North of Montana

pillow, my whole body vibrating to a bass percussion as if listening to a pair of kettledrums through stereo headphones.

With the Mason case on ice I had decided I would leave work early and go over to the bank, get the papers from Poppy’s safe-deposit box, and be on the freeway heading out to Desert Hot Springs before the traffic. It is going to be a long and stressful day, I rationalize, maybe that is why I woke myself up so painfully prematurely, to get ready.

But I am in such an edgy state that the only possible thing to do right now is to swim. I figure I can make the 5:30 a.m. workout run by the Southern California Aquatics Masters at the Santa Monica College pool. Believe it or not, fifty people show up regularly before dawn. You can swim to compete or to stay in shape or just because you are terrified that you are losing control of your own thoughts.

I bundle up in sweats and swing the Barracuda out onto Washington Boulevard. It is still dark and maybe fifty degrees and riding the empty streets matches my restless mood. I change in the un-heated locker room, listening to the chatter of some UCLA students for whom this first swim of the day is just a warm-up for their friendship. They will breakfast together and meet later tonight to run a 5K. Alone, I stalk outside into the chill. The lights are on in the huge outdoor pool, all the swimmers gathered at the wall in Day Glo-colored caps, a bright vivid Kodacolor against the white steam rising off the surface into an indigo sky.

Then we are ten lanes of synchronized elbows and feet, neat masses of churning water chugging back and forth to a rhythm set by the coach. I am part of the pattern and nothing more, two swimmers behind the leader, five seconds apart, four laps in ninety seconds repeated six times and on to the next set. Halfway through the workout my mind gives up and accepts the beat. The panic subsides, at least for an hour.

I return to my apartment to take a hot shower and grab some things for the trip out to the desert and already there are two messages on my answering machine from the dispatcher, saying that Special Agent in Charge Galloway is looking for me.

Now the pounding of my heart makes sense. It is as if my body woke up this morning knowing the Mason case was not over yet.

Forty minutes later my hair is still wet and I’ve still got owl eyes from the imprint of the goggles as I hurry breathlessly into Galloway’s office. He had been calling my machine from his car and was tied up in traffic, so I get to stare out the window at the full-blown bright day for twenty long minutes until he strides inside, closing the door with a slam. He is clenching a dead cigar in his teeth and his arms are full of newspapers which he tosses at me all at once.

I fumble through the headlines:

JAYNE MASON SUES DOCTOR; MALPRACTICE CITED

“MY DR. MADE ME AN ADDICT”—JAYNE MASON

“I AM A VICTIM,” SAYS JAYNE MASON IN DRUG-RELATED SUIT

JAYNE MASON ALLEGES DOCTOR PRESCRIBED NARCOTICS; FBI INVOLVED

I have just a moment to absorb the impact like a quick jab to the solar plexus when he grabs a chair and pushes it up close to me, leaning forward so our knees almost touch. I recoil slowly against the sofa.

“The case is reopened.”

“Because of the publicity?”

“You bet because of the publicity. I was on the phone with Washington past eleven last night. The Mason case is now a top story and it’s going to be played in the media like the National Anthem.”

“But we completed our investigation.”

“Apparently it wasn’t thorough enough.”

“Yesterday you thought it was fine.”

“I said apparently. It might have been good for us but it wasn’t good for them.” He jerks his head toward the window, indicating the entire civilian world.

“You know that stuff in the paper is a bunch of junk. It was planted by Magda Stockman.”

“That’s right. But I have to answer to the Director.”

“You’re going to reopen the case just for show?”

“Let’s say it was a good investigation, but it didn’t go far enough.”

“How much farther can we go?”

“Undercover.”

I blurt out. “We already went undercover.”

“When was this?”

“You may not remember.”

My forefinger is picking at a cuticle. Galloway is looking at me with the superior penetration of a law enforcement officer about to snag a suspect in an irrevocable lie.

“Help my memory, Ana.”

“I went undercover to see if the doctor would give me illegal drugs. He didn’t. In fact, he suggested I go to a clinic.”

“You did this without authorization?”

“Correct.”

“Who else was involved?”

“Nobody,” I lie. “I had a microcassette in my purse.”

I know my face is scarlet.

Galloway shakes his head in exasperation.

“Jesus Christ, Ana, all we need is to be sued for entrapment.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You realize I have to put a memo in your file.”

“That’s okay. My file is starting to look like target practice.”

Galloway stares at me.

“If you want me to manufacture something against the doctor, I’ll do it.” I meet his eyes.

“You’ll be out on your ass.”

“Then tell me what you want.”

Galloway stands up. ‘What do I want? What do I want?”

He spreads both hands in the air as if grabbing something ineffable, then rubs the tips of his fingers together as if it had just flown away.

“I see my mistake. Back in New York you and the media are family. Maybe not with every local bozo, but you and the TV news director and the cop shop reporter — you’re working opposite sides of the street, but after hours you’re going to meet in the same joint in Chinatown and eat egg foo yung. Out here nobody knows anybody, everything’s a national story because Los Angeles is the capital of the world, and everybody’s an adversary because they’re only going to be around five minutes, so they’ve got five minutes to score. It’s different …” He seems to be searching for the right word.

“It’s Hollywood.”

“What do I want?” He grabs one of the newspapers and holds it up in a crumpled bunch. “You see all this bullshit publicity of hers? I want to fight fire with fire. I want hot publicity for the Bureau on the same scale. Fanfare, visibility, the whole nine yards. I want the public to see we are doing our job.”

“The doctor may have been suckered in,” I say quietly. “Maybe she got him to write a prescription or two, but I’m telling you he’s clean.”

“Then let him come clean in lights. In lights across the fucking sky and we’ll be fucking out of it.”

I am sorry, more sorry than I could have ever imagined, that Galloway, for all his New York smarts, turns out to be a wimp like everybody else.

• • •

I call Poppy and Moby Dick answers the phone.

“What are you doing there?”

“I drove your grandpa for his treatment. He’s back now. He’s taking a nap.”

“What kind of treatment?”