood on the hill watching them. His mother had always spoken of Jesus when she held that book.

"I might have," he said finally, shrugging his shoulders. "I can't remember. Janet used to talk about those things when we first met. She would talk about Jesus once in a while. But not recently."

"So she was saved?"

"Saved?"

"Saved by the merciful grace of God Almighty. Do you know?"

"I guess I don't know. I'm not sure I even know what you're talking about."

"Would you like me to show you the promises of God?"

Reynolds flipped pages in the diminutive Bible, showing Max what he had found. "`Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved, and thy house.' There's a promise here, Max, and God never broke one."

"And children? What about a child who dies?" Max's voice was dry.

"It's a debatable point, but I believe that unless they've reached the age of reason, and deliberately rejected Christ, they inherit that promise. It's my personal opinion. Some theologians would disagree with that presumption, but only the heretic would disagree with what the Bible says about salvation once we're capable of making those decisions."

Max closed his burning eyes, not convinced he should talk of these things while in this frame of mind. It was all too new to him. He felt vulnerable; as if his future could easily be swayed by the words of this man. Yet, there was no pacifism in this preacher. Reynolds was different from others he had met, or heard briefly on television. He was speaking of the Bible as a book for warriors -- and it was Reynolds who insisted on carrying the picture no one else would.

Max doubted if any force on earth could prevent him from taking revenge. He wondered if it might be a sign of madness to deliberately avoid an influence that could dissuade him from violence. He believed he must move slowly, calmly, or risk losing his objectivity to that question.

Max also knew it was skillful avoidance that prevented these discussions of God in the past. He might have remained blissfully ignorant of Christianity his entire life if left alone -- though he had always accepted the existence of God. He could see too much order in the universe, despite his college professor's arguments to the contrary.

Max remembered an atheist literature professor at Ohio State University that had made his opinion clear to the class: the books of the Bible were a collection of fairy tales and myths, and dissent will ruin your grades, just as it will ruin your life. Max thought how ridiculous it was that he had carried that man's warning with him all these years, yet could recall nothing else the man had said.

Reynolds could sense the subject was especially sensitive to Max, and that he was hurting. Yet, he believed God had put them together for His purpose, and was determined to pursue the discussion for the sake of duty to his Lord.

"How long do you think we'll be in here?" asked Max.

"A few hours, maybe. We're fortunate that it's a weekday -- we don't have to wait until Monday for the judge."

"We're going to court today?"

"Just an arraignment. The judge will set bail. Probably a couple hundred bucks. That's what it was last time. Then we're out of here."

"Don't they let anyone out on their own recognizance?"

"You've been watching too much television. Besides, it was you they picked up carrying a straight razor at the clinic where your wife was killed. We need to pray they don't hang you out to dry."

Max picked up the Bible and thumbed through it randomly as Reynolds spoke.

"Money is the only thing they're interested in. It's how they justify their existence. I've never heard of anyone arrested for violating an injunction and being released on their signature."

"Doesn't matter," said Max. He walked to the cell door and pulled. The metal clanked, but there was less than a tenth of an inch slack.

The door at the end of the hall opened loudly, and the man who had typed their arrest reports shouted into the room.

"Everyone want lunch?"

"Yeah," said the man in the other cell. "And bring me some extra salt this time. I need extra salt."

Max was uninterested, but Reynolds spoke up. "Yeah, two lunches here, too!"

"Why do I bother asking?" said the cop.

"Bring them extra salt, too!" said Number Three.

The cop slammed the door.

"Even if you don't want it, you can leave it for someone else," said Reynolds. "Or give it to that guy. There are always hungry folks in here."

"You look like you've missed a few meals yourself," said Max. He had noticed the gaunt look of the man when they first met.

"Oh, I stopped eating for pleasure when I was a missionary. A long time ago."

"Yeah? When was that?"

"It was the last season of my `initiation' into the ministry, you might say. Something happened that brought me close to feeling my own mortality. I just started thinking differently."

Max sat quietly waiting for him to continue, but he was reading the book.

"Well?"

"What? Oh, well -- promise to interrupt me if you've heard it," said Reynolds. Max nodded.

"There was this provisional village on the Zimbabwe and Mozambique borders. I met a tribe that had been forced from their home village and were living in these few huts they'd thrown together. They were in constant fear of the communists that had starved and relocated them. It was just like in Ethiopia.

"My concern for the children alternated from their spiritual to their physical needs, and I couldn't concentrate. I wasn't even sure they could understand my dialect. On top of that, I was hungry myself, even though I'd eaten some dried fish the night before.

"But when I saw their sad spirits so desperate for any kind of comfort, I knew that was my last chance to reach them for Christ. I was sure most of them would be dead if I ever returned.

"Max, the Holy Spirit descended on us all that day. He gave me the words to speak that they could understand. In His infinite mercy and grace, God allowed this poor sinner you're looking at to be used for His glory. Every child accepted Christ that day, I believe. It was the most beautiful day in my life. I think about it a lot.

"Well, a few days earlier my supplies had been stolen by a renegade border patrol -- rather like the traffic cops in Lewisburg. I'd been left with enough diesel fuel to return to Pietersburg, where I started from, but had no food except a pound or so of millet, and maybe an ounce of tea and a few ounces of sugar. It would have provided the energy for the long ride back the next day; but I had to give it to them.

"Most of the children followed me back to my tent, which was just a tarp thrown over a lean-to they had provided. I sat there, cooking the millet and watching them -- amazed how skeleton-like they were. I tried to explain how they would receive new, perfect bodies in heaven that would never feel the hunger. This I don't know if they understood. I was being convicted to set an example for them. Denying myself food might illustrate my faith that God would provide for my needs later.

"I gave them each a bit of millet. An amount that was small even for their little hands. But they wouldn't eat it without me. You had to see it to believe it. I must have been breaking some tribal taboo and they weren't going to have it. I mean, even the smallest one, maybe four years old, wouldn't eat. When I took the pan that had a few grains stuck to it and made motions that I was eating from it, they all dug in.

"Then one of the children farthest away from me screamed. I jumped to my feet to look at her. I promise you I have never seen a snake as large as the one that was coming directly at me. I don't know how I had the state of mind to do it, but I crushed its head with the heel of my boot.

"My foot was on its head, and the body of the snake was twisting around me, and in that moment I knew the fear those children live in. Every waking hour they live with that same feeling I had a second before my foot came down. That feeling that this minute could be my last one on earth -- that the only thing that separates me from here and eternity is my accuracy in hitting this target. Like the only thing separating these children from eternity is a handful of millet. We were all bound together that day in a way I've never experienced before or since.

"Those kids took that snake, peeled its skin, and roasted it whole over the fire. They were ecstatic, and praised God for the food. There was a lot of meat on that reptile!"

"Ever go back?"

"No. I'd already spent two years there, and I still had a lot of problems with the various dialects. I never went back. They treated me like family, but I don't know if even one of them is living. Twenty years ago and I remember it like yesterday."

So others are haunted by the past as well.

"Why do you keep going to the clinic if they just keep arresting you? I mean, what's the point? Isn't there a more effective way to fight this?"

"We each have to do what we can do, Max. For me, this is the level I fight on. Others fight on lower levels, others higher. You know that as well as I do. It was you who picked up my poster."

"What drove you to it, though? There can't be more than a few churches actively involved in this, or we'd hear about it on the news."

Reynolds smiled at Max's naiveté.

"I never needed a personal reason to get involved. All I had to learn was that they scream."

"What?"

"The babies. They scream when the abortionist rips into them. The same way the bush child screamed when the snake brushed against her ankle. The same way anyone in their right mind would scream if they knew what was going on." Reynolds' hands clenched tight on the bars. He was beginning to look weary.

"What is going on?" asked Max.

Reynolds looked into the vacant cells. "I don't think you'd want to know just now."

The policeman walked in with three sacks from the restaurant on the corner. He slid a plastic tray under the bars, and then reached through the bars to put the sacks on the trays.

"Get me my salt?" asked Number Three.

"I knew there was something I forgot," said the cop. The sound of the door latching was followed by a muffled obscenity.

Reynolds picked up a bag and dug through it. "Nothing worth eating," he said. "But don't let that stop you."

Max lifted a cup from the bag and pulled the lid from it. He drank deeply, and then fished out an ice cube and chewed on it.

"What's going on, Pastor?" he asked again.

Reynolds removed the drink and dropped the bag to the floor. "I'll tell you, Max. But you won't like it."

"Nothing can surprise me now."

"The abortuaries get their money from the victims, and are supplemented by the government. The business is so profitable, so stable, so well protected, that organized crime started buying into limited partnerships as investment opportunities. In addition to the billions they make killing the babies, they now sell the aborted babies to the highest bidder. They're grinding them into cosmetics and using their collagen and organs to make the big bucks for those who can pay for them. This creates a sick Soylent Green cycle, where aborticide becomes more affordable as the demand for the byproduct increases.

"But by far the worst example of what happens to these babies is the bizarre fetal experimentation that goes on with live `fetuses.'"

"Live?"

"Yeah. Like that chemist at the college who wanted to see how long he could keep decapitated heads alive. He received a government grant and bought aborted late-term babies from the medical school. The doctors actually sold them alive without the mother's knowledge. They delivered them the same hour to the laboratory."

"How could the mothers not know that?"

"Sedation. In the fine print of the contract they signed, they had agreed that the products of the procedure would be donated to the labs. It's likely that few of them read past the part that said the procedure would be free of charge."

Max did not know what to say. Reynolds had been right. He wished he had never heard this.

Reynolds sat back on the ledge and opened his Bible to a verse in Isaiah, showing him the book as he read aloud.

"`Come now, let us reason together, saith the Lord; though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.' Would you like to know how to be sure where you'll be when you die, Max?"

Max felt more comfortable with Reynolds now; as if he could take a chance and deal with this long-neglected business. He simply said, "Why not?"

"Before we begin, let's pray to Him." Reynolds went to his knees, facing the smooth concrete wall. Max sighed. The thought of putting himself in such a compromising position numbed him. He could see Number Three chewing French fries with his mouth open, watching them from two cells away.

"Don't let your pride be an obstacle to your relationship with Christ. Anything we study will be useless if you allow your pride to interfere."

"Didn't God give me these feelings of pride?"

"Yeah. And pain, and humiliation, and sorrow, and grief. Like anything, they have their place. Pride in your relationship with God, or pride in your steadfast desire to seek His truth might be a good thing."

"Pride in being humble?" Max realized he was being childishly stubborn and knelt beside Reynolds. "Sorry, pastor."

"We all need a kick in the pants once in a while." He closed his eyes and bowed his head low.

"Great Lord of heaven, faithful Creator; we are faced with adversity and lie in the jaws of the enemy, and we beg your pardon for our trespasses against you. Lord, we need your strength and guidance now. Please share your wisdom with us as we study your sacred Word, and seek your will in our lives.

"Lord, please intervene in the heart of this man who comes to learn the truth of Christ. Please help him to see through the worldly delusion and find Christ waiting.

"We pray this in the name of your precious Son, Jesus Christ."

The men stood and took their former positions on the ledge. Without hesitation, Reynolds began outlining the Old Testament, assuming Max knew nothing.

Reynolds explained how sin came into the world, separating man from God. He explained the need for the animal sacrifices of the Israelites, and their symbolic relationship to the coming final sacrifice of Christ. He found numerous prophecies of the Old Testament books proclaiming the coming of a Savior.

Reynolds lectured at a steady pace, occasionally asking Max if he understood, or if he had a question. He summarized the life of Christ, and detailed the resurrection and the commands to His disciples. Max saw the great events of Christ's life framed in his mind, complete and unencumbered by his former prejudices and the foul lies of Christ's enemies. Max could see how they had ignorantly allowed them to influence him under the guise of polite conversation, entertainment, and even art -- but never again.

Then Reynolds turned to the third chapter of Romans and explained why all men are sinners in God's mind. He turned to chapter six of that book and read the promise of death to sinners, but eternal life through Jesus Christ to those who believe.

Then Max asked his only question, unsure of the meaning of Christ's words as He hung on the cross, "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Reynolds explained, "God the Father, in His holiness, must reject sin. In that moment, with the entire weight of mankind's sins on Christ's shoulders, the Father was compelled to turn his back on his only Son -- the only sinless man to ever walk the earth. His entire life led him to that one sacrificial act, to die the most painful and humiliating death imaginable, for the sake of the lost. For you and me, Max."

Reynolds described the death and resurrection of Christ, and the prophecies these events fulfilled. He read the entire tenth chapter of Romans, describing the method by which one is saved by the grace of God. Reynolds repeated several verses for emphasis.

"`For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.

"That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.

"For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.'"

Reynolds relaxed now, feeling his mission nearly complete.

"We have a choice, Max. One choice is to turn our backs on Christ, and have His Father rightly turn His back on us. The alternative is to accept this priceless gift from the One who made us. He sits at the right hand of God at this moment, waiting."

He looked at Max and mentally phrased the final question; the question he had asked perhaps ten thousand times in his twenty years of ministry. Reynolds believed the question to be the most important anyone could answer.

Max looked up, and Reynolds asked, "Would you like to ask forgiveness of your sins, and accept the Son of God as your Savior?"

Max felt a breaking in his heart for the suffering of Christ. It felt like Janet's hand going limp in his. His sin of pride had led to her death -- he had admitted as much -- and he could now see how his sins had been responsible for the death of Christ as well.

He wondered how much damage a faithless man could do on this earth. How could things have been different if he had shared more time with Janet searching for the spiritual answers to their arguments, rather than the fleshly?

Max decided to end this division between himself and his Creator, and to never allow his pride to come between himself and Janet again. He would see her again.

"I'd like to do that, Pastor."

Reynolds knelt again, and Max felt an irrational tugging on his shoulder, much less convincing now, as he brushed it aside and knelt beside him.

"Great Father in heaven," Reynolds began. "We thank you for the opportunity to come to you in prayer. Thank you for your Spirit which will be with Max as he prays. Lord, I ask that you will give Max the strength to surrender what you ask."

There was a pause as Max gathered his thoughts about the verses in Romans he had just heard. Then he spoke from the heart.

"God, I confess the sins I have committed against you. Please forgive me, Lord.

"I believe your Son died for the sins of the world, and for my own as well. Lord, I accept your gift of eternal life through Christ. Please convert my heart and guide my path."

Max struggled for a moment. Was now the time to ask for discernment regarding Kadill? Would God want him killed? He did not yet know, nor did he know Reynolds well enough to reveal this thought.

"Help me to be a warrior for you," he concluded.

"Amen," said Reynolds. At this, Max opened his eyes and saw Reynolds, his head still bowed low, hands clasped in front of his face, his eyes tightly compressing the wrinkles. Sweat had appeared at his temples, despite the coolness of the room.

Tears traced the thin lines on Max's face. Would God really forgive him? Faith! I must have faith in His promise!

Max stood, wiping his face quickly with his open hand and letting out a nervous laugh. He looked at the cell where the other inmate was now lying on the ledge under the window. He had felt self-conscious doing this, and would have preferred doing it alone -- in the dark stillness of the house. He thought how foolish and strange certain emotions are. They had seemed right at times, but had always led him away from this critical reconciliation with God. His emotions had almost kept him from meeting Reynolds altogether. Max swore never to trust them again.

It seemed too easy. Swallow your pride, confess, accept the gift. It hardly seemed a fair exchange, yet he had just read the passages of scripture that said there was no good work that would bring him any closer to the Father without the Son. Good works without Christ were condemned by the Word of God, and called `filthy rags.' Nothing he could do could have saved him -- it was Christ alone. He believed it.

"Is that it?"

"There is something else," said Reynolds, turning pages in his Bible.

"I don't have to go to Africa, do I?"

In the tenth chapter of the book of John, Reynolds read, "`And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand. My Father, which gave them to me, is greater than all; and no man is able to pluck them out of my Father's hand. I and my Father are One.'" He handed the book to Max. "These are the words of Jesus Christ. Spiritually, you are His, and as long as you follow Him you will be physically blessed as well. You will never be taken from Him. Rest in that, and have peace."

They sat down, and Max read the book, squinting at the small print. Reynolds, stifling a weary yawn, folded his arms, and slept.

The afternoon light faded. The growing vibration of the traffic below hummed through the wall as the downtown workers began their exodus homeward. In a few hours, the downtown streets would be vacant except for the wandering of the lost, the drunken, and the homeless.

A policeman entered and grunted, "Let's go." He neglected to handcuff them, which pleased Max, but frustrated Reynolds slightly. After all, if they were going to violate their procedure in handling them, why not in an area he could use against them in court?

The elevator opened at the fourth floor where they were turned over to the bailiff, a man who stood a full six inches taller than Max. He directed them to stand on the black line painted on the floor and then laid the two clipboards on the bench.

An older couple spoke softly as they walked out of the room, leaving the twelve rows of twelve seats vacant but for a lone spectator. Max wondered if the court had deliberately left them waiting as long as possible as a subtle harassment. He glanced at the only observer remaining, sitting next to the door as if ready for a hasty retreat. It was a young girl who seemed to be smiling at him.

The man in black robes informally entered and took a seat at the elevated desk in front of them. He scanned the papers before speaking.

"So, Mr. Reynolds, we meet again. What did I say I would do if you violated the restraining order I issued for the Sanger Clinic?"

"Good afternoon, Sir, and may God be with you. To answer your question; you made the penalty clear, but I didn't violate that injunction. The injunction says not to block the entrance, and not to stand within one hundred feet of the entrance. I was doing neither."

"The officer's report says you were fifteen feet from the door, Mr. Reynolds."

"The rear door, Sir -- not the entrance."

"Are you telling me no one enters through the rear door?"

"No, Sir. But the front door has a sign that clearly reads `entrance,' and the rear door where I was arrested can't be opened from the outside, barring entrance. Based on that, I ask you to decide."

"So you're pleading `not guilty,' and are waiving your right to a jury trial?"

"No, Sir. I never waive any rights. I thought you might just like to dismiss this nonsense based on the information I've given you."

"I don't think so. I believe the State has an interest in finding the truth in this matter. Do you prefer a jury trial, Mr. Reynolds?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I set bail at five hundred dollars. You're scheduled to appear before me exactly four weeks from next Wednesday. Is that convenient, Mr. Reynolds?"

"The date is acceptable, but the bail seems excessive. It was only two-fifty last time!"

"Violating the courts edicts are far more serious than non- violent trespass. I suggest you find a competent lawyer this time, Mr. Reynolds. Now please have a seat."

Reynolds sat in the nearest chair -- a relaxed smile on his face. Max could see they had both enjoyed the exchange.

"Now, Mr. Xinnis. You've gotten in and out of a rather big mess today. I see the clinic has declined to press charges against you on the trespass violation, so it looks as if you're in the same boat as your friend. Did you plan this together?"

"No, Judge," said Max. "We've only met today at the clinic. I didn't arrive as any part of a protest. I'd only gone there to talk with one of the doctors."

"But you were carrying a sign -- the same sign Mr. Reynolds had been carrying?"

"Something happened when I was inside the clinic. I saw something -- horrible. It changed my mind about getting involved with them. When I went out the door the sign was there. It just seemed natural to pick it up."

The man shifted in his black robes, uncomfortably contemplating what Max might have seen that was `horrible.' He began to ask, but thought better of it. "Were you aware of the injunction restricting the movement of protest actions, Mr. Xinnis?"

"No."

"Mr. Reynolds, will you corroborate this?"

Reynolds nodded with enthusiasm.

"And the concealed weapon that was found in your possession, Mr. Xinnis? Would you explain that, please?"

"It's not a weapon. It was a gift from my wife. I carry it with me now to remind me of her."

"And where is your wife, Mr. Xinnis?"

"Her funeral is tomorrow, your honor."

He nodded at this, seeming to understand something. "I am sorry. Please accept the court's condolences. And forgive me for asking this, Mr. Xinnis -- but is your wife's death in any way connected with the Sanger Clinic?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I see." There was a hollow pause and a nervous but meaningless shuffling of papers.

"Mr. Xinnis, I want you to understand that there is no question of your razor being a shaving tool when it's in your bathroom. When it is found by our police department in the possession of a clean-shaven trespasser, however, it becomes a concealed weapon. The street gangs around here rate it second only to the machete. I suggest you find other memento mori.

