Lost Girls

''--more than enough power to carry those two girls under those big arms--''

''--how dare--''

''--felt you had to do something--''

''Objection! Your Honor, please, this transgresses--''

''God damn you!''

''ORDER! ORDER, PLEASE IF YOU DON'T MIND!''

Goldfarb is banging her gavel. A welcome sound. As Graham is so fond of saying, ''It's not a real trial until the court has used its little hammer. Bang, bang!''

''Mr. Crane, could you let me in on where these questions are going?'' Goldfarb asks once McConnell and Goodwin have exhausted themselves.

''Your Honor, Mr. McConnell has taken the stand with the understanding that he would be vigorously cross- examined. And that this cross-examination would be permitted broad scope.''

''Fine. But broad scope doesn't involve bald accusation.''

''And I'm not accusing anyone. I'm merely trying to illustrate the absurdity of the accusations against my client by demonstrating the ease with which a case--slim, but no slimmer than the one faced by Thom Tripp--could be made against Mr. McConnell. I'm showing that it's crazy to support the charge that this hundred-and-fifty-pound teacher''--I place a hand on Tripp's shoulder--''murdered two of his students because he was found to have worn muddy pants. I apologize if my questions did anything more than achieve this aim, Your Honor.''

''Fair enough, Mr. Crane. Now, do you--''

Goodwin's up, waving a finger in the air as though tracing the flight pattern of a fly.

''Your Honor! You're going to accept that explanation? I think counsel for the defense deserves to be reprimanded and limited in any further--''

''Sit down, Mr. Goodwin. I think Mr. Crane's explanation was perfectly satisfactory. I advise members of the jury to keep these remarks in mind, as a matter of fact. And as for you, Mr. McConnell, I sincerely hope you will accept the defense's apology.''

McConnell growls like an old dog who's heard the postman coming up the path.

''Good. Now, Mr. Crane, any further questions?''

''No, Your Honor.''

''Well, people, whaddya say we break for the day?''

Nice. Couldn't have gone better, actually. I managed to malign McConnell's father-knows-best character as well as deliver argument before the jury that went on to be met with the endorsement of the court. Very nice, indeed.

But as I collect my papers together I glance back to the far corner of the courtroom gallery and find Brian Flynn sitting there staring back at me. And in his eyes a look of disappointment so great, I can only turn from it, throw my things in my bag, and walk out with eyes held to the floor in a burning flush of shame.

chapter 37

That night I dream I'm standing on the shore of Lake St. Christopher, bare feet glowing through the green water. Behind me, up the slope of high weeds, the abandoned cottage at the far end of the lake set in solid shadow, its front window sending back a wavering version of the moon, blue, half sliced. Watching the pencil-size ripples lap in against my ankles. The kiss of rock and water.

And watch the ripples turn to waves. Splashing higher up my legs. Somewhere out over the dark water the fizz of held air released, beading up to the surface.

I try to turn but there's no feeling in my feet, invisible now under a cloud of silt. It takes both hands lifting up at the knees to pull myself out, turn, and slip up onto the stone-embedded beach.

Behind me something stands. Breathes.

Then I'm pulling the weeds out of the ground to hold myself up, tossing dew-slick clumps over my back as I kick up the hill. An idea that if I make it inside the cottage I'll be safe. But whatever follows from the water has now made it onto the shore, wet skin slapping over mud. Air clacking down into liquid lungs.

The steps up to the deck iced with moss and at the top my feet splay out from under me, knees slamming down hard onto the wood. I throw out my hands to break my fall and fingers are stabbed with splinters as they graze across the door.

Scramble to my feet again, kick myself forward. The door moves but doesn't open, jammed in its frame. The creak of another's weight behind me on the bottom step.

Pitch against the door again but there's no room or dry footing to start from. Stand there frozen, no sound but its rattling breath against my back.

The mouth opens. A hand on my shoulder, turning me around.

When I wake I call Goodwin's office expecting to leave a message on his machine but instead there's a shallow wind blown into the receiver as he picks up, gathering the strength to announce himself.

''Goodwin.''

''Hello, Pete. It's Barth.''

''I'm glad you called. Wanted to congratulate you on a fine performance this afternoon. Really first-rate provocation.''

''It's a specialty.''

''No doubt. What can I do for you?''

''I'd like to schedule a meeting. Nothing too terribly urgent. But maybe sooner would be better than later.''

''I must say this doesn't sound like you, Barth. Everything's either earth shattering or it doesn't matter at all with you. Am I right? Which is it?''

''More on the earth-shattering side, I guess.''

''How about now, then?''

''Tonight?''

''You're up, I'm up. And I wasn't planning on going out dancing.''

''Fine. I'll be there in twenty minutes.''

Great. I've called a meeting with the prosecution and I don't even know why. Not exactly why. But I can't possibly tell Goodwin I really called because the night was billowing up outside my windows again and I can't make the room bright enough even with all the lights on.

So as I slip my still-damp overcoat on over still-damp shoulders, I think of something I can say to Goodwin that will actually make sense. Around me Ontario Street has been transformed into a swaying kaleidoscope of colored light. Christmas decorations hanging off the lampposts, winking bulbs nestled amid molting pine boughs and tinsel. Above, wavering across the intersection, eight sneering reindeer haul a sled with a drunken Santa at the helm, his one arm severed at the shoulder and swinging accusingly at me as I pass. Ho-ho- hokum. The only town in the world that can make Christmas junk look worse than it normally does.

And none of this doing my concentration any favors either. By the time I buzz in at the courthouse side door and make my way to Goodwin's office I still have no idea what I'm doing here. But it feels safe in the empty hallways, so I tell myself to come up with something fast if only to avoid a quick return to the honeymoon suite.

''Barth? I can hear you out there. Come in, I've got something for you,'' Goodwin calls out from behind the door. I push it open to find him standing before his desk, arms held behind his back.

''I couldn't help noticing that your exposure to the precipitation we've been having hasn't improved since our last meeting, so yesterday I went out and got you this.''

Goodwin lets his arms swing out in front of him. In his right hand he holds a black umbrella with a duck's head for a handle.

''I just couldn't see a fellow officer of the court shivering like a hungry dog all day, every day. Someone had to