Lost Girls

almost every night, waking me up. I know it's her because I answered once and it was her voice.''

''And what did she want? Your lap for a private dance, perhaps?''

''No, Graham. Crank-call sort of shit. But there was something about-- It's like she wasn't just kidding around. You know what I mean?''

''No,'' Graham says at precisely the same moment Bert says, ''Yeah.''

''And she's not the only thing. There's some people in town trying to get under my skin. To distract me.''

''And how is that done?''

''The other night there were two girls standing across the street from my bedroom wearing these old cotton dresses. Waving up at my window. And it's getting pretty bloody cold up here.''

''I'm sure it was just your fan club, Bartholomew, bidding you out onto the balcony for a speech or blessing.''

''Don't fuck around, Graham. It's like they were trying to freak me out.''

''Now, now, now,'' Graham soothes. ''There's no need to be freaked out. We're here and we're listening.''

''And so far we haven't heard shit,'' Bert cuts in, collapsing into a chair that screeches in protest as it accepts his weight. ''So some kids do a little routine on you. Small towns are like that, they don't like outsiders. Especially outsiders doing the job you're doing. My advice is acquire some balls and get on with it.''

''Thank you for that, Bert. As usual your comments have been very thoughtful.''

''Piss off.''

Nobody says anything for a while, and I consider hanging up, walking straight down to the Lord Byron and injecting two or three rye-and-gingers into my system before calling back with the excuse that we must have been cut off. Then Graham's voice returns.

''Well, now, gentlemen. Shall we move on?''

''Wait. There's another thing. Kind of funny.''

''We like funny.''

''I've been around to the lake a couple times where Tripp is accused--where whatever happened happened. Anyway, I bumped into an old lady, a Mrs. Arthurs who lives on the water, who told me this story about an escaped mental patient after the war who was living in the woods, trying to get some of the local kids to go with her, kidnap them I guess, and--''

''What war?'' Bert interrupts.

''WW Two.''

''That was over fifty years ago!''

''I know.''

''So what's she got to do with Tripp?''

''Nothing, I'm sure. See, she kept trying to kidnap the kids in town because they'd taken her own kids away from her after they put her in the hospital. But before she could, all the men in town hunted her down and she ended up falling through the ice on the lake. They forced her out there. More or less executed her without a trial or reporting what happened or anything.''

''The point, Bartholomew?'' Graham laughs impatiently.

''The point is that Mrs. Arthurs is a witness.''

''A witness to what?'' Bert closes in on the receiver again. ''To nothing, that's what. Nothing you have to give a shit about. Your client is Tripp, not a bunch of fucking geriatric vigilante woodsmen.''

''I know. I know that,'' I say, finally hearing my own voice, how reedy and young it must sound at the other end. ''I'm sorry. I'm just tired, that's all.''

''Well, then, could we now lower the curtain on Count Barth's Monster Horror Theater for a moment and turn our minds to the matter of relevance ? For God's sake, boy, if you took every campfire tale this seriously, I'm surprised they didn't throw you in the madhouse long ago. Now can we please proceed, but with the colorful local mythology edited out?''

There's the creak of a reclining chair followed by Bert's laugh that manages, always, to underscore a humiliation.

I manage to turn to my notes and muddle through a point-by-point summary of Goodwin's disclosure and the other items I've arranged under the heading EVIDENTIARY MATTERS, leaving out Tripp's bloody button-down, its removal from his freezer and deposit in the trunk of the Lincoln.

''Well, everything sounds in order. Doesn't it, Bert?''

Nothing.

''If that's all, Bartholomew, perhaps we can relieve Mr. Tripp now of the burden of our time and have you check in again, maybe next week, say, with a further update before--''

''There's something else.''

I hear my voice scratched up another half octave.

''Oh?''

''I've been thinking that I may take you up on your earlier offer.''

''Offer?''

''I may need some help.''

Bert snorts.

''Now, Bartholomew, I'm aware you're probably feeling nervous. That's perfectly understandable! My God, I was a wreck on my first murder. There's so much more to be mindful of. But Bert and I have absolutely every confidence--''

''It's fucking open and shut!'' Bert shouts, no longer in the background but with his mouth wrapped fully around the receiver. ''Open and fucking shut!''

''It's not the facts, Bert. It's the whole thing, keeping it all together, you know? I know I'm not being very clear.''

''No, no, no,'' Graham chirps, but his heart's not in it. ''We know exactly what you're talking about, Bartholomew. It's only that we know your apprehensions to be perfectly common. No defense lawyer, not a single one known to history, is unfamiliar with what you're experiencing. The eve of trial, the facts disclosed and assembled, strategies considered, your client's directions clear as they'll ever be, and still there's a butterfly in the bowels keeping you up at night. All perfectly common.''

''Yes. I guess that's true.''

Again there is a period with no sound traveling down the line, and it goes on long enough to make it clear that there will be no help from Lyle, Gederov & Associate. Maybe it's the publicity the case is getting in Toronto, a public outcry against the leniency the courts have shown to perpetrators of violence against children and we're not going to take it anymore, et cetera, et cetera. Or maybe they've just decided to let me handle this on my own no matter what comes up for the benefit of enriching my legal education. Whatever it is, the result is clear as the silence that separates us over the conference line.

''What's going on with you, Barth?'' This is Bert, his voice not quite level but not bristling with his usual rage either. ''Are you trying to say something you haven't told us yet? Do you have a real problem up there or not?''

Good question. And what I end up saying surprises me, the words escaping my mouth before I have a chance to haul them back in.

''I'm scared,'' I say.

There's a long pause free even of clicked lighter, creaking chair, or blown smoke. And when a response finally comes, it comes from Bert.

''It's your fucking job to be scared,'' he says with what might be taken for the restraint one hears in words of confession or kindness.