"Considering that you were unaware of the injunction, I am going to dismiss this incident. But take notice, Mr. Xinnis -- this court will not tolerate trespass of its dictates. I recommend that you obtain professional psychiatric counseling, and that you find a more desirable group with which to exercise your first amendment rights. Do you understand?"

"They're not rights," said Reynolds softly.

"Yes, Mr. Reynolds. Do you have something to add?"

"The United States Constitution doesn't grant rights. It's a list of restrictions on the federal government. Only God can grant rights."

"Thank you, Mr. Reynolds. You will be given your opportunity to express your opinions when I see you again. Now, Mr. Xinnis, did you understand what I've said?"

"Yes, Judge, I do understand." Max's teeth clenched. He knew he would never voluntarily talk with a headshrinker, yet he felt relieved at being released, even though it seemed to make the day's events anticlimatic.

"See the bailiff before you leave. And thank you, Mr. Xinnis, for calling me `Judge.'" He squinted an "I'll see you later" look at Reynolds and left the room.

"What was that about?" asked Max, turning to see the girl from the back row hugging Reynolds tightly.

"That was war. This is my daughter, Lena."

She smiled from one side of her mouth and shook his hand. She was older than he had first thought.

"I'm glad he didn't nail you like he did Dad, or I wouldn't have brought enough cash!"

"I could have stayed until you made it back," said Reynolds. "I've nothing better to do until Sunday. But Max has to be at that funeral tomorrow."

"I'd rather not, actually."

"You must, Max. You've got to be an example of faith to the family."

"I'm glad things worked out the way they did, because I want you to be there tomorrow -- maybe say a few words to get them thinking about joining Jan someday." The context of the words seemed alien to him, and just a little embarrassing. This new language threatened to unravel his tough Army image.

"Where and when, Max? I'll be there."

"I have the funeral director's business card --" he said, reaching into his empty jacket pocket, "-- but no wallet."

"Let's get out of here," said Lena, smiling.

Papers were signed with the bailiff, property was recovered, including Max's razor, and fifteen minutes later they were parked next to Pastor Reynold's Buick station wagon, only a block away from the clinic.

"Lena, I need to do some visitation south of town, and need you to drive Max home. There's no sense in him waiting for a cab when you're here, right?"

"Oh, that's okay," started Max, but the pastor was already out of Lena's car. Max shrugged his shoulders to Lena in a kind of apology, and jumped from the rear seat to say good-bye to him. Outside, the men shook hands warmly.

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate the time you took to explain it all to me. Thank you."

Reynolds grinned. "All in a life's work, my friend." He pressed the small Bible into Max's hand. "A gift. Study to show thyself approved."

Reynolds stooped a bit to see Lena sitting behind the wheel of her aging black Ford Mustang. "Don't let him take a cab, Lena! He became your brother in Christ today."

Reynolds drove away and Max climbed into the bucket seat next to Lena. She had used the intermission to pull on an oversized brown leather jacket against the cool evening breeze blowing across the river. The missing name patch gave it the appearance of army surplus.

"What did he mean by `visitation?' Is that some sort of spiritual thing?"

"Yes, it is. But he just means he's going to visit someone, probably someone sick or suffering -- to encourage them, you know? They usually talk and pray together."

"Oh. I was afraid it was some New Age term," he kidded.

She smiled at this. "Like an out-of-body visitation?"

"That's it," he said.

"So -- where are we headed?" she asked.

"I really don't mind getting a taxi."

"I've got my orders," she said, revving the engine just a little. "Where do we go?"

"I live in the Northbrook section, about seven miles north of campus, but I was thinking that I'd really like to have dinner before going back. Would you join me? I'd love the company."

She studied him suspiciously for a moment. His invitation, out of context, would have sounded like a line had she not heard the honest intention in his voice. Besides, the pastor trusts him -- and she was so tired of distrusting everyone. Perhaps he needed a friend just now.

She accepted the offer and guided the Mustang through the narrow city side streets. She chose a section of freeway that would take them five miles out of their way, but would allow a steady sixty mile-an-hour cruising speed. It was the route Max would have taken.

They agreed to have dinner at The Varsity Club on campus. As the car rumbled along he again noticed, in the shifting green, blue, and white lights of the highway, that she was not the child he had first thought her to be. Her musculature defined her athletic shape through her snug clothing. She had turned the heat on, but kept her window open a bit -- just enough to make her shiver as the chilled air lifted her long black hair, pulling strands of it outside the window.

The vehicle was too noisy for conversation. The engine, free of environmental protection gimmicks, voiced itself assertively, the sound blending into a euphonious white noise of Doppler effect traffic and wind resistance. He looked at her and she smiled. Her perfume sat in the tray behind the gearshift, and now that he saw the bottle he detected the subtle essence of rare flowers. He was in danger of falling asleep in the warmth of the antique leatherette.

The restaurant was noted for its celebrity clientele; specifically the Dean and, more importantly, the coach of the football team. The quiet drive had allowed Max some rest, and he promised himself he would be charming despite the fear of what tomorrow might bring.

Max hoped to discover where this turn in his destiny was leading, and felt he could have talked with the pastor all night. But his daughter was a lovely substitute, and might be willing to offer an opinion of a few of the thoughts going through his head. He asked the waitress to seat them in a quiet area where they might talk privately. She took them to the sparsely occupied window seats that were the farthest from the bar.

Despite encouragement to indulge in the lasagna, Lena ordered only the chef salad and a pot of herb tea. Max always felt conspicuous when he was the only carnivore at the table, but ordered the veal and spinach lasagna anyway, with coffee.

Sitting close to her now, he could see the shallow lines of her face covered by a gentle application of make-up. Her manicured hands had seen hard work. Her bite seemed to be just a little off, and she had a thin scar near her chin. Max wondered if her jaw had been broken. He could see in her high cheekbones a distant Native American heritage. His first impression of her was that she looked fair and strong.

"May I ask your age?"

"Twenty-eight, next month," she said.

"You look younger."

"Thanks, I think," she said, feigning an indignant glance. "But I feel as if I'm ready to retire." She attempted to rotate her left wrist as an explanation.

"Arthritis?"

"No, a cop broke it. It never healed right."

"So you're the one your father was talking about."

"Yeah, no doubt. But for the record, the Pastor's not my real dad. He adopted me about seven years ago. I work at the church most of the time now, or whenever they need me -- like tonight. It's been my home since I ran away -- a long, long time ago."

They talked of Lewisburg politics and the changes in the college until the waitress served their food. Max again found himself ashamed of his self-consciousness when Lena offered to ask God's blessing on the meal. He felt the eyes of strangers on them as she prayed. Fool!, he accused himself. What do I care what anyone should think?

Max drove his fork into an artichoke heart. "Do you ever see your real parents?"

"They probably think I'm dead, and wouldn't care either way. They're just a couple of culture worshippers."

"What?"

"Public television, fashionable environmentalism, sociologic reform for the advancement of man's evolution -- you know. Their life probably still revolves around the National Public Radio fund raisers."

"Seems an unlikely thing to divide a family over."

She thought about that as she poked at the endive. "Yeah, I suppose it does," she said. "But you don't know what it's like to be second to the local recycling plant. They turned my sister into a eco-zombie before she was fifteen. They'd come home from a party reeking of marijuana and vermouth and reminiscing about the sixties. Talking with them became a drag beyond belief. I've never even sent them a postcard for fear that they'll answer it."

"Why is that? You can't forgive them?"

"I did. It took a long time for me to grow up enough to do it," she sighed. "And then I forgot them. I don't write them because I don't miss them. I just don't like to waste stamps. They taught me that."

Max wanted to ask her why she ran away, but knew he had already pushed this topic too far. It would be presumptuous to expect an answer to so personal a question as that at this first encounter. It would be like her asking about Janet. Max knew she must be curious, but that, too, was a subject best left for another time.

Several minutes of silence passed between them before Lena spoke.

"Did you notice that the judge said if he finds a razor in the possession of a clean-shaven man he assumes it is a weapon?" she asked.

"Yeah? Because a clean-shaven man doesn't need one? But without it, how did he shave in the first place?"

"Right! And if you had been bearded, he would of been sure you were an assassin, since you also wouldn't need one."

Max smiled at this. "And why did he thank me for calling him `Judge?'"

"Didn't you notice that Dad never called him that to his face? He believes his ultimate judge is God, and his earthly judges sit in the jury box. He only recognizes him as a referee. So, you see, it was really a shot at Dad -- letting him know all those `Sirs' that should've been `Your Honors' didn't go unnoticed.

"And he never called Dad `Pastor' once. Just because he won't get a license to preach, he won't call him by his title. He says the State doesn't recognize his claim to it -- which is fine with Dad because he doesn't recognize their authority to grant the title."

Lena shared a little information about Pastor Reynolds and his ministry; about his beliefs and the background of their small church. She spoke of the crisis pregnancy center where she had met him, and where she now spent several days a week as a volunteer. When she mentioned that she spent some time every week counseling women who were thinking of aborticide, he interrupted her.

"That's the second time I've heard that word today. Why do you use it?"

"Aborticide? Because the word `abortion' refers to a natural function -- the one in ten thousand babies that is expelled by the mother's body because of her biology, and God's will. But when a person makes the decision to kill the child, to alter that biology and the will of God, it's murder -- aborticide. The pastor has been using the word for years. He says we're in a battle where language is a powerful weapon."

"What's the most powerful?"

"Faith, of course. If people had faith that God would provide for their needs they wouldn't forever be trying to manipulate their environment against His will."

This sparked a question in Max that he carelessly exposed. "What do you think, Lena, if someone made an example of one of these abortionists? That is, maiming him in such a way as to keep him from ever murdering another child. Do you think that his colleagues might resign in fear of being next in line? Do you think it would prevent other doctors from becoming abortionists?"

Lena's face fell noticeably. "Maimed? Or maybe killed? That's already happened, you know. Just a few months ago in Florida somebody killed one of them. I read that a few of them in that town did resign. But look, Max, I don't want to know what you're talking about. I like you, but if you're talking about killing, or -- what? Blinding a person? Cutting off his hands? Are you capable of such things?" Her voice sounded more concerned than frightened.

"It's just hypothetical, Lena. Just conversation."

She studied his face. "I don't believe it is hypothetical. In my circle of friends I hear a lot of talk, especially from the men. At first they sounded brave and chivalrous to me. You know, like the cowboys out protecting the womenfolk. Eventually it became obvious to me that it was just a lot of worthless boasting. Most of the men on our side of the picket line enjoy that sort of gallant expression, but precious few of them ever do more than pick up a sign for a few hours a year."

She took a drink of the cooled tea. Max was watching her closely. He could see an underlying anger in her, and wondered what its source was.

"I'm cautious now about encouraging anyone who talks like that until I know their motives. There's always a lunkheaded Neanderthal who thinks they can impress someone by waving a gun around. I'm afraid I'll say something I'll regret later. The papers reported that the man in Florida was trying to impress his girlfriend. I wonder if it's true?"

"The pastor seems like a guy who would do more than just talk."

She searched his face again. Max felt the layers of skin being pulled back by her piercing gaze. She touched her napkin to her mouth and set it beside her plate. "Are you a fed?"

"What?"

"A cop. Are you a cop?"

He now knew he had been asinine. What had he been doing -- using her as a sounding board for his radical theories? Instinctively, he had known he could trust her, or, at least, he had been willing to risk trusting her. Now what have I done?

"Max, we've been set up before. Agents have tried to infiltrate our church to get information they could use against us. That's exactly the type of question they ask, so you've brought this on yourself -- I have to ask you now. Are you working with any local or federal police department, in an undercover or sting operation?"

"No, Lena," Max's face blushed. "I'm who I say I am."

"No part of our conversation is recorded by any means?"

"Of course not. Our conversations will always be as private as you want them to be."

Lena looked down at the table, embarrassed by her own abruptness. "If you were FBI, now that you told me you weren't, you wouldn't be able to use any information you had collected against me. You would have had to admit it. That's the game. Those are the rules they play by, Max. Do you see why I had to ask?"

"I guess so."

"Sorry. It's just that I --"

"Don't worry about it, really."

"It was only a precaution. Darn it," her eyes watered and she looked away, "that was rude!"

"It's okay, Lena. I understand. Unusual times require unusual tactics. And these are very unusual times." He reached for and clasped her hand in his. "I had no idea you had given these things so much thought. I'm boiling to do something, but I don't know if I'm up to it. I was selfish -- looking for encouragement from you. My fault. Please forgive me."

Lena looked deep into his eyes. "Okay. But, Max -- you can't be in God's will and have feelings of revenge. Pray that God will convert that pain into something He can use. With Christ all things are possible, but He won't guide and direct you as His child unless you do it for the right reasons -- Godly reasons. You have to want to do it for your preborn brothers and sisters -- not to satisfy your own blood lust."

Max bowed his head and nodded.

"And who knows whether you've got the courage or not? Only you and God. But you had the guts to accept Christ tonight. Few adults have the faith. I think with the proper motive, God will supply the strength you need. That's what I believe," she said, looking away timidly. "But now I've done it again. I'm encouraging you toward the violent solution."

Max lifted a forkful of lasagna and smiled mischievously at her.

The ride to Max's was slower; thirty-five miles an hour and a traffic light every other block. It gave them a little time to talk.

"Why do you think it's so difficult for adults to accept Christ?" he asked. "You'd think we would get smarter as we grow older."

"Our flesh lies to us." She pinched him on the arm, causing him to flinch.

"Ouch!"

"The Holy Spirit that lives inside believers is truth. The flesh is the lie."

"I doubt if it's lying now," he said, rubbing his arm. He saw his street sign ahead and gestured for her to make a left turn. In a minute they were parked in the Xinnis driveway.

"Thank you again for dinner. And for understanding my paranoia." She offered him her hand. Max took it gently.

"It was my pleasure. I hope we can do it again. We still have a lot to talk about."

"Yeah. And it's tough eating alone."

What was that? Max wondered as she drove into the night. A clever retort? He smiled, and knew he must be tired not to know one way or the other. Really outstanding girl, though. Hope she finds a decent husband someday.

He scanned the dome of sky as he slowly crossed the lawn. The dark clouds smothered the sharpness of the light from the full moon. Concentric rings of blue and white encircled it. The rain was coming in again, and he wondered if there would be lightning this time. He was sure he had dreamed of lightning recently.

Amazing! he thought as he walked through the unlocked door. I almost stayed home today! He switched on the lamp over the stereo, and pulled a chair next to the lamp on the table. Max dropped the thin Bible onto the chair, and promised himself to read it later.

He made a cup of tea and brought it to the kitchen table. The heat from the cup warmed his hands. He applied the palms of his hands to his eyes and felt the pressure ease.

The faint wisps of steam lifted through the half-dark of the room, lit only by the somber green neon of the antique clock above the door. The house was silent.

How can one man put an end to them all? Methodically, he examined his options. The drowsy wheels in his head turned. He could assume that abortionists receive threats like other people receive junk mail. To them it would be just an occupational hazard. His actions, whatever they may be, must be much more than a mere threat. They would be force against force; Max's weapons against those of the abortionists.

He took a long drink of tea and leaned back in the chair. The burning had returned to his eyes, and he squinted them tight for relief. He thought briefly how much he wanted never to open them. He saw his shotgun being pulled from under his long dress coat; the muzzle pushing lightly against the receptionist's nose. "I'd like to see Kadill, please. I don't have an appointment."

Max smiled at the ridiculous scenario. They would connect him to it in hours. He would spend the rest of his life in jail for killing Kadill. Even if Kadill slipped and died in his bathtub, Max could expect to be questioned as a murder suspect. There was just too much circumstantial evidence leading the police to his door. His wife had been killed at the clinic, Max had been arrested there carrying a concealed weapon, and then there were the foolish revelations he had shared with Lena. It was enough evidence to hang him.

Max's imagination struggled with alternatives. He could see Kadill jump erect from the chair behind his desk.

"How did you get in here?"

"I'm Max Xinnis. I spoke with you on the phone."

"Get out!"

Max's gun appears. Lena is standing behind him with a movie camera, filming the scene.

"What do you want?" Kadill asks, backing away.

"I'm surprised you have to ask. I want to know if my child was a boy or a girl. I want to know what you've done with the child's body --"

Kadill would make his move, like a cornered rat, and lunge at Max. Then Max would release four rounds into his kneecaps to stop him.

Max would kneel beside him, the camera quietly working in Lena's capable hands. The gun touches Kadill's forehead, and Max waits for his screaming to subside.

"What do you want? Name it! Anything!" says Kadill through his gritting teeth.

"I want my wife and child back!"

Kadill's eyes widen at the realization that no force at his command would prevent the trigger from being pulled. He opens his mouth in protest as the explosion fills the room.

The camera records the irreversible moment forever. Thousands of copies of the tape are sent to the abortionists of America in plain brown envelopes. The label on the tape identifies it as "The New Postnatal Abortion Procedure". The abortionists of America watch the blood spill from one of their brothers as they watch in the comfort of their living rooms. A superimposed message moves across the screen. Five words. A simple ultimatum from the latest terrorist on the block: "RESIGN OR YOU ARE NEXT!"

Max shook the images from his head and went to the back door. A light rain was sweeping along the grasses and dandelions. He opened the door and took a deep breath of the heavenly fragrance.

Crazy. Psychotic. Is that what he wanted to become? A terrorist? He could imagine himself pulling the trigger on Kadill, but doubted he could live with himself afterward. Never before had he thought of himself as owning the cold-blooded instincts required to premeditate such horror. "Are you capable of such things?" Lena had asked.

Max breathed in the moist air, trying desperately to force out the demons with his exhale. He went to the living room and picked up the Bible Reynolds had given him, and began reading.

When he came to the ninth chapter of Genesis, he found a notepad to copy two verses. "And surely your blood of your lives will I require, at the hand of every beast will I require it, and at the hand of man; at the hand of every man's brother will I require the life of man. Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed; for in the image of God made he man."

Distant thunder vibrated the windows. Max's wristwatch read one-twenty. He closed the paper in the book and turned out the light. He prayed at the end of his bed, on his knees, as he had done when his parents were alive.

After a while, he heard his own voice. "Help me, Lord. How can I trust myself to make the right decisions? Help me to become a warrior for your purposes rather than mine."

Max experienced a strong feeling of deja vu as he stood. He remembered the smell of the rain on the wind, the dim moonlight struggling with the clouds, and a little boy in cowboy pajamas praying the same prayer in his kindergarten vocabulary. Mother's hand rested on his shoulder and patted approval.

Then the moment was gone; the little boy was gone, and Max stood alone in the room.

Saturday, April 10th

Max carried a framed photograph of Janet to the kitchen table and began cutting a grapefruit into sections. In the picture, Janet held her fly rod over her head, pretending to fall backwards into the river. She looked almost clown-like wearing her father's oversized Red Ball waders. Max tapped the glass nervously, uneasy that he had forgotten the sound of her laugh, but had heard her crying in his dreams.

The ringing of the telephone broke his concentration.

"Max, do you want someone to pick you up today?"

"No, Jerry, I can make it."

"Mom says it isn't good for you to be alone so much. She called all day yesterday." He lowered his voice. "She's worried, Max. She thinks you're going to do something crazy."

How could she know that? wondered Max.

"Don't worry about me, Jerry, really. I'll be okay, I promise -- no matter what happens. Tell me how you two made it through yesterday."

"The family won't leave her alone for five minutes. It's as if they're afraid to let her mourn. There's a dozen of the tribe here now that shouldn't be here, and it's only nine o'clock!"

"Maybe they're concerned for her the same way Mom is concerned for me."

"Yeah, exactly. But I'm positive she's going to lose it at the funeral."

"That would be natural, Jerry, don't worry about it. Tell me about you. Are you going to make it?"

"I guess so. I never knew what it was to have a chunk cut out of you like that. I guess when Dad died I missed him a lot, and still do, but it was different. Jan's death is more personal somehow."

"Probably because you grew up together, just a year apart."

"Max, our cousins from Pennsylvania got in last night. They didn't know anything about this, they just walked in on it. I think they're in a state of shock. They hadn't seen her in years, finally get a chance to visit, and end up at her funeral."

