“Mrs. Patterson?” the judge asked quietly. “Would you like someone to take you home?” Her head throbbed angrily as he asked her.

The truth was she would have liked to have gone home, but she thought it cowardly not to stay till the end. She felt she owed it to Charles, or to Malcolm, or to someone. She wasn't sure whom, but she thought she was supposed to be there. Maybe just to prove to the world that she wasn't a weakling. But everyone was looking so sorry for her now that she hated to be there.

“I'm all right. If you don't mind…perhaps I can stay here for a few minutes.” At least long enough to regain her composure.

“Had you finished your closing statement, Mr. Palmer?” The judge looked across his office and inquired, and Bill Palmer nodded. He hadn't expected the additional drama to punctuate his statement, but it hadn't done any harm either. Actually, he rather liked it.

“Yes, I had, Your Honor. Just.”

“Then why don't we recess for lunch? Mr. Armour can close after the noon recess. Is that all right with you, Counsellor?” It was already eleven-thirty, and he wouldn't have wanted to break into his closing statement anyway, so it was fine with him, and he agreed with a concerned look at Marielle. She was white as a sheet, and she looked really awful. But the judge had seen it too. “I think Mrs. Patterson should go home and rest for a little while, during the recess,” he suggested to the room at large.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she whispered as Tom's heart went out to her, and Bea patted her hand in sympathy.

Malcolm made a show of assisting her to the car, but when they got to the house, he left her to her own devices. She lay down in her room, in the dark, with a cold cloth on her head, and tried to drink a little tea. But it was too late. She already had a crushing migraine. But she knew that no matter how rotten she felt, or how blinded by pain, she had to be back at the courtroom by one-thirty. But suddenly she could hardly force herself to go. It was as though she had expected something that only that morning she had finally come to understand wasn't going to happen. In some odd way, she'd thought it was all like a terrible game…and if they won… in the end, she'd get her child back. Someone would admit what they had done with him, or say they were sorry. There was going to be a reasonable end to it all, a prize for all the pain, some reasonable closure, only now she realized that there wasn't. There was nothing. There were only words and people and actors…and liars…and in the end, someone would say either innocent or guilty, and they would either execute Charles or set him free, but no one was ever going to bring Teddy back. Never. That had never been part of the bargain. And she felt as though she were in a haze of confusion as she lay there.

“Are you coming?” Malcolm walked into her darkened bedroom at one-fifteen, and looked with scorn at her lying on the bed. She felt too ill to move. And she couldn't even imagine getting to the courtroom.

“I don't think I can,” she said weakly. She couldn't even open her eyes, or sit up now.

“That's nonsense,” he snapped at her. “You have to. Do you want them to think that you're afraid to be there?” He said it as if it were a cardinal sin. Was fear so terrible then? The second deadly sin. Fear. The first one was weakness. And what about love? Was that a sin too? Had she sinned because she'd loved Charles…and Andre…and their baby girl… or even Teddy? Where was “love” in Malcolm's vocabulary, or did it even exist? Were there only responsibility and obligation and duty? Her head was spinning. Or was love something he'd saved only for Brigitte.

“If you don't go, Marielle, they'll think you were in league with Delauney and you can't bear to watch him convicted. Is that what you want? Is that what you want smeared all over the press? Well, I don't. Get up for God's sake, and face it.” He was shouting at her in the darkness, and she could feel her whole body tremble. But from somewhere, she drew on a strength she didn't know she had, and she sat up quietly and took the cloth off her head as she winced and looked at her husband. “I've been facing things all my life, Malcolm, things you couldn't begin to face, even now. So don't tell me what to get up and face.” She spat the words at him in a way she hadn't dared speak to him since she'd known him. But he'd been vicious to her ever since Teddy's kidnapping, and she'd finally had it. It wasn't her fault, or his, or probably even Charles's. It had probably been done by some totally insane crazed stranger. And whoever had done it, they had, and it was over. Why did he continue to blame her?

“You look dreadful,” he said, as he watched her comb her hair and pull it back in a bun in her dressing room. She went to wash her face and put on some lipstick, but she looked very severe, as she put on dark glasses and followed him to the car, thinking how long it had been since she'd seen John Taylor.

