Twenty Blue Devils

Did she know how Brian had suffered the injury to his face? “His...I didn't...I don't...” Shrug. Mumble.

Could she account for the extreme development of his leg muscles? “I don't...I didn't...Do you...” Shrug. Mumble.

What were the details of Brian's breakup with his wife in the United States? “Well, his wife was never...she lived in...they didn't really...” Shrug. Mumble. Blush.

John had been remarkably patient, considering that he was John, but Gideon could sense the exasperation quietly building up. “Therese, listen. I want to ask you something else, and I want you to answer me honestly. How did you and Brian meet?'

'Well...Claudine, don't do that, honey,” she called over his shoulder. “You wouldn't like it if Claudette put sand in your ear. Oh, I'm sorry, John, what did you say?'

'How did you and Brian meet?'

'But you already know that. He was a teaching assistant at Bennington when I was there. And then a few years later, when he was here on vacation from his job, he remembered me and gave me a call, and we...we got together.” Shrug. Mumble. But at least she'd managed a string of complete sentences.

'And what was the job he was on vacation from?'

She frowned uneasily at him. “John, why do you sound so...so...'

'What was the job, Therese?'

'I forget, exactly. In Michigan. It was a computer company CompuLine, I think...'

'No, Therese.'

She blinked. “No? What do you mean, no? I don't...'

'There is no CompuLine in Michigan.'

'Well, I told you, maybe I—'

'There's a Compuworld, but they never had a Brian Scott.'

'Well, maybe—'

'And there was no teaching assistant named Brian Scott at Bennington the years you were there.'

'Well, technically maybe he was a, a research assistant, or a—'

'And no research assistant, no temporary lecturer, no graduate student, no nothing. No Brian Scott.'

Her mouth opened. For a second or two she couldn't speak. She seemed—it was hard for Gideon to come up with a word for her expression—startled, frightened, wary. “No, you're wrong, John—'

'Therese, I checked. I made some calls from the gendarmerie just a few hours ago.'

'You did?” Her face was rigid with apprehension.

You did? Gideon almost echoed. No wonder John had seemed so preoccupied at lunch, a late bite at a roadside pizza restaurant in Punaauia on the way from Papeete. But then Gideon had been preoccupied too, mulling over the obscure functions of m. soleus, and he hadn't contributed much to the conversation either.

'But I did meet him there!” Therese cried, jumping up, “and he said he was a teaching assistant, and he was always around the business department, and...and...” She was crying again, not just a few becoming tears this time, but with her eyes and nose streaming, her face bunched and reddened, and her body shaking. “Why are you doing this? Don't you believe me? I swear I'm telling the truth!'

The girls had run to their mother and clasped her about the legs, weeping along with her. “Bad man,” murmured one of them to John.

John was plainly distressed. He put his hands tenderly on Therese's quaking shoulders. “Shh, Therese, don't cry. Everything's going to work out. Of course we believe you. We're just trying to put everything together. Come on now, shh. Of course we believe you.'

* * * *

'She's lying,” he said to Gideon as they returned to the car.

'From the word go,” said Gideon.

* * * *

Julie picked up the telephone on the first ring. “Hello?'

'Well, hi,” Gideon said. As always, his voice softened, mellowed, upon hearing hers. He was sprawled on a rattan chair in his cottage, his feet up on the table, comfortably relaxed and feeling virtuous besides; after dinner with John at a good French restaurant he had actually put in a couple of hours on his symposium notes.

'Well, hi,” she said quietly, her voice a little husky as well. Husky and sleepy.

It was 9 P.M. in Tahiti, 11 P.M. in Port Angeles. He imagined her in one of the living room armchairs, black- haired, dark-eyed, pretty, her face scrubbed, her sturdy, bare feet curled under her, wearing the thick terry-cloth robe and flannel pajamas that she got out of the closet when he was away. She was probably sipping a glass of sherry, or perhaps a cup of hot chocolate, and reading before going to bed.

Virgil, probably. Julie, who was somewhat given to sudden efforts at self-improvement, had decided some months before that her classical education was lacking, that she was tired of pretending to be familiar with classics she'd never read, and that it was time to do something about it. Gideon, an old hand at pretending to be familiar with classics he'd never read, had advised against expending the required effort, but Julie had stuck unflinchingly to