"Mom told me they were coming. Too bad," Max said sadly.

"I have to tell you Jerry -- I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for what happened, but I believe I have been forgiven."

"What do you mean?"

"I met some Christians yesterday..."

Max's left hand made a fist while his right drummed nervously on the closed lower lid of the thick walnut casket. He was waiting for L'Aust, who was holding the door for an overburdened delivery man carrying floral arrangements. Janet preferred living plants.

The stark presence of her rigid, embalmed flesh maddened more than frightened him. He had decided to maintain his composure today, no matter what may happen. He would set an example for the others. They would see the faith that assured him that God was merciful -- the assurance that he knew Christ had overcome death for them.

"What is it with this make-up, L'Aust?"

Confused, L'Aust inspected his work. "I had no photograph, and had to make some assumptions. I can assure you, Mr. Xinnis, that I work from the latest trade publications."

Max felt his blood surging. "You just saw her at her dad's funeral!"

"I am sorry," he wheezed, "I just cannot remember everyone."

Max snatched the handkerchief from L'Aust's coat pocket and carefully wiped the crimson from her lips, leaving only a trace of color. Folding the cloth, he drew it gently along her eyebrows, with no effect. Applying a firmer stroke, he tried again to remove the unnatural color. Her head turned slightly at the pressure and a vertebra snapped. Max recoiled, gritting his teeth.

"Allow me, Mr. Xinnis, please," he said, reclaiming the stained silk.

Max put his hand to his head and wiped the perspiration. He sat down to escape the dizziness. His watch read a minute before one o'clock. He closed his eyes, thankful that he had come early to catch L'Aust's mistake.

It reminded him of another funeral almost three decades ago. The day his world changed.

He remembered that the adults conducting the service seemed to be entirely unconcerned whether the boy knew what was happening. He sat in the front row next to a woman, a friend of his mother. She had taken him in for the few days until the courts took over. It was out of pity, of course; but also with a sense of duty toward one's neighbor, as it was once known. She sobbed relentlessly into her flowered and heavily perfumed handkerchief. They sat for a time that seemed hours to the boy. Finally, she said, "Go on, kiss them good-bye."

Curious, obedient, the boy walked to the coffins. He pulled a large wooden chair to the table on which they rested. He could see them both from his elevated position, side by side in small, thin, gray boxes.

The one that looked a little like his mother had been heavily painted with pink and red rouge, her hair pulled back tight, and reading glasses -- just like the kind he had seen sitting on the shelf at home collecting dust -- sat poised on her nose. Though covered to the waist, he could see she wore his mother's Sunday dress.

The man's face had a ruddy complexion, like dried calamine lotion. His hair had been treated with a black, oily tincture that had discolored the fabric of the small blue pillow under his head. There was a stern expression frozen on his face that disturbed the boy.

Without kissing them, he returned to the neighbor woman, who took his hand and cried.

"Who are those people?" the boy asked her.

Strange words were invoked and rituals played out, none of which made sense to him. No out-of-state uncles or aunts arrived, though cards and letters were sent; one from Maine, and two from New York City.

The State sold the Xinnis house; the judge paying the creditors and sealing the remainder in trust for the boy until his twenty-first birthday. The boy received a letter notifying him of the decisions made in his behalf by the court. Other than a few dollars haphazardly sent to him around Christmas by an uncle he had never met, it was the only mail he ever received in the orphanage.

Max was amazed that he could remember those little envelopes with the one dollar bills folded tightly inside. As long ago as it was, he could remember the empty feeling it gave him in his gut. There was never a word of encouragement, of love, or of belonging; it just was. From the time the murderers severed him from his parents to the time he had met Janet, he had been alone. Again, the love of money had motivated a man to harm his family -- but this time the murderer had a face.

Max felt the energy draining through his shoes and into the floor, as real as if his blood were flowing out of him. His legs had gone to sleep and tingled painfully. Then Jerry's hand jostled Max's shoulder.

"Maybe we should start, Max," he said.

Max stood up, surprised to see the room full. He looked at his watch. Two seventeen. He quickly stepped to the coffin to inspect L'Aust's work. He had wiped away the lies.

Reaching into his vest pocket, Max took the silver cigarette case he had found in Janet's portfolio. Sliding it under her folded hands, he felt he had fulfilled an unspoken duty.

The priest from the only church in Chestnut Hills stood next to Jerry. "Max, This is Father Michols. Mom asked him to say a few words."

"My condolences, Sergeant Xinnis," said Michols. They shook hands.

"Thank you. I appreciate you being here." Max scanned the room quickly for Reynolds, and spotted him standing near the doorway in a dark gray suit. "Did you know Janet, Father Michols?"

"I'm sorry, but I never had the pleasure. I've only been at the parish a short time."

"Father, there has been a misunderstanding and I hope you'll forgive me. I've engaged someone else to speak. I had no idea that other arrangements were being made. I hope you'll not take it personal, but I'd like him to proceed. Perhaps you know him. That's him standing there -- Pastor Reynolds."

"Oh yes! He does some fine work with the crisis pregnancy center in the city. We've met."

"Thanks for understanding. If you can excuse me now, I need to ask the Pastor to begin. Perhaps we can talk later."

They shook hands again, and Max made his way to Reynolds. Jerry gave him an astonished look as he passed, but it went unnoticed.

How could all these people have come into the room without my hearing them? he wondered. Did I fall asleep?

"I'm glad you made it," Max said, shaking his hand.

"Good crowd. Mostly family?"

Max glanced around at the faces. "I think so." He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew the photograph he had been studying over breakfast. "This is what she looked like. See this smile, this light in her eyes? This was Janet. Help these people to see that -- to know that this light is in heaven now. A lot of these people need to hear what you told me yesterday." Max lowered his voice so only Reynolds could hear. "And they don't know about the clinic. They don't need to know."

The room hushed as the two walked the aisle. The two hundred chairs were filled and a few men stood along the wall in the back of the room. Everyone was looking to Pastor Reynolds for comfort and explanation. He knew what to say.

Without introducing himself, he opened his Bible to Psalm 31 and read, "I will be glad and rejoice in thy mercy, for thou hast considered my trouble; thou hast known my soul in adversities." Then Reynolds offered a prayer that every heart be still, and that nothing would distract them from the message.

He told the story of a family in Lewisburg whose child disappeared one winter night, driven from her home by her parent's drunken cruelty. The next day they found the child laying on the ground in her threadbare coat at the end of a long line of snow angels she had made in the fresh snow. She had fallen to sleep and frozen to death. The grieving parents thought they would die from the pain and guilt in their heart.

They came to see him, and asked him to tell them about this man called Jesus that their child had learned of in Sunday school; the Christ she had once said she had accepted as her Savior. The parents had brought a drawing made by the child, carefully colored in crayon, that they had found under her pillow. Unmistakenly drawn by a six year old, it was a picture of Jesus, holding in his arms a little child with a threadbare coat.

The pastor told them what he knew, read to them what the Bible said; and they believed. Begging God to forgive them, they turned their lives over to Him, and became two of the most compassionate missionaries Reynolds had ever met, diligently working to please their Lord, deep in the slums of Lewisburg.

"Sometimes God must take a child early to soften the hearts of those who love it. Sometimes we must be driven to reason by hard lessons! Adults, content in their worldly routines and fleshly pursuits seldom feel the need to trust in God unless tragedy strikes. And so, because God loves you all, He allows it to strike to awaken your slumbering faith -- to be a testimony to the world."

Reynolds defined the promises of Christ, and the hope they may share in His resurrected body as His church. He then offered a prayer for those who wished to accept Christ, during which he asked those who wished him to pray for them to raise their hands. Many tears found their way from closed eyes as he intensely petitioned God to work in the hearts of those present, to drive them to reason and give them the courage to ask Christ to save them from a Godless eternity.

Pastor Reynolds offered to show them God's promises himself, and asked that they find time to speak with him or his daughter if they had questions. Lena joined him then, and softly sang a gospel hymn acappella. The song drifted through the room like a soft breeze, quieting many troubled spirits.

When she finished, all Max could think of was how beautiful it had been. Nothing else needed to be said, and so he stood, shook the pastor's hand, and went to comfort Jan's mother. Jerry held her hand. Max sat opposite him, and spoke to them both.

"Janet is with her Creator now. She sees Him more clearly than we see each other. Without tears to obstruct the view." He took a fresh tissue from the box at Mrs. Clausen's feet and offered it to her. Her hand was shaking uncontrollably.

"I don't know, Maxwell," she said. "I just don't know what to think."

"Just remember that the pastor and his daughter are always willing to talk with us about it. Will you remember?"

She only nodded.

Max walked to the lobby and waited for the mourners to drift out of the auditorium. The people either shook his hand or hugged him, always speaking kindly of Janet. He could hear several females sobbing in the other room as Father Michols spoke with him.

Twenty minutes of this and he looked into the room where the pastor and Lena were counseling. L'Aust had removed the casket, and no doubt was waiting outside for them to proceed to the cemetery. Max hoped he was a patient man.

Max could see Lena speaking with several teenagers in the corner. Reynolds was holding Mrs. Clausen's hand firmly, offering assurances. Jerry walked toward him.

"It was excellent, Max. I'm sure it helped everyone, even Mom." Max detected the dry sorrow in his voice.

"I worry about her."

"Blaine looks disoriented as well," Jerry said, nodding in her direction. She was standing by herself along the wall, her eyes fixed on Lena. She wore the same frightened expression Max had almost slapped off of her at the office.

Max excused himself and went to Blaine's side, taking her hand in his. She bit her lip and pulled herself to him. He allowed it. He was sure she must be sorry for her part in this macabre mistake, though perhaps he assumed too much. He had learned that Christ commanded His children to forgive their enemies, just as He had forgiven even those who crucified Him. Max was willing to do this in Blaine's case.

"Blaine, there's someone I'd like you to meet." Max led her to the front row where Reynolds was just beginning to stand.

"Pastor Reynolds, I'd like you to meet Miss Blaine. She was Jan's best friend."

Blaine looked at Max and broke into tears, a fistful of handkerchief hiding her face. The pastor took her arm and led her to a seat. "You raised your hand for prayer, didn't you?" Max saw her timidly nod before he turned away.

Max threw the handful of earth into the grave. It hit the casket with a solid thud that echoed in his head again and again as he walked away. It's over.

It was a small and faithful crowd that had waited until Reynolds and Lena had spoken with everyone, and then driven these miles to the little country cemetery. Max was surprised that Blaine was nowhere to be seen.

He left them there on the hill to linger and talk. He was alone again, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Reynolds was watching Max walk down the hill and moved to speak with Lena. "He looks desperate. Maybe you should check on him."

Lena walked quickly, catching up with him just as he put the Taurus in gear. She smacked the rear fender to get his attention, and he slammed down the brake.

"Where are you going?"

Max was feeling the need for a bottle of aspirin, and told her so.

"Did you eat anything today?"

"A grapefruit."

"That's probably all it is. You're going to the family dinner, aren't you? Your mother said everyone brought enough food for an army -- of course, you'd be the judge of that. She needs you there."

"Later maybe, Lena. Will you be there?"

"I will if you will." She walked around the front of the car and slid into the bucket seat beside him.

"Where are we going first?"

He did not answer her. She was going anyway -- why argue?

They coasted down the gravel road to the ivy-entwined gate, then turned onto the roughly paved and hilly country road. Except that she was with him, he would be taking the road at seventy miles an hour.

With Lena in his company he knew he must return to the Clausen home for dinner that night. She was right about them needing each other now, but thinking of putting on the mask again and pretending he was glad to see them all made him weak. He hated seeing them collected together for this purpose. He still wanted to deny it all and scream and tear his clothes from the loneliness and sorrow he felt, despite his new understanding.

He realized that not wanting to see them and comfort them, or to be comforted by them, reflected another flaw in his attitude. He could see it in his nature now -- the same selfish disregard that had put him in this position. He acknowledged this, conceding to himself that the least that should come of all this should be a change of attitude on his part.

After a short and silent drive they intersected the four lane highway, turning north. Max gradually accelerated to a comfortable speed, the aspect of which was relative. He was oblivious to Lena digging her fingernails into the leather upholstery. In her mind, Max had somehow turned this otherwise normal car into a rocket. She wondered if he might be punishing her for coming along.

Max had no conscious intention of frightening his passenger, and eased the accelerator when they approached a hundred miles an hour. He felt relieved now that the miles of road were between them and the cemetery.

"There's a reservoir ahead. Ever been there?" he asked.

"I haven't been this far from the city since I moved here." Her voice barely registered her alarm at the speed.

"Too bad, it's nice and quiet out here. Where are you from?" He rolled the window down.

"Hershey, Penn --"

"Where they make the chocolate?"

"Yeah."

Max could scarcely hear her now with the air rushing in. The stale air quickly circulated out the window, and the sick feeling went with it. He took a deep breath of the cold, damp air. Lena's perfume, an extract of Valerian heliotrope applied to her neck, mixed with the breeze, filling the car with the oblivion of forgetfulness.

Max neared the crest of a hill and instinctively lifted his foot from the accelerator, slowing the car to sixty. He was wary of the state police who enjoy trapping their victims as they speed over these hills. The radar detector had saved him numerous speeding tickets on this road alone.

Lena sighed in relief at the reduced speed. Max thought she was sighing because of the view from the peak. Their elevation revealed a panoramic and picturesque scene; the sharp blue of the water and sky fusing into the contrast of the lush greens of the forests below them. A mile out, two sailboats cut into the wind and water in friendly competition. A man and a boy drifted in a rowboat near the south shoreline, fishing along a bank of fallen trees. The wind was more resolute on the north side of the hill and pushed huge mountains of clouds overhead. Lena thought the view was worthy of heaven, or at least a postcard.

Her eye caught sight of a small house and barn just within the tree line on the northwest ridge. Both buildings were falling down from neglect, and she thought it a shame that it was abandoned. She knew if she ever became used to waking up to that view, she would never want to move again. She looked at Max's profile, wondering if he felt the same.

At the bottom of the hill, Max pulled off the pavement and onto the gravel drive of an ancient fishing tackle store. The sign read, "Joey Bait" -- the possessive "s" having fallen off decades ago, and leading to many false assumptions regarding Joey's last name.

The cedar shingles were nailed over with old metal advertisements, the protagonists of which, except for the rusted yellow Vernor's soft drink sign, were all extinct. Max opened the creaky screen door for her, and they walked into the ill lit store. "Hello, Joseph. How've you been?"

Lena could tell in a glance there would be dust on the canned goods and a mess o' fish lying behind the counter waiting to be filleted. The store was like another one she and her friends had frequented on the path home from elementary school, and she could not help looking along the sides of the counter for jars of penny candy.

Max was greeted by the old man sitting on a stool at the long wooden counter over the display case. He was assembling a fishing reel, his wrinkled black hands searching the countless parts as they talked. Lena noticed a large muskellunge mounted behind the man, and when she lifted her eyes to it she saw the others surrounding her in the room.

She stood in awe for a moment. The naturalness of the displays struck her as uncanny. Each fish was immortalized with the original lure or a rubber replica of the bait with which it was caught. She slowly walked the aisle along the wall, inspecting the array closely. She had never seen so many beautifully mounted fish.

She could hear them talking solemnly about Janet, and she assumed that Joseph had known them from their excursions here. As she approached them, Max pulled two bottles of ginger ale from the cooler and popped the caps.

"Lena, I'd like you to meet Joseph. Joey, this is Lena Reynolds. Her dad spoke at the funeral today."

"Nice to meet you, Missy," his voice being just as she imagined it, big and rough and friendly. His smile looked similar to the musky mounted behind him.

"Likewise," she said, shaking his hand. "Did you mount all these? They're amazing!"

"Most of them, I did, young Miss. My son did the rest. These and many more. Daddy did the musky, back when there were big fish here."

Joseph threw a switch that turned on the dozens of lamps under the displays, and each scene came to life. The scales seemed to light up as well, shimmering as if still submerged.

"That's quite a talent your family has."

"Just practice, that's all it is. The trick is making it look like God wanted it. It's provided all the bait I could cut, all the denim I could wear, all the fish I could fry, and all the fame I could stand these past forty-odd years."

Max dropped a half dozen quarters on the counter and handed a bottle to Lena. "Have Easton give me a call this week, Joey."

"No boat today?"

"Not today. Next time, though."

"Max. Remember this," said Joseph. "The Lord takes us when our time is come -- no sooner, no later. I didn't know that when He took my Camille. He took her and it was like He ripped out my own heart. Then, one day I know it -- grieving is worse when you're remembering all the time you should've been kissing and wasn't."

Max nodded a silent acknowledgement, then shook his hand. Lena told him she was happy to have met him. Joseph called after them as they went out the door.

"Bring this pretty lady back, man. She's got good taste in the arts!"

The walk to the top of the steps along the dam brought them close to three hundred feet above the rocky riverbed below. Max looked over the drop, releasing his handful of pebbles one at a time and watching them bounce and slide down the slope of the structure, splashing silently into the water below.

Lena had been watching the water fall over the spillway from the opposite side. She could see several large fish coming to the top suspiciously, and then swimming away once they broke the surface. Occasionally, a smaller fish would blindly allow itself to become caught in the thin stream of water going over the spillway. She doubted if many lived after skidding along the seventy-five degree slope into the debris-filled water below.

Max released his last rock and watched it hit the water where Janet had stood in her father's waders last summer. The picture he had been staring at this morning was alive in his mind. She had been fooling around, whipping the fly-rod around, and screaming bloody murder when the cold water came in over the waders. She had scared the fish away for a mile as Max sat safely on shore, snapping pictures of her until she slipped and went under completely. When she tried to get out with her waders full of water he was laughing so uncontrollably that he dropped the camera in the mud.

Lena stood beside him. "You spent a lot of time here with her, didn't you?"

Max could only nod. He took her hand politely and they walked back to the steps. He felt renewed again, as if he really had visited Janet here. The touch of Lena's hand made him sorry again for his selfishness. She had been trying to comfort him like a friend.

They could feel the generator humming beneath their feet as they descended the steps. At the bottom they rested at a picnic table chained to the railing. They were below the jetting water from the hydroelectric pumps, only yards away from the mud he had dropped the camera into a year ago. He could almost imagine that it was Janet rather than Lena beside him as they looked up at the mammoth concrete creation.

"Makes a person feel small, doesn't it?" he said.

"It looks big to us, but I doubt if God thinks much of it." Max looked at her, puzzled. It seemed a strange thing to say.

"Yet some people would look at what you did yesterday, and think it was nothing. But I know God thought a lot of it," she said.

"Do you mean carrying the sign?"

"Actually, I meant being brave enough to accept Christ."

"Christ did the work by dying on the cross. I only asked to be included in on the deal."

"Yeah, but nobody else could have done that for you. In Christ's kingdom, each of us is infinitely more important than that pile of rock. God put us here for a reason, and He saves us for His purpose. Why do you think He allowed you to be saved, Max?"

Why, indeed! He preferred to delay this line of the conversation, doubting she would appreciate his answer. She had mentioned the big-talkers trying to impress her with violent but imaginary plans to close the clinics, and he did not want to be accused of joining their ranks.

"You really sound like your dad." It was a compliment. Max appreciated her words, and was comforted by the spiritual calm she emanated, but he still lacked the understanding to experience them himself. He looked at her closely now for the first time today. Her dark hair set off her blue, almond-shaped eyes, and was pulled into a long ponytail behind her. There was a fearlessness about her jaw and a strength in her countenance. He had seen concern in her eyes before, and now saw trust.

"Tell me about her," she said.

Max considered the request. Normally, propriety would have demanded a slower and more careful conversation. But this bond between them was supernatural, as if they were links in a chain of events that he could only dimly visualize at the moment -- like the memory of his recent dreams. Their meeting was just too perfect to have been accidental. The purpose God had for him, whatever it was, included her.

"Janet was my best friend," he began.

Within a short time, Max told her of his parent's murder, the orphanage, and the day he met Janet. He explained the foolish fight they had last year, and how he had heard of the abortion, and about Blaine. He told her about going to see Kadill, as if under a spell, knowing now that he must have gone there to kill him.

