Richadr Stevenson - On the other hand,death

I said, "What did you do with the money you embezzled? There's no evidence of it around here.

No steak for supper at the Deem house, just hot dogs. Where did it all go?"

The anger drained out of him in an instant, as if someone had opened an artery. He stood by the sink white-faced and trembling now, dumb with shock, watching me, trying to prepare himself for the moment he'd been terrified of all his adult life. I despised the moment too. But I saw no point in putting it off, so I said the words.

"You spent a hundred and forty-one thousand dollars feeding Duane Andrus's coke habit. That's a lot of money for low-grade sex."

He gawked at me in hot panic for a long couple of seconds. And then he broke. Deem slid to the floor, quaking and weeping, his heaving back banging against the sink cabinet, his face in his hands. Between great racking sobs, Jerry Deem shook his head and keened, "I'm not a homo! I'm 104 not a homo!"

I seated myself on a kitchen chair and gazed out the window at the immobilized T-bird. Not looking at Deem, I said, "The kidnapping wasn't your idea, was it?"

"No, no, I wouldn't have done that."

"But Andrus told you about it as soon as he'd done it. And you didn't turn him in. If you had, you might have saved Peter Greco from drowning in a sea of cat fur."

He sobbed and nodded and shook his head.

"Andrus wanted you as an involuntary accomplice to gain a further hold on you, because he thought that Dot Fisher would sell out to Millpond to raise the ransom money and make everybody on Moon Road rich. When Dot threw a crimp into that plan by raising the hundred grand through other means, Andrus decided to kidnap

McWhirter too-none of us knew yet that Greco was dead-and put additional pressure on Dot to sell. That way, Andrus would end up with the ransom money and whatever he could extort from you after the sale of your property went through.

"One reason you went along with it was-besides your fear of Andrus's exposing your relationship with him-the other reason was, you wanted part of the ransom money to pay off Murchison, who was pressing hard for his August installment and threatened to send Dale Overdorf around again to break your collarbone. Two busted collarbones in one summer would have been hard to explain to your family and friends."

He sobbed and nodded, nodded and sobbed. I looked down at him. My head hurt. I felt sick.

"Why, Jerry? I understand the two-life syndrome. Like a lot of people, I once lived that way myself. I understand the terror that drives men to it. But why Duane Andrus? Why some violent punk like him? There are two billion men on the face of the earth. Why Andrus?"

He peered up at me now, still shaking, his face awash with sweat and tears. After a long, tense moment, he said angrily, "Because he was evil. I am an abomination unto the Lord! Duane Andrus is what I deserved."

We sat gazing at each other. If Fenton McWhirter had been there he would have attempted to explain a few things to Deem. But I had neither the stomach for it nor any hope that it would make a difference to anyone living.

Breathing more easily now, Deem said, "I think- I guess I better have a Valium. I need to calm down."

I nodded.

He managed to stand and wobble into the living room, then staggered left into the rear part of the house.

After a moment, I stood and walked quickly in the direction Deem had gone. The bedrooms were empty. A door in the short hallway was shut. I knocked. He didn't answer. I tried the knob. Locked.

In an instant, I made a decision I sometimes later regretted. I lifted a leg and sent my shoe crashing hard against the flimsy plywood door. It exploded inward, knocking Deem against the sink, the battery of pills flying out of his mouth and pinging against the mirror like buckshot. He flailed about, grabbing for the pills, but I had him by the collar and dragged him into the living room backwards.

Then to the kitchen, where I bent him over the table and held him there with one hand while I dialed the phone with the other. I glanced at my watch while I dialed. Five after two. There was just enough time. I had another appointment to keep.

As I drove Dot Fisher up Moon Road, we passed two Albany police cruisers and Bowman's blue Dodge parked in front of the Deem house. She asked if I knew what was going on there, and I told her. She was silent for a long time. Then she said, "I'll drop in on Sandra later. She'll probably be needing some help."

We met Dot's attorney in the refrigerated lobby of the Millpond building and rode up together to Crane Trefusis's office. Marlene Compton ushered us into Trefusis's aerie of cool brown sunlight at exactly three o'clock. Dot was wearing electric blue slacks that clashed with the buffs and rusts. Trefusis removed his shades and greeted us with the bemused serenity of a man who knew that, overall, he would get what he wanted.

"Nice of you to drive all the way over here," he said. "I would have been more than happy, of course, to send one of our people out to Moon Road to pick it up."

Dot opened a Price Chopper paper bag and dumped the dollars on Trefusis's desk. "I wanted to present this to you myself," she said. "Please count it."

Trefusis laughed lightly. "No need for that. I know an honest woman when I meet one."

The lawyer produced a document canceling Millpond's option on Dot's property. Dot and Trefusis signed copies of it. Then Trefusis handed over a receipt for the hundred thousand.

"Nice doing business with you, Mrs. Fisher," he said. "Even under these sad and unproductive circumstances."

Dot mumbled something, started to leave the office, then turned and looked back at Trefusis. "I feel sorry for your mother, if she's living," she said. "You're going to make a lot of money, Mr.

Trefusis. But otherwise you're not going to amount to much."

The lawyer looked embarrassed and followed Dot out the door. I yelled after them, "I'll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes."

When the door closed, Trefusis said, "Funny old gal. I guess their minds go after a while."

I said, "The reward money. Ten grand. It's mine."

He stuck the stem of his shades in the corner of his mouth and studied me. He said, "That was for bringing Peter Greco back alive. You failed."

He was right. I didn't argue. My impulse was to break his nose, but my head hurt. I now owed Whitney Tarkington a hundred and ten thousand dollars. Fifty thousand had been recovered from Duane Andrus, and Trefusis's fee for catching the graffiti vandal would cover another ten. I still had to come up with an additional fifty thousand dollars by the next afternoon. Timmy was good for five, and my bank would, at 15 percent interest, make up the rest. Quite a weekend.

Trefusis was blathering on about how tragic the whole affair had been, but how Dot at least was going to be able to keep her beloved farm, and Trefusis had his eye on some acreage being offered for sale at the Christian Brothers retreat area, and in the end everything was going to work out all right for everyone concerned.

"Except for Peter Greco," I said. "And Fenton McWhirter, who's alone now."

"It's unfortunate," he mused. "But it's no one's fault. Not you, not I. A tragic, tragic accident.

None of us is to blame."

I told him about Jerry Deem. He went white.

I said, "You knew."

"That's absurd!" he blurted, with no conviction whatever.

"Your pal Murchison, a Millpond partner and chief supplier of construction materials for Millpond projects, mentioned to you in June that he had an accountant with his hand in the till and the authorities were going to have to be called in. When you found out the financial sleight-of-hand artist was the one and only Jerry Deem, you suggested to Murchison that there were other ways of handling it. In fact, you insisted on it. You offered Murchison Dale Overdorf."