She sat quietly in the car next to Malcolm, with their guards and their policemen, and as usual they made their way through the crowds to the courtroom, dodging hands and people who wanted to touch them and ask questions, trying to avoid the press, and shield their faces from photographers. And with her headache, it seemed particularly awful. But they finally made it to their seats, and she took off her dark glasses.

For the first time during the trial, the judge was ten minutes late, and Tom was poring over his notes, while Charles sat with his eyes closed, looking grim. He had almost no hope left, in spite of Tom's skill. He was certain that without the informant's testimony about the pajamas and the bear, he would be found guilty.

The-judge had just invited Tom to begin his closing argument, and he had just stood up, when John Taylor walked into the courtroom. He stopped for a moment and looked at the judge, who knew him well, and both prosecution and defense looked at him with profound expectation. And everyone in the courtroom wondered why the usually pristine FBI agent was so disheveled and filthy. He was wearing work pants and a rough sweater, and he was absolutely covered with oil and dirt, and it seemed a very odd appearance in court, but he went straight to Marielle, as everyone watched, and with an apologetic glance at the judge, John whispered to her to come with him. She followed him out of court silently, without even saying a word to Malcolm. Everyone watched them go, with turned heads and whispers, and the judge finally rapped his gavel again to get everyone's attention.

“May I remind you, ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “that Mr. Armour is making his closing statement.” Tom turned himself to what he was doing then, and attempted to concentrate and not think about why John Taylor had taken Marielle out of the courtroom. He had the terrible feeling that they had found Teddy's body and he wanted to tell her first. But wouldn't he have taken Malcolm with him too, or was it kinder not to? Tom forced himself to focus on the man with one leg…and the ex-nun…and the young black musician…and tell them what a fine man Charles was, how he had been unfairly accused, and the prosecution had not proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he was guilty. That if they examined their conscience there was no way they could send this man to the electric chair for things he had said, and never meant, in the heat of a drunken moment. Even to his own ears, he droned on, as he continued to wonder why Marielle had left the courtroom. It was all he or anyone else could think of. Only Malcolm looked calm as he continued to watch the proceedings.

And as she walked to a car with John, she looked at him in terror. “What's happening?” she asked anxiously. “What's going on?”

“I want you to trust me. I have to take you somewhere. Are you all right?” He looked at her worriedly. She had swayed for a moment, and no one had told him she'd fainted that morning.

“I'm fine. I just have a very bad headache.” She winced again, but she followed him into the car without hesitation.

“I'm sorry to do this to you. It won't be as bad as you think, and I'll make it as easy as I can for you…but I need to take you with me.” He started the car, and they drove off toward the West Side, and she looked frightened.

“Are you arresting me?” Was that possible? Was he crazy? Did he think she'd been in collusion with Charles after all? Had Malcolm told him that? His final revenge on her? As they drove west, she looked really frightened.

“Of course not.' He patted her hand gently, and then raised an eyebrow, trying to make light of the moment. “Should I be?”

“I don't know,” she said nervously.- “I don't know where we're going. Should Malcolm be here too?” Like Tom, she was suddenly afraid they were going to ask her to identify Teddy's body, and she knew she couldn't stand it, and maybe John thought he was being kind to her by taking her there alone, but he shook his head in answer to her question.

“No, he shouldn't. You'll be fine with me, Marielle. Trust me. You'll be all right. This won't be as difficult as you think.” He looked at her gently, wanting to kiss her. But right now, they had serious business to take care of.

“Can't you tell me what this is about?” She was almost in tears. All he had said to her in court was “Mrs. Patterson, I have to ask you to come with me.” And Malcolm had looked as startled as she did.

“I can't tell you, Marielle, I'm sorry. Right now, this is official business.” But he patted her hand, and left a smudge of soil on her fingers.

She nodded, trying to be brave as she rode along, but the headache was so bad now she could hardly stand it. He chatted with her on the brief drive, but it was obvious that he was preoccupied, and she couldn't help noticing that he was absolutely filthy, and she wondered why. And he was so distracted he didn't even notice her silence.