He described yesterday as if it were a century ago and the events now legend. He recalled the moment he saw the baby kick, the arrest, and their conversation in the jail. The day had been perhaps the most significant in his life -- his philosophy and destiny possibly converted forever.

"I've just made my life sound like a horror story, but it wasn't so bad. That is, there really were a lot of good times." But then he had a feeling that he had told her his first lie. He knew that the good times had been buried.

"What's next, Max?"

"Next? What else? I've got to stop him, Lena."

His emotionless voice made her look away. "You kill one dog, the master buys another."

"What?"

"It's something a friend of mine, Thomas, once said. The masters of the game -- those making the real profits from the abortuaries -- they'll just buy another abortionist. They're cheap."

"Why was your friend talking about killing abortionists?"

"He wasn't. He was talking me out of it."

"Oh yeah? I wish I could say I'm glad he did."

"Don't judge him, he was just protecting me. He even offered to marry me three Christmas eves ago, just to protect me."

"And why --"

"Why didn't I marry him? Maybe I should have. My point was, I don't think much can be accomplished anymore by killing them. You kill the abortionist, the police kill you, and another abortionist takes his place. But who takes your place?"

Max never expected her to be in sympathy with a plan that included violent action, and was surprised to hear that she believed violence a solution at all. He knew it was no accident that they had shared such thoughts.

"What's your story, Lena? Why do you work with Reynolds at the crisis center?" Why were you talking about killing abortionists?

She stood, picked up a rock, and dropped it over the fence. Before it hit the water she decided to tell him, regardless of the consequences.

She turned and faced him. "Ever been to Hershey, Max?"

He shook his head.

"Then all I can tell you about it is that ever since I can remember I wanted out. I married a guy against my parent's wishes when I was nineteen. He was twenty-nine. He turned out to be a genuine psychopath. He would beat me when he got drunk, just like his daddy beat him and his mother. When I became pregnant I thought things would change -- I thought he would be happy. He was at first, I think. But one night he came home drunk and insisted I abort our baby. I was three months pregnant.

"I couldn't understand his change of attitude. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't have it. He threatened to leave me if I didn't do it. I was totally confused.

"I remember waiting in the clinic, knowing what I was doing was wrong. I drove all night to Philadelphia for the appointment, and I was exhausted. I gave them the two hundred and fifty bucks and sat sweating in their stinking waiting room for an hour and a half. Finally I was taken to a room and told to undress, and put my feet in the stirrups. Do you know what I mean?"

Max nodded.

"The abortionist came in and didn't say a word. He just started to..."

Lena sat down at the table. Max put his hand on hers, and she lifted her head again. He could see she had suffered greatly, and that the torturing memories still came back harsh and painful.

"Well, I couldn't cooperate. He left the room and a woman dressed like a nurse came in and asked me if I wanted the abortion or not. When I told her I didn't know, well, she went crazy. She started telling me about how important the time of the clinic was, and how disappointed my `boyfriend' would be -- she didn't even think to ask if I was married!

"She verbally harassed me for about ten minutes until I agreed. As soon as she left the room I got dressed and ran from there. I don't even think she was a nurse, Max. How could she be?

"I cried all the way home, praying he wouldn't be drinking. I didn't know how I was going to explain that I not only didn't let them kill the child, but that I didn't get the money back, either."

Lena's hands became fists and she struggled with the words. "But he had been drinking -- maybe all day. Maybe the worse I'd ever seen him. He must have known what we were doing was evil. The liquor had demonized him to the degree that he actually spoke clearly and didn't stagger when he walked, yet he wasn't the same person.

"I told him what happened. Stupid. The first thing he did twist my arm until it broke, here," she pointed to the lower radius of her left arm. "The pressure disconnected my shoulder blade. I remember screaming so loud it must have scared him, and I broke away and ran out of the house.

"He caught me at the edge of the lawn and threw me down. The last thing I remember is being beaten hard in the belly."

She swallowed hard and took a breath, looking pale now.

"I woke up in the hospital three days later. He was out on bail and sitting next to me when I woke up. Can you believe it? My baby is gone, I've got a broken arm, a broken jaw, this bone by my eye is fractured, my pelvic bone is splintered in two places, I'm black and blue, and they let him in!"

Max did not know what to say.

"It's even worse than that, Max," she laughed. "The irony was that he apologized and I forgave him! He asked me to forgive him, and like an idiot --" She shook her head in disbelief.

"A couple of weeks later they released me, and I decided to go to a church down the street the next Sunday. The denomination didn't seem important at the time, I was just feeling guilty, and I was really hurting for my baby. I found some comfort there for a few weeks, but one day I came home and found him drunk and unconscious on the couch. It scared me, Max, thinking about the pain he put me through.

"But I was mad, too. Seeing him wasted and useless like that was exactly the way I wanted to remember him. I packed a bag and never looked back."

"He's a jerk. Let's hope he suffocated in his own vomit after you left."

"Let's just pray he gets saved, okay, Max? Then maybe he can make up for all the damage he's done in his life."

Max felt properly chastised. He knew he had no room to judge anyone else after today.

"I guess that's another reason why I don't talk with my parents anymore," she said. "I always blamed them for pushing me into marrying him."

"I thought you said your parents didn't approve."

"That's what I mean."

Max had to ponder that paradox for a moment. "So you didn't go back to your parents?"

"No. No, I thought I'd lose myself in the city. I drove to Columbus and stayed with a girlfriend from school. I got a part- time job selling cosmetics at Lazarus and went to night school at Franklin University. My involvement in the pro-life movement then was just something to ease my conscience. I was so bitter at my husband and those jerks at the clinic that I wanted to do what I could to make things difficult for the abortionists. That's when I started calling the abortion clinics with bomb threats."

Max could not resist a smile.

"Finally they got used to my voice, so I started calling the fire departments and police stations directly. I'd been doing it about a week when they caught me. I never used the same pay phone, and I wasn't even on the phone two minutes that last time before the cops pulled up and arrested me."

"What happened?"

"In the end they offered to drop all the charges if I agreed to talk with a social worker for a few hours a week and sign their papers saying I was completely guilty of all charges. I had to agree never to use the telephones contrary to public law, and that I would never contact any of the clinics, their workers, or clients. So naturally I couldn't sign it."

"How did you get out?"

"I didn't know it at the time, but one of the clerks in the courthouse was a pro-lifer. She caught wind of what was happening to me and made some calls. I was out on bail the next morning."

Max never would have guessed this girl he had once thought to be a mere nineteen could have gone through so much.

"You're sharing a lot with someone who, only yesterday, might have been an FBI agent." His smile let her know he was kidding her. She blushed anyway.

"Tell me more, Lena. What are you doing in Lewisburg?

"I was picked up again for harassing the clinic workers. Actually I was following them. This was before the anti-stalking laws, of course. I'd made notes on all of them. I had their addresses, the times they were home, their favorite restaurants -- even their mail."

"Their mail?"

"Yeah, I sort of read their mail before they did."

"Sounds like a federal offense."

"I knew that. But my state of mind wasn't exactly clear. It was probably much like yours seemed to be the other day. My dementia was such that I didn't even have a plan to use the information I'd gathered. I'd dreamed of burning their houses to the ground, but I was afraid a fireman might be hurt."

"Did you ever use the notes?"

"I never did, but I gave the notes to someone who did."

"You mean Thomas?"

The cool wind buffeted against them suddenly, causing them to look up at the sun, now vanquished by the gray bank of clouds moving swiftly over them. He took her hand and they walked quickly toward the car.

"So how did you meet him?" he asked, as they descended the last flight of steps.

"It was Thomas that bailed me out and hired the lawyer, which was really tough for him because he hates lawyers.

"He put up the bail money to get me out the second time, too. The clerk that I mentioned introduced us. He took me out for dinner and we talked all night. He convinced me that if I went to trial I'd be locked up for a long time, possibly in the state mental institution. He told me about his friends here, and how I could be safe from prison and still be effective while working at the clinic. So I jumped bail, and here I am."

A light rain hit them just as he opened the door for her. Things made a more sense now. As soon as he was in his seat he asked, "So the adoption is something of a cover -- a name change? And working at the crisis center probably allows you to collect a lot of information on the abortionists around here, doesn't it?"

She smiled in a way that told him he had hit upon the obvious.

No longer dwelling on the reasons that had driven him to come to the reservoir, Max began formulating a multitude of questions to ask her and her friend, Thomas.

"I think I like your friend already. What do you think he'd say about my plans to stop Kadill?"

"What plans?"

"Well, let's say, if I had plans, do you think he'd be interested in hearing them?"

"Probably," she said. "I'll ask him. He always seems to know a better way to do things. He's done a lot of fighting." She wanted to tell him more about Thomas Olshane, about his convictions and his experience in the Navy Special Warfare units, and later recruitment into the CIA's Mike Force counterterrorist team. Yet, restrained by a former promise, she allowed what she had said to suffice. She looked away from him and contented herself with the rain-distorted view of the scenery.

Max fought the troubling memories flooding back as he turned the car onto the highway heading home.

"Maybe the three of us could visit soon, and discuss these things," he suggested.

"Probably." she said. "I could cook dinner for us and you can try my homemade herb tea."

"It's a date."

Most of the family had been waiting for Max to surface before leaving the Clausen's, though it was obvious that the gathering had thinned. Many of the neighbors and lesser known acquaintances quickly surrounded him, expressing their condensed form of pity into an ineffectual sentiment before making their getaway. Max tolerated them, knowing how poorly he, himself, had acted in his faithless past.

It was not until Max entered the house in Lena's company that he realized how inappropriate his departure with her had been. He could see it in their eyes -- he had assumed too much in trusting his friends to trust him. No doubt, there would now be speculation that Lena had come between Max and Janet. The thought threw a grimace across Max's face. He hated not being trusted. He would offer them no explanations.

Janet's cousins from Pennsylvania had never experienced a death in the family, and were traumatized. He could hear them crying together in a corner of the kitchen.

His attention was turned away from them when someone said he should get a plate of food. The buffet table, complete with shakers of cayenne pepper, looked as if the dogs had been let loose on it.

Max went to Mrs. Clausen and hugged her tightly. He listened patiently as she told Max the names and occupations of the relatives he had never met. Shortly, Lena joined them.

"Is the Lord supplying you any peace, Mrs. Clausen?" Lena asked. Mrs. Clausen could only take her hand and pat it nervously. Her weary and confused countenance betrayed the answer.

As evening approached, the conversation grew still. When the stream of orange twilight filled the house, Max walked to the vacant porch to absorb it. The cars were parked tightly along the drive, and Max could see the setting sun in six different windshields. The tulips that had filled the yard only a few weeks earlier had faded, leaving their withered stems swaying in the cold mist blowing over them. Max saw the breeze sweep the remaining petals from a yellow tulip, and the sense of deja vu was upon him again, though he did not understand why.

Jerry joined him, handing him a cup of doctored coffee. "It's hot," he said.

"Thanks." Max seemed to be looking directly into the heart of the sun.

"Tell me about this girl Lena," said Jerry. "Does she mean anything to you?"

Max considered the implications of that question, and his answer. The inevitable gossipers must be drawing their conclusions about their relationship... and why not? He had left with her, and then arrived with her hours behind everyone else. Why should he be immune from the world's most popular verbal recreation?

"She's a great girl, Jerry. The pastor's adopted daughter, I understand. She and her dad are good friends of mine. Have you been introduced?"

"I wouldn't mind it. She looks interesting, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. Only tread carefully, brother. She told me her boyfriend is tough."

"Great. Are you trying to get me killed?"

Max tasted the coffee and set the cup beside him on the wide wooden railing encompassing the porch. He looked back at the tulip where the petals had fallen and were now being beaten into the grass by the wind. The dream almost came back to him.

"I've been missing her for months. Now all I can do is miss her," said Max.

"What will you do?"

Max shook his head slowly. "I don't know what's going to happen now, but somehow it's as if it doesn't matter. I am sure of one thing -- I can't stay in that house much longer without going nuts from the nightmares. I want you to help me get rid of it."

"You mean sell the house?"

"Right. I'll give you power-of-attorney in the matter. I don't want to be at the closing. When you sell it, we'll split the profits."

"Why split the profits? I'd be glad to do it for five percent. I can probably have that place sold before the end of the month!"

"Have it your way, Jerry. Can you get started right away?"

"I suppose."

"I'd like you to meet me at the downtown branch of Lewisburg Trust to sign the papers -- say, Tuesday at four o'clock."

"Sure. But where will you move when it sells?"

"Doesn't matter."

Max's words sounded dead, and Jerry knew his mother had been right in worrying about him.

"You know, Max -- you could move in with us until you found a place. Mom would really like that."

"Thanks for the invitation. I might take you up on it someday."

They turned at the sound of the screen door slamming. It was Lena, her eyes squinting and her hair catching the final highlights of the setting sun. Jerry fell in love.

"Max, Mrs. Clausen asked me to find you," she said.

"Okay, thanks. Lena, have you met my brother-in-law, Jerry Clausen? Jerry, this is Lena Reynolds."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Reynolds," Jerry said, offering his hand. She took it and smiled.

"Jerry is in desperate need of being saved," said Max. "Would you two excuse me?"

Max left the porch with a devilish smile, thinking it funny to have thrown him so abruptly into her frying pan. Of course, the conversation would have gone that way eventually, and Max was sure that Jerry was going to get nowhere with her until he established a spiritual foundation. He might as well get it over with.

Mrs. Clausen was just hanging up the phone. "Max, Blaine has been at the garage in Chestnut Hills all afternoon. She never got her car started after the funeral and she needs a ride. She says they can't get the part before Tuesday. Can you pick her up on your way back to Lewisburg?"

He almost said, "Why me?" but caught himself. Expressing any ambivalence toward Blaine would be dangerously close to opening a bad can of worms. In Mrs. Clausen's mind, Blaine was Janet's best friend. Apparently, Blaine was to be bound to Max like the pile of chains around Marley's ghost.

"Sure, Mom," he said, kissing her cheek again. The deep sadness still in her eyes told him she was unconvinced of God's plan in this.

Max said his good-byes to everyone in the house while covertly looking for someone else to pick up Blaine. The only remaining possibility was the pastor. Peeking into the kitchen where the young girls had been crying, Max saw Reynolds sitting at the table with them, answering their questions. Rather than interrupt, Max pulled on his coat and walked onto the porch.

Jerry and Lena were sitting close on the porch swing. He had put his jacket around her, and was now bravely shivering, preferring the cooler seclusion to the warmer lack of privacy inside.

"Excuse me, kids. Mom's asked me to pick up Blaine in town. She's stranded and needs a ride home." Max took Lena's hand. "Thank you for coming with me today. You were a comfort, believe me."

Max thought he detected a shade of disappointment in her smile. "I'll see you tomorrow," he promised.

Blaine sat in her car listening to the radio under the unlit overhang of Cheeseman's Garage. When Max pulled up she quickly jumped in with him, apologizing for the trouble she was causing. Max noticed that her voice sounded different.

Her black funeral garb made her mood seem all the more somber. The clothing was too sheer for the weather, and she rubbed her arms through the thin jacket to warm them. Max turned up the heat for her. She smiled gratefully.

"I didn't expect you to come. I thought Jerry, maybe."

"I'm as disappointed as you are," he said.

"Sorry. I didn't mean it that way. You know I appreciate it."

She started digging around in her clutch purse, in vain at first, but then victoriously retrieving a clove-flavored cigarette.

"May I?" she asked. He took the black Zippo from his coat pocket and lit it for her. After several minutes of inhaling the smoke she seemed to relax.

"So what's wrong with your car?"

"Same as always." She tapped the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and looked out the window. "This car is supposed to be fast."

"Not tonight." The road was too dark, and not yet wet enough to have washed off the oils floating on the surface of the pavement. The car was still precious to him.

Max pushed a button on the compact disc player and turned up the volume. The vintage jazz of Miles Davis again filled the air. The entire disc played through before they arrived at her apartment on Findhorn Circle.

"Come in for a little bit, Max." She was looking into his eyes. Her mouth was slightly open, and he could see her sharp incisors.

"No thanks, but I'll walk you to the door." He jumped from his seat to open the door for her. She would not have allowed it, but she was busy digging in her purse for her keys.

He walked her to the door and she held his hand firmly, as if afraid of something inside the apartment. She deftly unlocked the door and gently pulled him inside.

A warning flash hit him between the eyes as she put her arms around him, actually hugging him. His heart raced at the alien touch of her hands, the obscuring scent of her perfume, the dim amber and ruby lights from the Tiffany lamp warming her complexion. Unconsciously, his reason began searching for compromises.

This could never happen. Wouldn't Jan be here if it wasn't for Blaine? Even this much comfort in her arms feels like betrayal.

She took his hand in hers and placed it on her hip, covering his hand with her own. Max knew he would either force himself away from her now, or risk never leaving her. He took her hands in his and looked into her blue eyes.

"We can't bring her back, Blaine. I know you're sorry, and you'd like me to forgive you. I have. But more than that would be wrong."

She stepped away from him and folded her arms. "You still blame me."

"We were both at fault. We've admitted as much. That's why this could never be right. It's like a crime against nature, Blaine -- we don't deserve this."

Or maybe we do deserve each other, thought Max. How long would we torture each other in these little rooms?

Her hands went around his neck and she drew herself close to him again. The sob in her voice told him she understood.

"I'm afraid, Max. I didn't know we were so fragile. Ever since I was a baby I've seen people get shot up in the movies and walk away. They've always told us it was safe -- safer than having the baby. Max, I'm afraid to die. I don't want God to hate me for killing her." She was rambling.

Max hugged her then, just for a moment, and then felt her weight against him as she collapsed like an abandoned marionette. He helped her to the divan, her chest heaving under the burden of her sobs. Max felt compelled to stay, and pulled a chair from the wall and sat beside her.

"Blaine, did anything Pastor Reynolds say to you today make sense? Do you believe God can forgive us?"

"Yes. I believe that." She forced her composure. "But we have to ask Him. I'm afraid of that. I haven't prayed since I was a kid. Besides, why should He forgive me? I don't deserve it."

"That's it, Blaine, we don't deserve it, but He's promised that if we confess our sins and turn away from them, He'll forgive us. None of us can understand how He could love us so much, Blaine, but He doesn't lie. Until we ask Him to forgive us, we have no hope. It may be just as the preacher said at the funeral; maybe God had to take her now, or risk losing all of us."

"I'm embarrassed."

Max looked at the floor. "Me too. We should be. Be brave, girl!"

He took her hand and went to his knees on the floor. He asked his Creator to hear his prayer, and, not knowing where to start, began by approximating the prayer he had said in jail hoping to set an example for her. When she heard him say, "Lord, please give this girl the strength to ask your forgiveness," she slipped beside him, her forehead touching the floor, and began:

"Lord, please forgive me. I've done the most terrible thing..."

A few minutes later she was quiet, and Max sensed the peacefulness in the room. He looked at her and smiled, pleased to have heard her renew her childhood vows to Christ, but she did not look at him. She had found something precious she had lost long ago, and seemed to be holding it fast to her out of fear it might vanish.

He sat in the chair for several minutes before she picked herself up from the floor. She slid back onto the divan and hugged a pillow tightly to her.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'd forgotten the promises I made. So much has happened since then. Maybe now I can keep those promises." She shook her head regretfully, "None of my friends are going to understand."

"What do you mean?"

"They go to church -- a kind of church. They mostly sing folksy feel-good songs and have guest speakers from Nicaragua and Cuba and Planned Parenthood, and talk about some universal god that I never understood. Of course, my parents taught me better than that. Anyway, my friends actually hate Christians, and especially fundamentalist politics. They would have a field day with Reynolds."

"And you're afraid they'll hate you, too? Has your viewpoint changed so radically in the last few days?"

"No. The only thing that's changed is my absolute conviction that we were right about what we did."

"Come to Reynolds' church with me tomorrow. I'll pick you up at nine-thirty."

She was afraid to answer, but when their eyes met she nodded.

Max left her there in the half-dark. Opening the door, the beauty of the star-filled sky enveloped his senses. The wind had swept away the clouds and the crystal millions were spread everywhere. He could feel the universe in motion, and the hand of God spinning it all around him. Max breathed it all in.

