Alive...she has to be alive. Why had he not heard from her? Ike Kleiger and his wife were frantic, fearing the worst. Christina was a wild card, having ambitions beyond farm life, yet strange that she remained faithful in writing frequently to them. Lately though, Christina’s letters were fewer and lukewarm.

Ike, a Goliath of a man, vigorous with features like granite, was known in the valley as being stolid and forthright. A man whose entire existence depended on God’s word. Knowing he had been stern with his children, yet feeling it was for their good. Trying to bridle Christina’s restless spirit made her more determined to escape the gray days of routine on the farm. As Ike was turning the knob on the door to Jarrod’s office, his heart took a dive, thinking he was the reason for Christina leaving and maybe to blame if anything had happened to her. Ike entered Jarrod’s outer office, removing his hat. Jarrod’s secretary continued to write, unaware of Ike's presence in the room.

"Ma’am?" He was less of a blunderbuss around pretty, young women. Anne looked up from her work.

"May I help you?" Just then Jarrod came out of his office, handing Anne some briefs.

"Anne, would you be so kind as to take these over to the court house for me."

"Yes, sir." Jarrod then looking over at Ike, standing unusually quiet, clutching his hat.

"Ike, what are you doing here? We didn’t have an appointment, did we?"

"No but I need to talk with you."

"What is it?" Jarrod asked sensing his urgency.

"Can we talk in your office?"

"Of course."

"I’ll take these to the court house right away, Mr. Barkley," Anne stated, putting on her straw hat with a tuft of blue and red silk flowers and scarlet red streamers.

"Thank you," replied Jarrod, ushering Ike into his office, shutting the door behind them. "Please sit down," Jarrod motioned to a large, comfortable brown leather arm chair, "now, tell me what’s wrong," Jarrod asked, leaning against the edge of the desk.

"Well, it’s like this...." Ike began, fidgeting with his chestnut beard, "it’s Christina."

"What about her? The last I heard she went to San Francisco," Jarrod said, folding his arms and relaxing against the desk.

"That’s just it, we’ve heard nothing from her."

"Ike," Jarrod said, looking down at the floor, crossing his feet at the ankles, "you know Christina, that isn’t really unlike her," Jarrod then peered back up at Ike.

"She was always good about writing to us."

"Have you sent a wire?"

"Yes," Ike replied, looking down at his feet, "nothing."

"Did she move without telling you? That’s possible you know." Ike began twisting the brim of his worn tan suede hat between his rough, callused fingers.

"I think something is wrong. Something has happened to her." Jarrod was surprised at Ike’s convictions.

"You don’t know that." Ike, now looking at Jarrod with the firm gaze, familiar to Jarrod.

"All right, maybe I’m crazy for what I’m thinking but I know something has happened to her. Given the way Christina is and you’re a man who deals in solid facts, I can understand how you might see it."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Find her."

"Have you talked with the sheriff?"

"There’s nothing he can do. He says it’s out of his jurisdiction. I didn’t know who else to turn to."

"Have you wired the authorities in San Francisco?"

"Fred did," Ike responded, looking away.

"And?"

"Nothing."

"Is there anyone she mentioned in her letters you could contact?"

"Only a man she was in love with. Never mentioned his name."

"Ike, you know I’m not a professional investigator, I can only dispense legal advice and this is not a legal matter."

"Then you’re saying you won’t help."

"I’m saying there isn’t much that I can do but suggest you contact a Pinkerton Detective Agency and see if one of their men can help you find Christina."

"I don’t want that. You know us Jarrod. You know Christina."

"How well I know Christina."

"I guess there isn’t much anyone can do." Ike rose from his chair, his mountainous shoulders sagging. "I’ll be on my way then." This was not the man with whom Jarrod was well acquainted. This was a man, weakened by fear and uncertainty. A man whose reliance on God was rocky. Jarrod wanted to say something comforting to give Ike back the desire he needed to find Christina. As the door was closing softly behind Ike, Jarrod was thinking that if tragedy had occurred, Ike’s belief in what was righteous for his children, was turning out to be a harsh lesson for him. Ike’s condemnation of his children had always been more important than the truth. Ike would always say, "It’s God’s will, that’s all I know," removing any responsibility and subsequent guilt from himself, like lint on his sleeve. Now with the truth weighing on his conscious, Ike could no longer ignore it.

That evening, while playing pool with his brothers, Jarrod lost concentration, drifting off into other thoughts. Reflecting on his visit with Ike earlier, he had the feeling of being pulled in many directions. Being rational did not seem to ease his mind.

"How’s Ike Kleiger these days?" Nick asked, chalking his que stick. Jarrod did not answer. Heath waved a hand in front of Jarrod’s face. Jarrod blinked, looking at Heath.