Walking to the car, he imagined how tragically this encounter could have ended had he not met Reynolds. Max resisted the impulse to strangle Blaine earlier, but he doubted he could otherwise have resisted the opportunity to compromise her virtue tonight in revenge -- though they both be damned. Max thanked God for deliverance as he reflected on the terrible outcome of such an alliance. How long would they have tortured each other in that sick Morbius loop of inflicting pain and guilt? Months? Years?

He fired the engine and glanced over his shoulder at her apartment as he shifted into first gear. Her screen door was open, the breeze beating it lightly against the brick. He wondered if he had left it open on purpose.

As he sped through the streets, it occurred to him that someone else was safe tonight because of Reynolds. How easily he might have bungled his visit to Kadill! Now he could move thoughtfully, rationally, toward their next meeting. Max remembered the baby he had seen locked in the forceps, kicking hopelessly.

And what happened to my baby?

Part Two: The Chance

The overfaithful sword returns the user

Friday morning, June 4th

Max could hear them arguing outside the courtroom doors as he approached. He hesitated for a moment before quietly swinging the heavy oak and slipping inside.

"I can see no point in continuing this, Your Honor," said the prosecutor. "Mister Reynolds is trying to use this court as a religious soapbox."

"Mister Reynolds, is it possible for you to restrict your statement to the matter at hand?" asked Judge Bockmann.

"Sir, I can't see how my expository on the far-reaching nature of my persecution is any different from the closing statements made by the prosecutor," said Reynolds. "Isn't the defense entitled to equal latitude?"

"Will you both approach the bench, please?"

The judge covered his desk-mounted microphone with his hand and lowered his voice as he spoke.

"Mister Reynolds, it's your right to expound on any relevant argument, but let me warn you that your rambling is not conducive to placating the jury." He turned to the prosecutor. "So, why are you complaining, Jack? He can only hurt his case with this nonsense."

"I'm willing to seem a fool for the sake of Christ," injected Reynolds.

Prosecutor Jack Chrysler shrugged his shoulders.

"So be it," he said, removing his hand from the mike. "The prosecution's motion is overruled. Please continue, Mr. Reynolds."

Max was surprised that so much had happened already. He was only an hour late, yet had apparently missed most of the trial. As he searched the room for Lena he recognized several people from the small church Reynolds pastored. Max had only visited the church four times in the eight weeks since the funeral, and every time he managed to sit beside Lena.

He held hopes of speaking with her today. The connections he had made this last week seemed to be bringing him rapidly to his goals. There had been no obstacles in his path these past weeks to prevent -- or even inhibit -- his progress, which only convinced him that his prayers were being answered. With Jerry's help, he had managed to sell most of his possessions in favor of anonymous mobility. Also, miraculously, his goals were now unimpeded by a demanding job. Even the precious, but traceable, Taurus SHO had found a new home with Joey's son, Easton.

The inadequate air conditioning hummed away with little effect as women fanned themselves and men removed their coats and struggled with their ties. The wood that was everywhere in the room was also affected, secreting an oily scent he associated with the orphanage library. He took a deep breath and tried to arouse a memory as her cool hand slipped over his.

"Isn't this exciting?" said Lena.

"Closing arguments already?" asked Max.

"They moved it ahead an hour. The Pastor's already made his case. He even got something in on jury nullification!"

Max nodded as if he knew what that meant and looked to Reynolds. He was standing only a few feet from the jury box, his arms folded in front of him.

"Moral absolutes are universal," began Reynolds. "And whether or not they are recognized by the world at large doesn't change them. Unfortunately, the rational world that once knew these absolutes has been corrupted. It no longer exists.

"A real battle rages in this world. When the Bible says that we `wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places,' it isn't speaking of just a philosophical war, or some political problem two thousand years ago -- God is telling us of a spiritual war between the world and the followers of Christ! This war is being fought on many fronts today, but none seem to be as dangerously close to being won by the enemies of God as the war against the family.

"We live in a nation whose policies dictate the mandatory teaching of the theory of evolution as if it were fact. A generation of students groomed on this theory now believe their unborn children are no more than developing tadpoles. As a result, we are throwing them away at the rate of over one and a half million a year. Try for a moment to understand that number. The masses of children killed by aborticide in this country are greater than the dead from every war this nation has ever fought!

"It's the moral bankruptcy of our culture that endorses the wholesale sacrifice of our children on the altar of convenience. It's become so horribly commonplace that the average American won't shed a tear for these children, and even Christians can't get too upset about it anymore. In mixed company the subject has become taboo for fear that we might emotionally distress someone in the crowd who may have committed aborticide. When faced with the gruesome reality of trash bags full of babies, it indicts the condition of our depraved national conscience that we are more concerned as a nation with how to recycle the plastic bags!

"Eighteen hundred years ago Tertullian wrote, `To hinder a birth is merely a speedier man-killing; nor does it matter whether you take away a life that is born, or destroy one that is coming to birth. That is a man which is going to be one; you have the fruit already in its seed.'"

The prosecutor yawned loud enough for half the room to hear.

"There was a time in this country that all public officials accepted their office only after swearing on the Bible to keep God's laws." Reynolds shot the prosecutor a glance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you think I exaggerate the immediacy of the problem, let me remind you that another four thousand babies will be executed without a trial in this country before the sun sets!

"Even the Mayor of New York is discussing a tax on live babies! Can you see the insidious nature of God's enemies, folks? With their twisted mentality they will even delude themselves into thinking they'll use these taxes to fund the social programs that prevent child abuse! With this newfound revenue they can promise a better SWAT team for every neighborhood, perhaps even eight- hundred numbers that pay people to inform on their neighbors, and other improvements for the New World Order. Not that actual child abuse is not a crime worthy of punishment, but how long will it be before it becomes a criminal act not to apply for a social security number for your child? Parents who homeschool their children to Christian schools are already treated like criminals.

"The darkness in which some legislators dwell prevents them from seeing aborticide as the ultimate child abuse. Since 1973 and the acceptance of preborn child killing, child abuse has increased five hundred percent. This is hardly surprising, since we've been listening for years to the humanists call the unborn by every name except human!

"I have a newspaper article from April 29th, 1967, and the headline reads Unborn Baby Ruled `Person.' It describes an event in Boston where a child was aborted in a traffic accident. The prosecution was successful in recovering damages for wrongful injury on behalf of the unborn child against the owners of the truck that struck the automobile. That was just twenty-six years ago. I ask the court's permission to pass the exhibits."

"Granted," said Bockmann.

"Today, thirty-seven states and the majority of insurance companies recognize the unborn children as people deserving protection under the law. Yet, most of those states allow the mother to conspire to murder those same children. Why is this? How can a preborn child be a person one moment, and a disposable option the next moment?

"Now when the distorted legislature makes it possible for their legions to use state funds to pay that abortionist, but tax you two hundred and fifty bucks for the state-granted privilege of bringing your child into their world, let's face it; they have claimed sovereignty over the Creator. And the kicker is -- once that baby is born it's theirs!

"I'd like to digress for just a few moments to show how this idea that we are the `property' of the State became so well-rooted in our government. Allow me to paraphrase a few sentences of the Walters case from 1950:

"`It is to be remembered that the public -- that is, the State -- has a paramount interest in the virtue and knowledge of its members, and that the strict right to the business of education belongs to the State. The parents are ordinarily entrusted with it, but the privilege is obviously held at the sufferance of the State, and there is nothing to prevent the withdrawal of that privilege.'"

Reynolds handed the paper to the nearest juror and continued. "`The authority of all guardians, that includes the parents, is derived from the State. There is no parental authority independent of the supreme power of the State.' That was the Allison case of 1908, and it speaks for itself. But there's more.

"`The moment a child is born he owes his allegiance to the government, and the government places him under guardianship that he may acquire the education which will enable him to afterwards discharge the duty which he owes to his country.' That was the Powell case from 1912, the fascist philosophy of which was followed in the Shin decision of 1961. A California district court of appeals contended that the government educational system `has a primary function of training school children in loyalty to the State.' The State has claimed itself to be the parens patriae, the guardian of the country, and final judge of whether other guardians, such as the parents, have failed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, these court decisions have been handed down through the decades, and Christians failed to challenge them because they didn't seem to affect them at the time -- just as we ignore most of what is happening today for the same reason. Now someone calls an eight-hundred number because they see a parent correcting their child; or a family has the police at their door because they tried to move their child from the public school system to an alternative school; or we seek recourse against an abortuary because our seventeen year old daughter was counseled into committing murder -- and we end up powerless in the courts. The prosecutor turns to the jury and says, `Hey! We've got eighty years of precedent here!'

"What we see coming, if history is any teacher, is that the sole determination of State-endorsed guardianship will become the willingness to submit our children, and ourselves for that matter, fully to the State. The prophetic Revelation of Jesus Christ details a day in which all who refuse the mark of the beast will be cruelly martyred by a Satanic world government, but all who believe the lie and willingly accept the mark will be eternally damned. How long will it be, ladies and gentlemen? How long?

"Today, a professor of political science at Princeton writes a book in which he asserts that the State is the `permanent, universal frame of human existence,' and that man is a `derivative' of the State; that man is a creation of the State; that man's nature was formed by government; that our rights are derived from the State; that the State has sovereign supremacy over all of us; that our rights exist only in the State, but not apart, thus they are correlated again to duty. If you thought you'd heard that fascist garbage before, or read it in a college course on Marxism, you're correct -- but are you surprised that it happens to be on your government's list of suggested reading?

"These socialist philosophies were revered by the sainted founder of Planned Parenthood, Margaret Sanger, whose name is proudly displayed over the downtown abortuary where I was arrested. She was a self-proclaimed eugenicist who said the objective of her organization was, `unlimited sexual gratification without the burden of unwanted children.' She termed marriage, `the most degenerating influence in the social order.' Sanger praised Nazi theories of race superiority, and set out to eliminate those she considered, `the dead weight of human waste,' which included the poor and minorities she labeled `inferior.' It's a tribute to the judgment of God that the final days of that hedonist were spent in lunacy.

Max noticed at least three jurors squirm uncomfortably in their seats.

"What we are talking about here, folks, is idolatry; the sacrificing of our lives, and our children's lives to anyone, or anything, apart from God. In ancient days, the children of Israel sacrificed their children to the false god Molech. Today, they are sacrificed for time and money.

"Our lack of diligence has led to a failing to keep God's laws on the books. Our executive branch actually endorses the slaughter of the innocent, and the judicial system puts their stamp of approval on such abominations as Roe versus Wade and Doe versus Bolton. It seems to me that we have a responsibility as citizens, and you as jurors, to do our part to stop this current holocaust of government-assisted aborticide.

"This is not a new problem we face, just an entrenched one. The early 1900's brought a few obscure court rulings that defined the State as a loving father, and our ancestors, like us, sat around and said, `I don't have any problem with the State. They haven't threatened me because I correct my children, or teach them at home, or believe they're better off without social security numbers,' or whatever. Then the decades passed, and the rulings have built up, brick by brick, into an inaccessible wall of bureaucracy. If we dare go to courts for remedy today, we walk away ruined and disillusioned -- cursing our parents for sitting down when they had their chance to fight.

"But what will your children say when their time of trouble arrives? Will they curse you, or bless you for what you've left them? We should remember that during the world wars many of our parents and grandparents fought against an enemy that seemed obvious and identifiable to them. Some even allowed themselves to be packed off to the other side of the planet -- knowing they might never return -- to preserve their vision of America for us. Whether you agree philosophically with those wars or not doesn't diminish the nobility of their courageous efforts in standing to fight against the evil of their time.

"That was their time. Today is our time. We need to recognize the evil that has taken root in our own soil and put an axe to its offspring, or suffer the consequences of our children's cursed futures. We need to cleanse the land of this evil for the sake of the unborn children who are just as human, and just as deserving of protection as our own children.

"If we were living under a godly government, our justice system would have put an end to the slaughter. Now it falls on the children of God to be the righteous instrument of His judgment. The hierarchy of command falls to their spiritual leaders in such a crisis. The ministers of God's Word must lead the nation into a physical, as well as spiritual, resistance against this sin. Perhaps God may still forgive the nation and turn away his wrath.

"These are a few of the reasons Christians protest the killing of the unborn, and why men and women of conscience must always battle the powers of darkness; whether it be from the sidewalk of an abortion clinic, or the seat of the jury box."

The prosecutor was sitting tall in his chair now, looking concerned that the jury had listened so intently to Reynolds. Reynolds went to his seat and Bockmann asked if the defense had concluded. He got his answer and turned to the jury.

"As jurors, your duty is to determine only if the defendant was in violation of the court ordered injunction, and therefore in contempt. Your determination should be guided by the facts of the case, and not by the religious convictions of the defendant that may have no bearing on guilt or innocence. The bailiff will escort you to the jury room for deliberation."

The jury filed out through a rear door, and the judge announced a ninety minute recess.

"What was the judge doing?" Max asked Lena. "Trying to undo everything Reynolds said?"

"Typical jury instructions. They're never told that they not only have the power to judge the facts of the case, but may also determine whether the law is just."

Reynolds was surrounded by members of the church, offering encouragement and slaps on the back. The prosecutor had left the room by the same door as the judge, leaving Max to wonder if they were discussing the case together.

"What do you think will happen?" he asked.

"It doesn't do them any good at this point to put preachers in jail for speaking out against murder. He'll probably just get the maximum fine."

"I mean -- you sound as if you're sure they'll conclude he's guilty."

"I'm sure dad will be pleasantly surprised if they don't. But what they think doesn't matter at all. We know he's innocent. This has just been another opportunity for dad to witness to a captive audience."

Max noticed her attention suddenly drawn to the doorway where a large man stood, sporting a dark leather jacket, jeans, and closely cropped hair. The jacket had the name patch missing.

"Thanks for coming, Max," said Reynolds. "The church is feeling a bit hungry, and believes we should take some time to pray for this jury -- not necessary in that order, though they'll probably want to squeeze it into grace. Want to join us?"

"Excuse me for a second," said Lena. She slipped away to join the man in the doorway.

"Sure. I guess --"

"What did you think of the trial?"

"What should I think? I never knew this kind of religious persecution was going on in America." said Max.

"This is nothing. You should see what we have to go through for being an unregistered church. But that's another story. Tell me where you've been lately."

"Preparing to leave next week. I doubt that I'll be able to come back to the church."

"Why is that, Max?"

He lowered his voice. "My plans are pushing me underground. I expect to be a hunted man soon, and don't want to bring my problems down on you and the church. My attendance these last months may make it unavoidable, though. Sorry if they do."

"These plans of yours -- are you sure they are what God wants for you?"

"To the best of my understanding, they are -- but I have been struggling with a question."

"Perhaps we should talk about this. Why don't you stop in my office this week?"

"Yes. I need to do that."

Reynolds nodded, shook his hand warmly, and then was swallowed up in the small crowd of people waiting to buy him lunch. Lena was standing alone when Max got to her. She smiled at him and took his hand.

"Thomas Olshane was just here. He thinks the three of us should get together for dinner and talk."

"When?"

"Wednesday. He said strange things always happen to him on Wednesdays."

Monday, June 7th

The morning air was tinted slightly gray from the blasts of the semi-trucks traveling on Interstate 96. The latest addition to the glass and steel office buildings along the perimeter of the Jasmine Industrial Park stood yet untarnished by the atmosphere. The few birds desensitized enough to roost in the aesthetic foliage of the parking lot screeched at the highway traffic below them, and took to the air when a Buick sedan drove within a meter of their nests.

The man in black climbed from the rented sedan and walked assertively to the glass and steel office building, again glancing at his watch. It had only been a twenty minute drive from the Detroit Metro Airport. The man in black could hear only his leather soles hitting the concrete and his thin leather briefcase hitting his leg as he crossed the desolate lot. It was only seven a.m., but the three cars parked in the reserved area gave him the evidence to conclude that they had remembered his appointment.

The directory mounted on the lobby wall listed his destination: Pro-Choice Advocacy Collective/Detroit Branch -- Room 101. He walked to the end of the hall and opened the heavy oak door leading to the offices.

The grim interior was vacant of both charm and imagination. Black carpet cut a path through narrow halls where fluorescent light beat harshly against the plain white walls. The man in black attire looked as if he could be a fixture there himself, his tinted prescription sunglasses completing the effect.

He entered room 101 and saw that the secretary's desk was unattended with nobody in sight. He demonstratively dropped his leather briefcase on the desk to announce his arrival and observed the room. There was a line of puffy green chairs with magazine racks stuffed with slick, contemporary periodicals beside them. The light seemed more agreeable, and there was a pleasant fragrance in the room, but a deliberate absence of flowers. Symbols of fertility would be counter-productive here.

A tall black woman dressed in a tailored navy blue business suit rounded the corner. Her suit was decorated with a politically correct fold of red ribbon above her left breast, and her long neck adorned with threads of gold necklace. Her smile seemed carved out of ebony.

"Mr. Linx?" she asked.

"That's right."

"This way," she said, already three paces ahead of him.

He grabbed his briefcase and followed her through the hallway to the only lighted room. She seated herself at the large conference table opposite her colleagues.

The three of them faced him as he entered, quickly drawing evaluations of his nature from their first impression. He stood before them, well over six feet tall. He wore a coal-grey designer cut business suit with a black silk shirt and no tie. His bearing suggested education, and his manner was entirely professional. His smile was appropriately friendly, but his cold blue eyes were squinted deliberately behind the gold-rimmed glasses.

The man sitting closest to him stood and shook his hand.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Linx. We apologize for asking you to come so early, but you can understand how busy we are when we open our doors. I'm Dr. Hao, and this is my associate, Dr. Muer, and our executive secretary, Ms. Durrem. I've made the tape recordings of our telephone conversations available to them as preparation for this meeting, and we're all anxious to hear your story."

The man in black snapped the latches open on the briefcase and removed the business cards and slick, three-color brochures that he handed to them as he spoke.

"I'm pleased to meet you all. I would like to thank you, Dr. Hao, for agreeing to keep this meeting -- whatever its outcome -- entirely confidential. As time is critical, I'll jump right into my reason for being here.

"I am Sam Linx. My brother Lewis and I have built Linx Security from a small one-room office into a network of agents working in eleven metropolitan areas. Each agent has been trained to find trouble areas where we can offer assistance. Until a few years ago we concentrated on securing private businesses, but as microchip cameras have been added to our computer surveillance equipment, we now require a smaller staff to maintain our clients. As a result, we offered an option to our best people to become field agents for the company.

"We had no idea how successful this expansion would be. Although most of our agents serve in our lecture and training seminars, we also have agents working as bodyguards, inter- company informants, and an area we broadly define as `troubleshooting.'

Our troubleshooters are of the highest caliber, working with the latest technology available. They are especially keen at finding problems that they know exist and are capable of solving. Similar to trading in the commodity markets, they look for an opportunity to make a profit by filling the needs during historic shifts in corporate structure. As you may know, the greatest profits are made when the shifts are difficult to predict. The key is always to reduce the risk.

"At Linx Security, we are able to reduce our risks by stressing absolute confidentiality. I've asked for this meeting because we can guarantee a low-risk venture with a specific solution to a problem you may not even know you have. At the same time, I'm here to offer you an opportunity to exploit an otherwise tragic historic shift."

Reaching into the briefcase, he removed a portfolio and opened it in front of him. He lifted several eight-by-ten glossy photographs and typewritten time study reports from the stack of paper and handed them to Ms. Durrem.

"These are a few of the thousands of items we have on a small, and violent group of anti-abortion radicals. Our agents have infiltrated their ranks, and uncovered a conspiracy to systematically destroy the major clinics in three states, as well as assassinating the doctors and workers in those clinics."

The man in black looked into their eyes for a reaction. The two doctors exchanged a brief glance. Dr. Muer nodded, as if he had expected him to say exactly that. Ms. Durrem did not look up, but continued inspecting the business card he had handed her, tracing the raised letters and the company logo of two interlocked chain links with the tip of her fingernail.

"We have reason to believe that this group of extremists may be using this as a test case to motivate other cells of activity nationwide. It is our view that we must work together to secure the suspected targets prior to the attack. If we can defend the staff and property, while simultaneously overpowering the attackers, I believe we can extinguish this threat before it gains momentum. Our agents are in place, prepared to wreak havoc on their plans internally; but they are relying on us at the home office to back them up. This is where cooperation between Linx Security and Pro- Choice Advocacy Collective begins."

"Why haven't you gone to the police with this?" asked Hao. "Don't you think they can protect us?"

"Normally, we would be obligated to do exactly that. Failure to report our findings could be interpreted by some courts as complicity; that is why we have contacted one person we know we can trust in the Detroit police department, just to cover ourselves. He has buried the report for us, but if we ever need to produce it, it's stashed in the records. That's not our problem." He paused for effect, slowly turning a page in his notebook.

"Three weeks ago we received a report from one of our field personnel that leads us to the conclusion that this effort may have financial backing from powers inside our government."

Dubious smiles appeared on the faces of the two doctors. The man in black quickly clarified himself:

"Do you have any reason to believe the government would like to nationalize the abortion industry in the near future? Is it conceivable that proponents of socialized medicine might reach their goals sooner if they could regulate the specific procedures, rather than the men performing those procedures? Haven't we already seen this occurring? Even in your chosen fields of psychiatry there has been significant interference.

"These radical groups who want to destroy the clinics have been receiving large anonymous donations from these outsiders, not knowing that they're playing into the hands of their enemies by creating a problem that can only be solved by government intervention -- such as a special office under the administration's new health care package."

The smiles were gone from the faces of Hao and Muer. They seemed frozen in the possibilities this revelation held for them. They had just signed a five year lease for the Jasmine property, and beginning a private practice had never been an option for either of them.

"What do you expect us to do, Mr. Linx? What would you like to sell us today?"

"What I would like to do is to save your jobs and your client's lives with a customized program that we've prepared and have detailed here. If you're interested, I'll proceed."

"Now that we know this, why not double or triple our own efforts? Why not hire our own bodyguards and policemen?"

"Security is my business, Mr. Hao. The local police are already overworked. Just ask one. If you want to guarantee that your efforts will be compromised, wait until someone approaches your bodyguard with a package of hundred-dollar bills. Let me remind you that your enemy in this can literally print all the money they need."

"Then why do you believe your organization to be immune?"

"Dr. Hao, our company has a self-purging security program in which our senior agents attempt to compromise the newer agents. This is how we develop trust within our organization. No first level agents are trusted by their superiors without intense psychological and field evaluation. No second level agents are trusted until we are confident that they will never sell out to the enemy. No company can meet your special needs like ours simply because only our third level personnel are currently working on this program. Besides being the most trustworthy team in the country, they're all smart enough to know that once they cross the fence with this particular enemy, their lives are at stake. This enemy eats its own.

"And then there's the time factor. Any newcomers to the game will need a year to prepare for what is only a few months away. Going to anyone else now would be disastrous. I seriously don't see an option for you. We all need to take advantage of this unique opportunity.

"One reason we have been so successful is that our agents are so well trained at collecting information. This situation actually developed around our agents who had been positioned for another assignment, and now have a foothold within the enemy camp. We track their movements, record their words, and are capable of substantial sabotage. As a result of our information gathering, our projects team has developed this proposal." He slapped the portfolio.

"In brief, the proposal begins by offering to conduct a confidential security briefing for your physicians and workers. This will prepare them, both mentally and physically, to deal with us in the future as we suppress the situations that will arise at the various clinics. You may have legal representatives in attendance, and we would make available up to an hour and a half for them to lecture on any relevant subject."

The man in black could hear two secretaries talking as they walked the hall toward them. He reached behind him and closed the door. The doctors were showing no signs of anxiousness. He took the seminar programs and the color promotional brochures for the hotel from his briefcase and handed them to Ms. Durrem, who again passed them to the pair of doctors. The professional appearance of the seminar programs seemed to ease their stern expressions. The heading read: "Pro-Choice Advocacy Collective, in association with Linx Security, presents a Physician's Early Warning Security Seminar."

"We've chosen the Omni Hotel in Kalamazoo as the site for this seminar. As you can see, it offers us the prestige your clients will expect, as well as the convenience of a centrally located site for your colleagues in Chicago.

"The seminar is outlined in this rough draft of the program flyer. You can see that the last time slot in the evening, and the first in the morning are open for your representatives. I can fax you outlines of our presentations from my office after they are customized for this event.

"After the seminar, your clients will be better prepared to defend themselves, their clients, and the clinic property. Their confidence in their safety will increase their productivity. Do you see how clinic profits can be protected by our training?"

Dr. Muer looked puzzled. "That's it? A seminar?"

"That, Doctor, is only the beginning. By then, these radicals will have begun their assaults. I would like to set appointments, with you as the mediators, between my company and the clinic owners that are your clients. Then I will propose that they retain our services at a substantial group-rate discount, retroactive to this date. We will send you regular security reports, as necessary, supplying you with sufficient evidence of assaults that were prevented. I can only imagine how such documentation will endear you to your clients. We will also guarantee our results, the least of which will be the containment of this immediate offensive, and the delay of this conspiratorial action that could only lead to more government intervention, and eventual nationalization of the industry."

The doctors looked at each other, knowing the other's thoughts. If this man was actually capable of averting this conspiracy, he would probably want an enormous compensation for the work; maybe even a percentage of the gross receipts from each clinic. Dr. Hao spoke.

"What will be required of us immediately, Mr. Linx?"

"Your cooperation. We must contact every clinic worker within two hundred miles of Kalamazoo and arrange for them to attend the seminar. We will supply the camera-ready copy of the material to be mailed, and you will be responsible to mail it, and follow-up with telephone calls to encourage attendance. This will insure your client's confidentiality, if you wish -- although our office will be willing to do that work if the contact information is forwarded to us. Either way, it will probably take three secretaries working one week to complete the task, and then one to coordinate loose ends with our office until the day of the seminar. If you wish, you may provide one or two speakers for the program. We'll organize everything in relation to the seminar, including all costs associated with the renting of the facilities, though we expect to recover those expenses with registration fees."

"Why did you come to us, Mr. Linx -- and not Planned Parenthood, for instance?" asked Muer.

"Because you represent private enterprise without a hidden political agenda. Unlike Planned Parenthood, you're not interested in nationalizing the abortion industry -- only capitalizing on it. If our conclusions are correct, only cooperation between our two companies may prevent this in time. If we wait, I'll have to pull my agents out to protect them, and, believe me -- it will cost a great deal more to solve your problem using exclusively external means."

"And this outside agency that you claim is funding the radicals --"

"May be funding."

"Very well, this agency that might be funding them. Who are they?" asked Muer.

"Please excuse me for keeping some information from you. I can assure you that it's for your own safety. We have become adept at countermeasures, but lack the unlimited funds necessary to protect you if they suspect you know more than is good for you."

"Then how do you manage to stay alive?"

"They can't find us. You, however, are living in a glass house."

The doctors put their heads together for a moment, speaking in subdued monotone. Ms. Durrem continued to stare at him without emotion.

"Is it possible for you to return next week -- give us time to think about it?" asked Hao.

"It is impossible. I cannot keep my agents in place for another week without the hope of the clinic contracts. Again, time is working against us. Just as your clients cannot afford to lose a week of work because of bombings, I cannot afford to keep my people in position without a commitment -- a commitment I should be able to help you with now. The situation is at least as urgent as I related in our telephone conversations, and that's why I asked you to be ready to make a decision this morning."

"So you're doing this in hope of selling your services to our clients? What is the cost of these services, Mr. Linx?"

"That's irrelevant since I'm neither asking you to subscribe at this point, nor to contract with me at this time for future services. After this immediate problem is solved, our services will still have to prove themselves, and it will be the decision of the clinic owners to decide whether our customized security package is cost effective. I only ask that you introduce us to the owners after we've proven our usefulness at the seminar."

This seemed to appease the doctors, and they excused themselves from the room, leaving him alone with Ms. Durrem.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked.

"Thank you. Make it black please."

She went to the recessed cubicle in the wall and poured the freshly perked brew into ceramic mugs.

"Interesting gift you're offering them." she said. "I'm surprised you were even allowed to present it." Her accent was definitely not Motor City -- maybe Jamaican. She brought the coffee to him.

"And why is that?"

"It was my job to screen you before you arrived. I couldn't find files on you or your company anywhere. Computer research usually uncovers incorporation papers, property deeds or contracts being filed, but even the media archives had no mention of you or your company, and the files go back to '67. My ROM disk with every telephone directory printed in North America was useless. I can't imagine how you manage to operate such a large company without leaving a trail. Anyone would think you don't exist."

"It's exactly because we can operate undisturbed that has insured our success. And I didn't mean to imply we are a large company, Ms. Durrem. Our growth has been more lateral than vertical. The confidence in our team is inspired by our well- camouflaged staff."

"I'd like to check references, nevertheless, Mr. Linx."

"And have me reveal the identities of our clients? Really, Ms. Durrem."

"How do you expect us to cooperate when we have no way of verifying your story?"

"Verification will come soon enough. Perhaps too late to suit you if your decision is negative. You see, Ms. Durrem, my company has an extremely low profile I'm not willing to compromise."

"It seems to me that the burden of proof lies with you, here and now."

He looked thoughtful for a moment. He reached into the briefcase and retrieved a thin folder wrapped with a red rubber band. "If you're only looking for a sample of our work, I could pass around our file on your girlfriend. Or should I say `companion?'"

Durrem's eyes widened, then relaxed as she thought it might have been a lucky guess, perhaps based on the observation of her AIDS awareness ribbon or her mannerisms. Then he opened the file as if to read the contents.

"Charlene has an interesting background. Her file makes for great late night reading. I particularly found the list of her prison cell mates to be -- well, absorbing." He showed no emotion in his hint of blackmail, but her eyes told him he had hit a nerve. He would dangle a tastier bait now.

"Of course, if you are looking for a business reference, I'm afraid most of our clients would refuse any request for such an endorsement. But one business comes to mind that is still a low- level risk. I've known the owner a long time. They may not be listed in Dunn and Bradstreet, but you should find their property deeds go way back. May I use your phone?"

She pushed the instrument to him, and he dialed long distance information. "May I have the number of Son Tea Importers, please?" He wrote the number, and then dialed again.

"May I speak with Mr. Son, please? This is Samuel Linx of Linx Security."

He took a drink of the coffee and nodded his appreciation to Ms. Durrem. It was an exotic blend.

"Hello, Mr. Son! How are you?"

Her face remained tense as she opened a stenographer's pad and clicked open a gold-plated pen. He made the obligatory salutations to Mr. Son, and quickly obtained permission for the reference. He handed her the phone and she began asking questions. She was still talking when he was helping himself to a refill and the doctors reentered the room. "She's just checking a reference I gave her."

"Good," said Muer. "She was concerned."

They took their former seats and Ms. Durrem concluded the call.

"Mr. Linx's reference has promised to fax us a letter with the standard requirements. I'm satisfied," she said, though her suspicious gaze remained fixed on Linx.

Hao spoke for them. "Ms. Durrem, if you are satisfied, so are we. Mr. Linx, we have questions, but you have our attention. Please go into more detail."

The man in black seemed pleased with himself as he walked to the rental car. Now clear of the building, he could hardly contain his excitement. He had actually persuaded them to endorse an event that might bring a hundred or more abortionists under one roof. Months of planning was finally beginning to pay off.

In the end, the doctors nodded to each other and they all shook hands on the deal. How could they have refused with the risk so low? He would have presented the seminar without their help, but they had made it almost too easy for him. A conference room at the Omni had already been reserved. He could now prepare the copy for the invitations and send it to Durrem. They had not been willing to allow Linx Security to do the mailing, preferring to keep the list confidential, but nevertheless agreed to include their "byproduct brokers" and lawyers in the invitations. Dr. Hao was sure they could persuade most of their key people to attend, which would guarantee one hundred seats.

He removed the airline ticket from his pocket and checked the departure time against his wristwatch. The three hours would give him plenty of time to check the clinics in town. It would be strategically sound to know the roads around the two busiest clinics. He would be using that information soon if the prophecy he had just revealed to Hao and Muer was to be self-fulfilling.

Sliding into the car, he felt pleased with the impression that his work today might have on Lena, as well as her new recruit. There was little doubt of his need for another assistant. The plan had grown since its inception, and was nearly too much for them to contain. Lena could continue to handle most of the paperwork -- as she had done by setting up Son Tea Importers as a front, and creating counterfeit references for Ms. Durrem -- but he would need more than office help.

Thomas Olshane removed the wallet from his jacket pocket that contained the fake identification and business cards, throwing it into the open briefcase next to the Omni brochures. He smiled at the picture, remembering the line he had heard Reynolds use once; "If a hundred abortionists have to die to save a million babies, I consider that a fair trade."

He could hardly wait.

Wednesday, June 9th

Lena Reynolds had waited a long time for this opportunity to bring Max Xinnis and Thomas Olshane together. A dozen times these past months she had tried to put their three schedules together, and it was always Thomas who had an excuse to cancel.

She had seen little of Max these months as well. Other than sitting with him at church several times, she had not spent any meaningful time with him since the funeral. She wondered if the only reason Max had promised to come to dinner was to meet Thomas.

Max was the first to arrive, clutching a small package in his hand as he approached the wood-sided mobile home, nestled deep within a cluster of pine trees. He rang the bell and waited.

The evening had brought a warm breeze, and a delicious freshness that rattled the needles and cones of the pines around him. He saw the freshly tilled soil of a small garden tucked in a corner of the well kept grounds. A broken bag of topsoil stood drooping on the porch by his feet, having spilled a handful of its contents on the welcome mat. Max kicked at the dirt on the mat and saw the picture of the leprechaun in a fighting stance; the logo of the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame.

Max relaxed immediately. If nothing else, they could talk about football. He believed himself quite knowledgeable on the history of that college team.

Lena surprised Max by kissing him at the door.

"What did I do to deserve that?"

"You came."

"Said I would."

She asked him to remove his shoes, and he hesitated only long enough to hand her the gift; brown wrapping over a solid, flat rectangle that could only be a book. A single yellow carnation was bound to it with a tightly knotted string. She graciously accepted the gift, and they walked in their stocking feet across the thick, pearl-white carpet.

Max thought it an interesting room they were entering. There were clusters of books along the walls, stacked both horizontally and vertically, a dark mahogany table with matching chairs positioned in the center of the room, and there was nothing else. Nothing. The starkness made the room seem larger, more open than he thought possible for a mobile home.

Lena added the carnation to the arrangement of wild flowers on the table. They sat next to each other and Lena tore into the wrapping. She pulled the book from the paper and grinned.

"How did you know I liked O. Henry?"

"Lucky guess."

She took a pen from her purse and wrote on the first page, "A gift from Max Xinnis," and wrote the date beneath it. Turning the page she read, "Heart of the West by O. Henry, First Edition, 1907." It was in pristine condition except for the name "William Porter" scribbled on the title page in dark India ink.

"Probably the last guy who owned it," said Max, but she knew it was the autograph of the pseudonymous author.

"Maybe I shouldn't have written in it," she said, gently closing the volume and laying it in the center of the table beside her leather bound Bible. "Thank you, Max. It's the second most precious book in the house now."

Max was happy that his gift pleased her. "So, how's the pastor taking the guilty verdict and the thousand dollar fine? He seemed disappointed."

"Yeah, he was. Sometimes you wonder if there are twelve people in Lewisburg with enough brains to fill a jury. Thomas says we're past the point in America where a jury can think for itself."

"He is coming, isn't he?"

"He'll be here. If he's late there will be a good reason, but that doesn't mean he'll tell us what it is. By the way, I should tell you he's Eastern Orthodox."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, from what he tells me, it's like the original version of what became Catholicism. He and the pastor have had some heated discussions about it, but Thomas is set in his ways."

"But he's a Christian isn't he?"

"That's his belief. He doesn't share our views on the authority of the Scriptures and salvation by grace. The pastor is always debating him. I just thought you might like to know where his head is at. There's no changing him."

She was smiling at him, her face bright and relaxed. "It's good to see you Max."

"I've wanted to stop and say hello a dozen times."

"Only a dozen?"

"Been busy moving, mostly sorting junk. I left with only a few essentials in the trunk of my car. Jerry got rid of the rest of it for me."

"You should have said something. I've had some experience with moving."

Max remembered the look in Jerry's eye when he had come back from the reservoir with Lena. She could hardly have helped him move without raising Jerry's other eyebrow.

"I appreciate that, but there really wasn't much worth salvaging. Everything I looked at didn't seem as important as it once did. Who would have thought I could live without my remote control?"

"Well, we have something in common. I don't have a television either."

"Isn't there a law against that?"

"That's what I've been expecting ever since I read Orwell. It's just that I can't stand to watch it anymore -- it's so uncomfortable, you know? The shows are pure hedonism and anti- Christian propaganda -- the news is so full of lies and half-truths."

"I think I know what you mean," said Max, but he could think of no examples.

Lena heard the water boiling and disappeared into the kitchen, talking to him through the serving doors over the sink.

"It's so subtle it's scary! I think the last time I saw a movie the credits going up, and there was this disclaimer that said something like, `No animals were killed or injured during the filming of this picture.' I remember that the film disturbed me because there was a scene where a family was being threatened, and their little baby was screaming in terror. I mean actually screaming because babies don't know about acting. They can't separate the play from reality. And I thought, wow! They felt the need to tell us no animals were injured, but didn't think twice about introducing a psychotic episode into a child's life that might scar him forever."

"Right." said Max, remembering the disclaimers. "I must have seen a dozen movies where the actors in the monster make-up are scaring the willies out of the babies. It's as if the directors believe that since the kids can't distinguish between fact and fiction they have no say in the matter."

"Yeah, exactly," she said, offering him a steaming cup of herb tea. "It's the same rationale that the pro-aborticide fools use. The child has no voice, so he has no vote."

"No voice, no vote. It'd make a good slogan."

"The pastor told me about them screaming, so I looked up the research on it and it was pretty scary. I wonder how many doctors actually hear them scream before they kill them?"

"More than will admit it, I'll bet!" said Max.

"They won't admit it because they can't see it. This entire battle is a question of whether you see things from God's perspective or man's. I mean, I know that's why I scraped the television. I heard the pastor's New Year's message and got convicted that I was spending too much time watching reruns!"

Max could smell the unusual aroma in the steam lifting from the cup, and lifted it to his lips. "What was the message about?"

She looked thoughtful, pouring a drop of cream into her cup. "I only remember that he said that most folks today wouldn't follow Christ if it meant giving up their favorite television programs. The next day I donated the thing to the Salvation Army." She laughed at herself. "Silly, huh? But what's the use in trying to entertain ourselves, anyway? It's just a waste of time."

"There has to be some truth to that," said Max. "I have to admit that since I've been living out of the trunk of my car things have become pretty simple. I actually have time to do things I thought were impossible -- such as understand the Bible when I read it. I used to think it was incomprehensible."

"How does it feel? To be free like that? To have no possessions tying you down?" She seemed struck with the idea.

"I'd tie it all on my back for the rest of my natural life for another day with Janet."

Lena looked at the floor thinking she had said something foolish already.

"Funny," Max said, not noticing her flushed face, "but I went back to the house after the funeral and didn't recognize the place. I'd been alone in that house for a month, but I never realized I was alone. Somehow, I sensed she'd be back. I never took the separation seriously like she did. Even after the funeral I stayed a week before packing my bags."

Max looked around the sparsely furnished room, sensing she would like to change the subject. "It looks as if you could probably move everything out of here in a shoe box!"

"Except for the books, yeah, I could. This place epitomizes my theory on possessions," she said. "Ever since I left Pennsylvania I've been convinced that I've been lining my walls with junk as insulation against the brutality of the outside world. I've been obsessed with this idea that society has turned into a vicious animal that waits to spring on anyone not paying attention -- just to fill the bloodshed quota for the television.

"So you're a philosopher too."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I just read too much Kafka. I threw everything out I didn't need as a kind of therapy. I'm trying to be a minimalist, but it seems I still have to hide behind these books. I figure if I can stand to see the walls empty, maybe that would be the ultimate cure."

"A cure for the fear?"

"Yeah. It's not that I'm afraid of dying. I know God will take care of me. It's a fear of my own weaknesses while I'm on earth more than anything else. I woke up one day and realized I hadn't looked into the sky for a month. It was time for me to make a change."

Max remembered her story of abuse and nodded. She could take care of herself, now. Max could feel a desire to be with her developing in his marrow as he admired her. She was probably unaware of her own extraordinary strength. It was chiseled into her character and expressed itself in a beauty that sparkled in her eyes and put light in her voice and expression. He doubted that anyone had told her these things recently, and felt the urge to reveal his thoughts to her. Several moments of awkward silence passed between them before Max spoke.

"I saw your welcome mat. So you're a Notre Dame fan, then?"

"Hardly. The mat came with the place."

Great, thought Max.

There was a solid knock at the door, and Lena jumped up to answer it.

"That's him!" She met Olshane as he opened the door.

"Hi, Lena!" he bellowed, lifting her to her tiptoes with a one-armed hug, and then swung a tidy bouquet of white sweetheart roses from behind his back. She laughed and planted a kiss on his big nose.

His giant frame filled the doorway. He was at least four inches taller than Max. This was the man Max had seen from a distance in the church.

"I hope you were working in that herb garden of yours today; it's supposed to rain this week!" His voice sounded deep and exuberant -- educated, but without refinement. "Hey, this must be Sergeant Xinnis!"

Olshane kicked off his leather hikers and met Max at the table where they exchanged a powerful handshake. Only the deep furrows in his face revealed his age; a mere half century, Max guessed.

"I'm Thomas Olshane. Lena's told me all about you!"

"Max Xinnis, and she's told me nothing about you," he said, returning the man's grand smile.

"That's because she doesn't know anything about me -- right Lena?"

"That's right," she said cooly.

Olshane removed his leather jacket and laid it on the chair next to Max, then took a seat facing him.

"Smells like dinner's burning," said Lena, moving quickly to the kitchen.

"Probably using the smoke alarm for an oven timer again. She must like you, Sarge, to want to cook for you."

"I hope so. She's one of the few people I feel I can really trust anymore."

Olshane nodded thoughtfully. "Trust is a hard thing to come by nowadays."

"She tells me you two nearly married."

"Oh? I'd be surprised if she said that," said Olshane. "She really hasn't told you anything, has she?"

"Well, actually --"

"Lena doesn't need an old war-dog like me. Man, I was in Vietnam when she was in diapers! I'm more like a big brother to her, if you'll excuse the expression. She needed someone to protect her once, and I didn't have anything else to do that day -- I'd already saved the world from communism!" Olshane laughed at himself.

"I could tell you were close by the way she was protecting your identity. I didn't even know your last name until Sunday."

"My friends do that for me out of necessity. Let's get some of that tea I smell, and I'll fill you in."

Lena had played it safe by preparing the one main course she knew well; a deep-dish vegetable pie that she had helped her grandmother with many times as a child. They also shared thin fillets of salmon that she had marinated overnight in herbs and butter, and then barely singed in the skillet. A pitcher of spicy gazpacho was passed. The taste of the food made it obvious that nothing was from a can. They both complimented her heavily as they enjoyed the little feast.

Olshane broke the ice with a few personal items about his early Navy UDT training in Virginia, but Max thought the information to be disjointed and intentionally general in nature. After that, Olshane seemed intent on reviving every incredible Vietnam experience he could recall, always managing to denigrate the Army role.

Olshane told them about the time they were waiting for a PBR pick up that never arrived. Moving inland, they grouped up with a platoon of Army tunnel-rats. They would shimmy into the holes that the Vietcong had dug, looking for the vertical shaft that was the elevator that the enemy used to drop to the lower levels. The tunnel-rat would shout to the enemy, warning them to surrender. If he heard nothing, he would drop time-delayed percussion and white phosphorus grenades into the pit and signal for the extraction team to pull on the ropes tied to his legs. Olshane witnessed two Army snafus shortly afterward.

One of the men pulled a tunnel-rat's boots off while extracting him, leaving him buried somewhere in the hill. They worked for hours trying to dig him out after the grenades detonated.

Olshane turned at the crack of an M-16 in the bush. One of the Army sentrys had just fired a round into the wooded peak of the hill.

The men abandoned their digging, quickly seeking cover and aiming their weapons towards the target. Olshane watched while Army wasted minutes trying to decide whether to vacate the area and abandon their search, or take the hill.

There was no need to ask for volunteers, everyone was willing to advance on the hill rather than abandon their tunnel-rat. Leaving only the radioman behind, they began; the point man moving more quickly than the rest, using hand signals to communicate to their sergeant. When the all-clear was received, they quickly mounted the peak and found the resting place of the sentry's bullet.

Shot dead through the chest, laying face down in the muddy leaves, was their tunnel-rat -- shot by his own squad. He had found the backdoor of the abandoned tunnel.

Every story reminded Olshane of another story, and this was no different. Olshane had heard of another Army incident where a younger recruit misread a nonverbal command, and began running into an entrenched nest of Vietcong. A marksman was ordered to place a shot near him, just yards away from the ridge that Army had expected the enemy to appear over any second. The VC were less than a hundred yards away, and once they were over the ridge there would be no cover.

The soldier was dropped in his tracks, the bullet hitting the soldier's leg, but there was no time to save him. The soldier realized too late what had happened, and tried crawling back. The enemy was coming over the hill now, and the best marksmen were instructed to concentrate their fire near the lame soldier; and that they did. It was a short battle. The enemy had expected Army to retreat, but had no idea they were holding the worthless position for one of their men. When the enemy began to run out of ammo, they made a detour around them.

The smoke cleared, and they went to get the kid. They had to pull three dead VC soldiers off of him, but he had stopped breathing. The medic said his heart had stopped. He had died of fright.

"So the kid was no better off than if he had gone over the ridge to be killed by the Vietcong," said Max.

"I don't think they shot him in the leg for his own benefit. As far as they were concerned, the kid was dead from his own stupidity the moment he misread the signal. They were only trying to prevent him from giving away there position."

"He was sacrificed?"

"Sacrifices are made in war, Max. The VC could only guess at where the sound of the bullet came from, but if he had topped that ridge they would have known the precise location and Army would have suffered more casualties."

Max began to think that the only reason Olshane was telling these stories was to elicit some response, possibly even start an argument. The time was passing quickly, but Max was unable to interrupt him, or to even attempt to direct the conversation toward what he thought to be their purpose for being there.

Without fail, Olshane launched into another story. Max was growing restless. Tonight might be the only chance to speak with him about Kadill. He thought it was important, and was anxious for both their opinions, but the conversation was too far off track, and it was getting late.

Max could feel his restlessness turning to irritation, and then to suspicion that Olshane's monologue was a deliberate diversion from the implied intent of the meeting. Max could detect a methodic avoidance of any phrase that might change the subject. He also noticed that the enthusiasm with which the stories were told made them resistance to interruptions. Max took a drink of the ice water, and wondered if he was reading too much into Olshane's discourse.

Olshane was finishing a story in which his hot-shot lieutenant had night-landed their Seawolf helicopter into a swamp. The mud sucked the machine down about five feet, tipping it forward as it sank, and snapping the blades from the rotor as they hit the ground, spinning them off into the jungle. The men cautiously dispersed into the perimeter, waiting for light. In the morning as they reconnoitered the area they found three dead enemy snipers hanging from the trees, shredded by the broken blades of the gunship.

"It's hard to remain an atheist after something like that," said Olshane, taking a great drink of the gazpacho. Max seized the opportunity, grabbing any thread that might change the conversation.

"Is that when you got religion?"

"I guess that was part of it," he admitted.

"You ever go to Reynold's church -- I mean, other than to make a date with Lena?"

Olshane sat back in his chair, sensing Max's willingness to change the subject. His voice became relaxed and personal.

"I would like to see more of my friends," Olshane smiled at Lena, "but it's because I care about a my friends that I exercise caution. I came here to protect this lovely girl, but it wouldn't be safe for her if I ever had a set schedule my enemies could rely on."

Lena was smiling at Olshane and looking a bit embarrassed by his compliment. Max thought Olshane was right about her looking lovely just now; but men always think that after a woman feeds them.

Lena had been quiet -- content on listening to them as she cleared the table. It was enough to have two men in the room who cared about her. Tonight, it was enough to be appreciated.

"So you're afraid she'll get hurt because someone is after you?"

"I'm afraid of nothing. I'll see Lena in heaven, regardless of the outcome here. But I don't want anyone hurt because of me. And I don't want the reputation of the churches I attend to be dragged through the mud because some wet-behind-the-ears federal agent wants a promotion."

Max appreciated that Olshane had to trust him a little to reveal that much. Or was he fishing for something?

"Lena already put me through the screen."

"Really? I hope she was thorough."

"These people that are after you -- is it anything I should know about?"

"Not yet," said Olshane, his sardonic smile hiding something. He quickly changed the subject. "Tell me what you have in mind. Why are we here?"

Max sat straighter in the chair. "I'm going to destroy some abortuaries. I've already decided how, but I thought you might have ideas on improving it."

Olshane was shaking his head. "Not tonight, Max. It's getting late. Lena informed me of your problems at the Sanger Abortuary, and you've got my condolences. But how could you have exhausted your legal options so soon? Haven't those shysters promised to put him away for you -- for a fee, that is?"

"The military lawyers said it was out of their purview. They suggested I contact the private sector. When I did, I couldn't find anyone willing to handle it until I offered them a one hundred percent contingency -- if they win the case they get everything. That woke a few of them up, but they didn't like my terms.

"Terms?"

"The catch was that they had to guarantee Kadill would lose his license, the clinic would be bankrupt when they were finished, and that they wouldn't settle out of court. I went with a team whose specialty is criminal law, personal injury, and negligence cases. We were moving along okay until they insisted I scratch the guarantees from the contract. Then they said they couldn't afford to go into it without being allowed to settle. I drew the line there. What good would it do for them shake down the insurance company for a few hundred thousand?

"I was walking away from the table when they reconsidered, and we renegotiated. The only guarantee they're offering is that they'll sue for ten million and settle for two if Kadill is fired. They expect to be able to fit it into their schedule about eighteen months from now. That's where it stands. I don't lose sleep over it."

Olshane nodded in sympathy. "The problem is that the abortionists have won a lot of cases in this town. No one believes they can win a case against them without spending a quarter of a million on court costs. After all, where is the lawyer's incentive to have Kadill's license revoked when it brings them so much business? The bottom line is money, Max. It's always money."

The men looked solemn and distant for a moment until Lena entered, balancing a fresh pot of coffee and three dishes of dessert on her way to the table. Olshane took the coffee from her and filled their cups, and they sat together for a few quiet moments enjoying the strawberries and crushed meringue.

"So you're waiting until the case comes up, Max?" she asked.

"No, Lena, I'm not waiting two years or more. Kadill is going to pay --"

"Do you really want his blood on your hands?" interrupted Olshane.

"The blood is on his hands. I've heard Reynolds explain it. `The revenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer.'"

"Why are you the revenger of blood?"

Max was irritated by Olshane's interrogation, and did not hide it. His tone immediately became confrontational.

"A godly government would be executing its wrath against these criminals," said Max. "It's obvious that the government is an accessory both before and after the fact! They encourage it, they sanction it, and they defend it!"

"Criminals? What about the law, Max?"

"No one hesitates to stop a madman murdering children in a schoolyard -- is there a difference? The responsibility devolves to me because no one else will stop him!"

"Are you sure you're not trying to make Scripture fit your purpose, rather than allowing your destiny to be lead by it? I seem to remember Reynolds saying that when the civil government failed, the responsibility fell on the spiritual leaders to organize compliance with God's law." Olshane opened the aged Bible sitting on the table and began turning pages.

"I'm as sure as I can possibly be at this point," said Max. "If I'm found to be in error, the sin will be on my head. I can tell you that I wouldn't go against God in this, even if it meant waiting until doomsday for the lawyers to sort it out."

"But the lawyers can't sort it out, can they Max? They can only serve themselves, and by their own charter, the State. They'll never be the revengers of blood as long as the enemies of God are running things. Have you read this?" Olshane slid the book to him. It was opened to chapter thirty-five of the book of Numbers.

"Read verse thirty-three, Max."

"`So ye shall not pollute the land wherein ye are: for it defileth the land: and the land cannot be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein, but by the blood of him that shed it.'"

Max nodded. "That's what I'm saying."

"And I'm saying there's no way we can cleanse this land of the blood from the tens of millions of babies. It's a task so great that only God and the Marines could do it. We've built these great temples in our lives -- our careers, bank accounts, our sense of freedom -- whatever. These temples mean everything to us. More than any supposed rights that the unborn might have.

"This is exactly what Israel did when they sacrificed their babies to the false gods; and God had to judge the land! He's judging this nation now for its sins against Him. If it were possible, I'm sure God would bless any action we would initiate to reverse the trend. Unfortunately, it's too late for that. An entire generation has grown up under this humanist federal umbrella, and there just aren't enough warriors left. God is cursing this country for its sin, and all we can do is wait for Christ to return and destroy the alien government."

"Alien?" Max leaned forward in his chair.

"The government's been taken over, Max! The founding fathers knew a federal government would turn into a police state if the American people weren't diligent enough to keep the politicians under control. What I'm talking about is the conspiracy."

"What?"

Lena patted Olshane's hand to calm him. "Thomas believes the federal government has been infiltrated and overrun by a hostile, foreign-run oligarchy that has it's sights on a socialist world-government," said Lena. "You know -- the New World Order that Bush was always talking about."

Max looked confused for a moment, struggling with definitions for those terms. Suddenly they were both talking way above him.

"You two are telling me that the Bush administration was involved in treason?"

"No," said Olshane. "I'm telling you that every president since Andrew Jackson has known about it."

Max shook his head in disbelief. Olshane looked at his watch and yawned.

"It's not important now; we'll save it for another night."

"Yes. Another night," said Max, doubtfully. What would be the point of them getting together again? Olshane had successfully detoured the conversation for the last time. Max had expected something much different.

"Would you like some help with the dishes, Lena?" asked Max.

"The dishwasher can handle it, but thanks."

"Then I should go," he said, pushing his chair from the table and stretching his arms wide.

"Do you have to be at work early, Max?" asked Lena.

"I guess I didn't tell you that they drummed me out. I asked for a leave of absence, and they said they would grant it on the basis of a psychiatric exam. I spoke with one of the shrinks for an hour, but refused to do the paperwork. They didn't like that too much. After that they discharged me on medical grounds. Too much of a liability, I guess."

"Sorry, Max," she said. "But maybe God has a plan for you that doesn't include the Army."

"Probably the best thing that ever happened to you," said Olshane, standing to leave.

Lena took Max's hand and walked him to the door.

"It was a delicious dinner, Lena. Thank you."

"Did you like tea?"

"It was -- different."

"Promise me we'll do it again?"

"We'll do it again," he said, hoping it was true.

She brushed her lips gently against his, and dropped a folded square of paper into his jacket pocket. "For later," she whispered.

Olshane stood beside them now. "Don't get a big head, Max -- she'll let anyone kiss her," he said, smooching her on the cheek. "See?"

"I'll pray for you both," she called after them. They waved to her when they reached the end of the walk.

"So the story about shooting the kid -- were you just making it up?"

Olshane slowed his pace. "You're having a hard time believing it, aren't you? Maybe you need to understand the art of warfare. I've seen the CIA kill their own agents for a lot less. Even the ATF will shoot their own people if it suits their purpose. We saw that at Waco, Texas."

"But that's not the same."

"True, they were only trying to sway public opinion against the church there, not trying to defend themselves. But it's common practice with the Irish Republican Army to kill one of their own people and make it look as if the heartless enemy killed another innocent. In a way it's the same because the ends justified the means."

Max shot him a sharp look. He hated that phrase.

"I was hoping you would hear me out tonight," said Max. "I intend to execute my plans soon, and you were the obvious person to consult."

"Are they reasonable, rational plans, Max?"

"Yeah. I believe they are." Max leaned against his car.

"And have you prayed about it?"

"Every day since the idea came to me."

"Then what can I tell you? If you're for real, you'll do it. If not, well, maybe you weren't meant to."

"That's a diplomatic way of calling someone a coward," said Max, his jaw tightening.

"I never was much for diplomacy. Do me a favor and don't try to read between the lines with me. I usually mean what I say."

"Judging from the conversation tonight, I've got a hunch that escape and evasion were your specialty."

"As a matter of fact --"

"Like you said, it's late." Max got into his car without looking back and jammed the key into the ignition. Olshane knocked on his window, and Max hit the button that dropped it.

"Godspeed, Sergeant," said Olshane, offering his hand. Max shook it and nodded.

"Maybe we'll bump into each other again someday, and you can tell me about that conspiracy," said Max.

Olshane smiled slyly as Max started the engine. As he pulled away, he could see Olshane walking back to the house. Must have forgotten his jacket, thought Max, feeling a twinge of distrust. He wished he understood their relationship better. Maybe it made no difference. Maybe nothing that happened tonight did.

Max pushed the compact disc into the player, and the music came on in quick, heavy beats. It was probably just as well that Olshane had refused to cooperate if the feds are after him. It might be that much easier to catch them. Yet Max felt as if he had missed an opportunity; that he had lost a fellow-soldier by his own lack of forcefulness in the conversation. Worse than that, he felt as if he had been invited to be checked out -- just like the Army psyche test -- and had failed.

Max was still testing the limitations of his new car, a 1978 Chevrolet Caprice with the original V-8 engine that Easton had bought at the police auction. As the light changed to red on the road ahead, he floored the accelerator, and flew onto the highway ramp at seventy miles an hour. He hit ninety before the ramp merged onto the perfectly groomed section of divided highway that would take him across town.

The music pounded from the speakers, and, as his field of vision narrowed, he understood the lyrics to the song for the first time. The title was Born Under Punches, and it had always seemed like a result of one of those surreal word experiments of Brian Eno's. The song may have only been written for subjective interpretation, but now he could see it.

The tachometer dropped from 6000 to 4500 rpm's as Max shifted the transmission into fourth gear. The modified engine whined dynamically, far from its alleged peak of over one hundred and forty. Somewhere on this road tonight he would test the nitrous oxide system.

Easing the pressure on the accelerator, he saw the pictures in his mind jump to life in the play that the lyrics had inspired. The song spoke of a government man, and playing that part Max saw the abortionist covered with the blood of the children, raising his knife above the mother, indifferent to the baby singing in her belly, "All I want is to breathe."

Olshane and Lena had watched Max's tail lights disappear over the hill. They went to the table and sat together, Olshane pouring himself another coffee.

"What do you think now?" she asked quietly.

"I think he's for real. And I'm sure he's not a fed." He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small device the size of a transistor radio. "If he had been wired this baby would have beeped loud and clear." He flipped the toggle switch on the box and the red diode faded.

Lena stared at him, the displeasure evident.

"I just figured since I had it I might as well use it."

"I told you he was okay. I was at his wife's funeral. She died at that clinic."

"You don't think they're above such tactics, do you? He told you she died at the clinic, but did you verify that with anyone? And even if she did, he could have sent her there!"

"My instinct. My intuition, whatever you want to call it. I know he wasn't lying to me."

"Fine. But I can't afford to use instinct, even if it's yours, when a little investigation provides tangible, objective results."

"You didn't!"

"All I did was follow him, and, of course, check at the hospital with the doctor involved."

Lena crossed her arms in a huff. "Jealous!"

"But for all the right reasons! I knew you'd lost your objectivity when you knew so much about him after spending, what?, four hours with him? You probably know a hundred more things about him from his visit tonight because you're reading between the lines! Max likes to do that, too, I noticed. You make a great couple!"

She was tapping her foot on the carpet.

He put his hand on her shoulder. "You're special to me, Lena, so I naturally want to check out anyone you're going to be spending time with."

She smiled at him. "Okay, Daddy," she said. "Now tell me -- do you trust him now?"

"I didn't want him to tell me what his plans were because I want to see if he has the guts to carry them out. When he does, then I'll trust him. Having plans is one thing, but it's just paper. Even a bad plan can work if enough courage is behind it."

"So, you know what he's planning?"

"For weeks he's been following Kadill to his house. Probably trying to establish his routine, his sleep patterns and the like. He's even been messing with his mail. I'm sure he's planning on hitting him there."

"You mean, killing him?"

Olshane nodded. Lena looked away, wishing to hide the anguish she suddenly felt.

"He'll be arrested. Maybe killed," she said.

"Maybe that's what he wants, Lena -- to be a kamikaze for the cause. Maybe he figures he has nothing to lose. No job, no family, so he puts his house in order and prepares a final sacrifice because he thinks there's nothing left for him here." Olshane held her hand in his. "That would be a foolish thing for him to believe, wouldn't it?"

"Final sacrifice?" Lena said to herself, deep in thought. "Thomas, tonight Max gave me this book. It must be worth a lot. Dad mentioned that the Sunday after Max sold his house there was an envelope in the offering plate stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He also told me that Max said he might not see him again. That must be what he's doing! Oh, Thomas, don't let that happen!" she said. Her face was strained, and she looked as if she might cry. "Help him!"

Olshane stood to leave, pulling on his leather jacket and offering his hand to help her up from the table. She was watching him closely, an aura of hopeful expectancy around her.

"No greater love hath a man, than to lay down his life for a friend," he said.

She hugged him tightly. "I knew you would," she said. "I knew it."

10:00 a.m. Friday Morning, June 11th

Sitting across from Pastor Reynolds in the small church office, Max was fighting for the words to explain himself without telling Reynolds enough to implicate him in any future crime. He squinted his eyes from the sunlight that streamed through venetian blinds behind Reynolds.

"I've been listening to you for a while now. You're fond of saying that God has a plan for us, and that you'd like to see more warriors dedicated to Him. I agree. I think the only reason Janet died was for me to meet you, and change my destiny."

"What if I told you I think the same thing?"

"Okay. But I'm not talking about handing out tracts on the street corners, or picketing for that matter."

"How do you know? Our picketing has had successful days. We've seen hundreds of women turned away."

"Only to go down the street to another clinic that wasn't being picketed? There just aren't enough protesters to cover the sidewalks. And if there were, you can bet a law would be passed to restrain them."

"What about the hundreds of thousands that marched on Washington?"

"Yeah, where are they today? A lot of them are probably still working overtime to pay off their credit card bills that they ran up during the trip. I'd bet a lot of them figure that because they were there they don't have to do anything else this decade.

"Besides, even if we had a rally every day, would it even put a dent in the million and a half murdered innocents a year? Every time the television cameras report what the pro-lifers are doing, they make the crowd look to be about a tenth of its actual size."

"That's true," agreed Reynolds. "We've had difficulty acquiring fair coverage."

"It's not something we should have to buy. They should just be objective about it."

"And because they're not, and because you're too impatient to wait for the results from picketing, you prefer a more physical approach to the problem?"

"No. A physical and spiritual approach to the solution. Can you tell me any instance in the Bible where God said to let the sin continue in the land until the people come to their senses?"

"Such an example does not exist."

"I didn't think so."

"You seem to have given this some thought. So, what is it that's bothering you?"

Max sat back in the wooden chair and tried to relax. "Before I met you and Lena I was messed up -- emotionally. Lena told me as soon as she met me that I had the wrong motives for the plans I was making. She was right.

"I've been allowed to suffer Janet's death so that I would be changed into this thing, whatever I am. I've come to understand enough to know that everything that's happened was only preparing me as an instrument for God to use to end this insanity. Maybe not alone, but at least in a small way that initiates some greater solution I don't understand. I don't suppose I'm being clear enough."

Reynolds nodded. "I'm following you."

"I've prayed to God that He would purge me of the hatred I had for my enemies, and let me see them through His eyes -- through His understanding. It took a while, but I believe I've found that understanding. I know I've been cleansed of any hatred for them that I once had."

"You don't hate those responsible?"

"I feel sorry for them. They're like I was, leading Janet away from the church. I remember the first few years we were together -- she would ask me to go to church on the holidays and I'd always make an effort to do something special, instead. Anything to avoid the boredom of sitting down on my day off, you know? So she walked with me instead and I let us drift away from her God. Eventually, she stopped thinking about church altogether.

"Now, I only want to save the children from the fate that fell on my own child. The thing is, I'm confident that what I'm doing is not to please myself. It's not my vengeance I'm seeking, but God's. But could I be lying to myself somehow? Is it possible that my emotions are deluding my reason? Is there a mechanism -- an objective test for knowing?"

Reynolds flipped through the Bible, already open on the desk in front of him. "I've always believed the answer to that question to be in the fourth chapter of Philippians. I'll read it to you:

"Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus."

"I've made my requests known to Him," said Max. "I've asked for guidance and wisdom in this matter. Most of all I've asked to be used as a warrior to execute His judgement."

"And do you have peace of mind about it? Or is your heart uneasy?"

"I'm confident, as I said. My question was; is it possible for my subconscious mind to deceive my conscious mind into thinking I'm in God's will when I'm not?"

"I've read you the answer, Max. Now you have to have faith in it. All believers have the Holy Spirit in them. It's impossible to have peace of mind and a calm heart while working against God's purpose if you are one of His children. The Holy Spirit won't allow it."

Max nodded. "I understand. I guess the question came to me because I was reverting to the old way of thinking. If I would let him, the old Max Xinnis would be watching television tonight."

"It will always be a struggle. Just remember that Christ overcame temptation as an example for us. We can do it as well if we follow the guidance of the Spirit. The earthly temptation would be to take personal revenge, or to do nothing and let it eat you up inside. You haven't told me what you're thinking, and maybe you shouldn't, but if you're following God rather than your own flesh I'll not interfere."

Max relaxed. "I was confused about using violence against the abortionists. I kept wondering if I might be interfering with God's plan somehow. For instance, what if in the future the abortionist was going to be led to Christ but I step in and waste him today?"

"That line of reasoning could keep you from getting up in the morning," said Reynolds. "It's like the time travel puzzle; what happens if I go back in time and alter history so that my parents are never born. How could I have been born to travel back to make the change? It's a foolish science-fiction gimmick, the answer to which is that you can't go back through time! The answer to your question is that you can't go forward through time, either.

"Only God knows His plan, Max, but the Bible says there's no excuse for people to reject Him. Everyone either accepts or rejects Christ, and that's their decision from the beginning. Your responsibility is to obey the Lord and follow His plan for your life. That doesn't include trying to play God and second guess God."

"And if I'm lying to myself, and I kill the murderer outside of God's plan?"

"You'd better make sure, Max. It's not your responsibility to give a murderer another chance to kill. It seems to me that God has burdened you with a responsibility for the unborn -- to give them a chance. Just do what God leads you to do and you'll be okay."

Reynolds tapped on the Bible he had opened to the thirty- fifth chapter of the book of Numbers. "Listen, Max. `If he smite him with an instrument of iron, so that he die, he is a murderer: the murderer shall be put to death.' What is the instrument. Max?"

"A gun, a knife, a scalpel," said Max, a bit sadly. He went to the water cooler and filled a paper cup. "I had the chance to talk with Thomas Olshane a few nights ago and he mentioned martyrdom as a political tool."

Reynolds was reminded of yesterday's conversation with Lena warning him of Olshane's observations of Max's potential suicidal tendencies.

"Right. It happens all the time, though it's usually the leftists that get the press nowadays. Remember how the anti-nukes played on the death of Karen Silkwood? The trick is to know the direction in which public sentiment is likely to turn as a result of a particular action. That is the expertise of the conspirators that Olshane talks so much about.

"Olshane likes to use the example of the revolutionaries who endorse radical gun control legislation who fill a psychotic subject full of drugs and turn him loose on the streets of a schoolyard or a Mcdonald's restaurant with an AR-15. The next day the majority will be willing to trade a little of their freedom for a little security. The enemies of freedom keep doing that until they have all the freedom, and the citizenry is locked up nice and tight for their exploitation."

"So public opinion says psychotic drug users should be denied guns, but what about as a means to rescue the unborn?"

"Guns are tools of self-defense, and should be used whenever necessary. It's true that controlled violence has been more effective than picketing, but the long-term results are questionable. The general public are sheep. They have a group consciousness that's easily manipulated by the mass media. Because of that, you should always consider the unfavorable reverberations that such a powerful act of violence might have against the people you'd like to have on your side. For instance, how will the gun owners feel when there's a sudden rush of new restrictive legislation to fight after you've scared the leftists to death by exterminating their abortionists?"

"I can see that. So it's not that guns are improper weapons, but only that we need to look at the big picture."

"I'd say so," Reynolds nodded. "It's the same problem that the clinic arsonist faces when burning a clinic. The first time a fire fighter is killed by smoke inhalation you can forget public sympathy for the crime. But you could never put it past the enemy to kill a few of them for that reason. The problem is that the enemy is only concerned with swaying public opinion. We, on the other hand, must first know we are in God's will. Swaying public opinion becomes a secondary consideration. That's quite a difficult juggling act."

"Is it even possible at all?"

"The majority is always wrong, Max. Perhaps it isn't in God's plan that public opinion embrace the pro-life movement -- for reasons we aren't meant to know. I've noticed that when it's in God's will that public opinion is swayed, it's the spiritual strength of His people that make it happen. The fact that it doesn't happen often is either a testimony to the spiritual weakness of His people, or of the lack of importance God assigns to majority opinion."

"I'm afraid to report that I believe it's a weak people."

"I have to agree," said Reynolds.

Max stood to leave. "I'll be going then -- unless you'll let me buy lunch."

"Today's my last chance this week to get the sermon ready, but I appreciate the offer."

Reynolds reached into the desk and withdrew the envelope Max had placed in the basket the Sunday before. He could not keep it with a clear conscience if Lena's warning was right.

"I appreciate this offer also, but you might need this where you're going."

Max recognized the envelope. "I don't understand."

"You'll need it for your own ministry to save the unborn. I can't help but believe you'll be better prepared to survive with this type of padding."

"This Bible you gave me is padding enough -- and if it isn't, that little pile won't matter. Accept it as a donation to your legal fund -- or a gift for the Crisis Pregnancy Center. If things go well, you'll need the extra staff to counsel the women who no longer have a local abortuary to murder their children."

The men shook hands.

"I've known too many Christian men who would never dare to risk their life for a single unborn," said Reynolds. "I was beginning to think of the army of God as a lost regiment."

"Time to regroup," concluded Max.

The clear sky met him as he left the sanctity of the church -- the warm sun soaking into his skin as he walked to the Caprice. Max was feeling satisfied with their discussion. His conscience was clear. He knew now why it was so important to cleanse his mind of the hatred. He was beyond that now.

This was a justifiable war.

4:30 p.m.

Max knew that if he were to dwell on the thousands of variables that could turn against him he might never leave the hotel this night. The doubts and questions were always waiting to rush in whenever he relaxed his focus. He had fought the doubt by memorizing the scribbles Lena had dropped into his pocket two nights ago. He had hesitated at opening the square of paper, thinking it might contain a sentiment he could not return. He was surprised that all she had written was; `We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.' It was a verse of Scripture from Second Corinthians.

Max knew if he was acting within God's will, God must be clearing the path for his actions. He reasoned that since God's plan was known to Him from the beginning of time, everything leading up to this moment had been planned. From the day he had met Janet at Plantasm to the day of their foolish argument; his decisions and actions had all been known by his Creator. He had been somehow planted here as a catalyst for a much greater reaction that would begin this night.

Max also knew that no amount of planning could prepare him for the unpredictable nature of his attack, but that his God was in control of the variables. Regardless of the outcome, Max prayed that God would make good use of him. Since morning he had been content, the doubt thoroughly expelled from his existence. He moved now with a determination he had never been forced to exercise.

He read the checklist a last time, crossing out the items with a stroke of finality. It was a list of burnt bridges, a deliberate and unmendable severing of the past. There was no turning back. There was nothing to return to now.

He struck a match and put it to the paper. The flame lifted and grew, dancing as it devoured its food, then settled down, as if to rest, then flickered out, vanishing with a thin trail of smoke. How like the flame we are, thought Max. Our dreams and their progeny blaze for a time, and then lie down to die. Does anything worthwhile live on? Even the pyramids crumble.

He crushed the ashes on the table with his coffee mug. If God had only given me one child, this list would have been different. Max tried to shake the self-pity that weakened him. He knew that it was precisely because God did want things different that he and Janet were not given a child. Only Max could do this. It was his time.

Max lifted the black leather and nylon briefcase to the table and inspected its contents. The Smith & Wesson nine millimeter had not been his first choice, but he had made the mistake of registering the Browning. He did not want to carelessly cause less work for the police in identifying him if things went badly.

He removed the bullets, wiped the fingerprints away with a cloth dampened with Hoppe's Nitro Solvent, and then replaced them wearing gloves. He wiped the clip clean, snapped it into place, and chambered the first round. Then, removing the clip again, slid in another clean bullet. Screwing the lid back onto the solvent bottle, he wondered if he could make a million by bottling the stuff as cologne.

He removed the laser sight from the bag, snapped it onto the mounting bar and plugged it into the battery. Aiming it at the mirror on the wall, he squeezed the sensor on the grip. Instantly, a thin beam of green light appeared, reflecting from the mirror at an oblique angle and hitting the wall opposite him. He pushed the gun into its leather shoulder harness under his left arm, then repeated the cleaning ritual with the other fully loaded clips. He would eventually tuck them into their Velcro pouches attached to his belt, opposite the carrier that secured the pair of military handcuffs.

The briefcase now contained only a few innocuous items: a new stenographer's pad with two Faber-Castell micro-pens clipped to it, a roll of furnace duct tape, a waterproof flashlight, and a detailed road map of Lewisburg.

The weather had cleared a great deal, and though rain was predicted, the sky was clear. Max had purchased new clothes for this evening, but not a raincoat. As he pulled them on over his sinewy frame, he saw the tougher military image reduced to the appearance of the casual professional. The white linen shirt with fine blue stripes, baggy cotton pants with cuffs, leather Rockport loafers, and light tan windbreaker would all blend well with the neighborhood he was about to visit.

In the bathroom he opened several bottles of cosmetics and began applying thin layers to the vague scar that ran two inches horizontally from his right ear to his cheek -- his only souvenir from boot camp.

His hair had not been cut since a week before Janet died, and was now several inches longer than he had seen it in years. The hair coloring that he had washed through it that morning had taken it from light brown to black. Max had let his mustache grow since Wednesday, and darkened it now with an eyelash brush. He looked at himself and shook his head, chuckling at himself. Yet, he hoped this precaution might buy him some time if a casual onlooker tries to identify him. If someone were to see him enter Kadill's home, Max need only wash his face and change into his uniform to create a reasonable doubt on the part of a witness.

Max realized the thoughts were based on negatives rather than positives. He had to believe the plan would work, that he would not be identified, and in so doing, spare Jerry and Mrs. Clausen the pain of learning the truth about Janet's abortion. He had to believe he would not be caught.

He threw the cosmetics into the shaving kit, and the kit into his suitcase lying open on the bed. He pulled a few bucks from his wallet and placed them beneath his room key; a courtesy he had learned from his Japanese martial arts instructor while training in Panama. He could use Fat Sakiri's help tonight. Max had forgotten almost everything he had taught except his most repeated quote: "One need not move so that others can see." Fat was a great teacher of deceptive movement.

Max checked his watch again. The clinic was just closing. He grabbed his suitcase, swung it into the trunk of the car, and checked his jacket pocket for the letter addressed to Kadill. He pulled the stolen license plate from his trunk before slamming the lid down, and attached the plate over his own with two permanent magnets.

The plate had been removed from a similar car parked at the shopping mall across the street from the hotel. He replaced their plate with another one, actually a year out of date, from a car sitting on blocks in a Southside neighborhood. He could safely rely on the owners not reporting it until tomorrow.

The car seemed to be stationary when he drove under sixty miles an hour. It was as if he were sitting in a simulator and the scenes rushing past were only images generated by a virtual reality program. It was not until he wound it out that he could feel the true nature of this decade-old police car. But now was not the time. It was rush hour, Friday afternoon, and the Lewisburg police were raking in revenue. He could not risk being pulled over with the counterfeit plate.

The outerbelt skirting the northwestern edge of the city was crowded with traffic, but he was on schedule. If Kadill followed his usual pattern and drove directly home, he would be there less than a quarter of an hour before Max arrived. The less time he has to make plans to go out, the better.

Max exited the freeway and drove east half a mile to the exclusive lake front project that surrounded Iroquois Lake. Over eighty percent of the lake front had been built upon, with even the old fishing shacks now selling for eighty thousand. Max had seen Kadill's deed at the county courthouse. It may not have been the highest price paid for five acres of land with two hundred feet of beach front, but at two hundred and ten thousand dollars it was close.

It amazed Max that the annual taxes on one acre of lake front would buy the car he was driving. It was not envy that brought these thoughts into his mind, but the thought that such income could be derived from such violence. How many abortionists live in the neighborhood?

Max could see Kadill's burgundy 1993 Lincoln Town Car in the driveway. Max was sure he must love that color, to want to be surrounded by it so often. Is the interior of the house blood red as well?

He did not let the urge to drive past the house gain any foothold on his actions. He pulled into the driveway behind the Lincoln, and quickly stepped from the car, his briefcase in hand. There did not seem to be anyone watching him from the five homes within sight, and Max was careful not to appear suspicious by looking around. Max imagined the binocular-laden neighbors staring at him from behind their designer curtains.

Standing now on the front porch, he pretended to ring the doorbell to gain a few seconds. The front door was open, but the screen door was tightly closed. Gently, he tried the latch. Locked. Several options flashed through his mind, and he immediately discarded them. He could not open the door without cutting the screen. To do anything besides ring the bell would be suspicious to a neighbor that might be watching. He rang it.

His options were narrowing. Kadill must either open the door of his own accord, or Max would force him to by threatening him with the gun, though it would be a bluff. Max would not risk his plan by firing a bullet now. If Kadill took any evasive move at that point, Max would have no choice but to charge the door.

Kadill appeared at the door. He was younger than Max expected, possibly not even forty. They were dressed much alike.

"Yes?"

"Good evening!" Max said, smiling from ear to ear. "My name's Revetu, Sal Revetu. We just moved into the old Schnell cottage, oh -- what is it? Ten houses down? I'm introducing myself to my new neighbors, and inviting everyone on this corner of the lake to a little barbecue next week."

Max pulled several colorful cards from the outside pocket of the briefcase, separated one randomly, and held it out to him with his left hand. "An invitation for you and your family. The Crawfords told me your name is Catrill?"

The door snapped open.

"Kadill," he said, stepping onto the top step with his right foot and reaching for the card. Instead of handing it to him, Max's left hand dipped, he stepped forward, and his right hand came up in a gesture to shake Kadill's hand. "Call me Sal," said Max.

With a firm grip, Max made several simultaneous movements designed to bring them into the house as quickly and smoothly as possible. He grabbed the edge of the screen door with his left hand through the handle of the briefcase, shifted his weight forward and twisted Kadill's hand away and in, his fingers being forced back to his arm. As the reflex threw Kadill backwards and down, Max followed the motion, stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind him. Kadill screamed in surprise as he hit the steel entry-way door and twisted in an attempt to escape the hold. Max crashed against him with a fist into his ribs and turned his arm behind his back, close to breaking.

Max kicked the steel door closed. Kadill cursed him and Max spoke to him through clenched teeth.

"And tell me, Mister Kadill, what is it you do for a living? Tell the truth, now." Kadill struggled, and tried to cry out, but Max had his left forearm pushing Kadill's neck to the floor. Max took up the slack in Kadill's right arm.

"I'm a doctor, you --"

The abrupt and unmistakable crack of wrist bones breaking was heard an instant before the scream. Max relaxed the arm, confident that it could not be used as a weapon against him, and, taking Kadill's left hand, twisted it into the same position. Max could feel the resistance ebb as the arm tightened.

"Don't lie to me again, ever! Now what are you? Tell me." Again, he took up the slack in the arm.

Kadill struggled slightly, but his strength was gone. He knew what the intruder wanted him to say.

"Abortionist," he panted in compliance. "I do abortions."

Max stood, placing his foot on the twisted left arm. "Don't move."

The briefcase had been dropped onto the floor. Max partially unzipped it and retrieved the duct tape. He wrapped the tape around Kadill's ankles and knees a half dozen times, then taped his right arm behind him. Max picked him up by the shirt and roughly dragged him into the kitchen and set him on a chair at the table.

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