"Boy howdy, I thought you were in a trance."

"What?"

"Ike Kleiger?" Nick repeated, setting up his shot.

"What about him?"

"How is he? I saw him going into your office this morning. Nothing wrong, is there? You know Ike he never sets a foot into town unless it’s for supplies and to attend church. Bustin’ his back all day on the farm and reading the Bible at night."

"That man could give Reverend Witherspoon some competition on Bible verses if there was to be a contest." Heath said, grinning. Nick focused sharply on his smooth, gleaming white and green target, his aim careful and precise, while drawing back his arm as if handling nitro. Then a loud crack and the balls shot out, scattering like buckshot.

"See if you can top that brother Jarrod," Nick announced proudly, standing tall with one hand on his hip.

"Not now Nick."

"I can," Heath said eagerly.

"You just go ahead and try," Nick blustered. Jarrod laid his stick down on the desk and went out on the terrace for some air. Jarrod breathed deeply, then sighed. Nick came up beside him.

"What’s wrong big brother? Is it a case?"

"No, Nick it’s not a case." Jarrod replied, slipping his hands into his pockets, while leaning against the door frame.

"What then?"

"Ike Kleiger." Nick peered down at his feet, shifting his weight. "Christina is missing and he thinks something has happened to her." Nick’s head shot up while planting his fists on his hips.

"Oh, come on Jarrod, that hell raising fire cracker."

"He’s serious." Jarrod continued to stare straight ahead.

"I hope you straightened him out. Everyone in town knows she ran off to San Francisco with some big notion about becoming an actress."

"I know and Ike knows it too but he’s still convinced something is wrong."

"What evidence does he have?"

"Using my tactics on me?" Jarrod said, glancing at Nick sideways and smiling.

"Come on, come on, out with it," Nick demanded. Jarrod as always, yielding with grace and reason to Nick’s impatience with him, knew it was Nick’s way of comforting him when Jarrod had a problem.

"All right, Ike has nothing to go on. She hasn’t written them."

"Well, it surprises me that she would write them." Jarrod glanced gently over at Nick. Nick knowing what to expect when he saw that soft look in Jarrod’s eyes. Nick had seen it many times when clients appealed to his brother for help. Even Nick had to admit that though Jarrod using his head with such clarity in all situations, often ended up being guided by his heart. It was a trait that Nick admired knowing that it was part of Jarrod’s charisma in swaying juries and pleading with judges.

"He came to me for help."

"You, what for?"

"He couldn’t think of anyone else."

"What could you do that Fred hasn’t done?"

"Fred did everything he could. But I could go to San Francisco and investigate."

"You’re not serious?"

"I’m thinking about it," Jarrod said half-smiling.

"You’ve got enough to do around here without gallivanting all over San Francisco, looking for Ike Kleiger’s daughter."

"Actually Nick, I’m due for a vacation. My case load is dwindling down and this would be a good time to do it."

"Well, I could use some help with that round-up coming up."

"Oh, sure, remember my Lilly white hands?" Showing Nick his smooth, strong, manicured hands, "the most they can lift is a little ‘ole fountain pen." Jarrod folded his arms. "Not that I couldn’t do the work, but as you so aptly put it..."

"Ok, ok, you’re determined to do this."

"I am," Jarrod stated firmly and Nick knowing his brother’s mind was settled would not persuade him otherwise. Nick recognized stubbornness because he saw it in himself. After all, it was a strong Barkley characteristic.

"If you need any help, you send me a wire, you hear?" Nick said pointing a finger, looking hard and straight at Jarrod.

"You know I will. But I don’t think there will be much chance of me being in any danger."

"I’ll rest easier," Nick mumbled, fidgeting.

"You just like a good fight." Letting Nick off the fraternal hook.

"Now what does that mean?"

"Your reputation precedes you, brother Nick," Jarrod said, winking at him. Nick growling between gritted teeth, stomped off, spurs jangling as Jarrod chuckled quietly to himself.

While riding into Ike’s place, Jarrod spotted Ike’s son Aaron. A sleek, strapping young man with fawn colored hair loading bales of hay into the barn. Aaron glancing up, shielding his eyes from the sun, recognized Jarrod as he dismounted.

"Mr. Barkley." Aaron said, taking off his gloves.

"Aaron. How are you?" Still holding the reins, Jarrod slid his hands into his pockets.

"Ok, I guess." Aaron as usual subdued, answering in a stale voice.

"Is your father around? I’d like to talk to him."

"In the house."

"Thanks."

"Mr. Barkley?"

"Yes?"

"Are you going to help find my sister?"

"I’ll do what I can." Nothing in Aaron’s unremarkable, clean face changed. His eyes, remaining dull and vacant. Jarrod squeezed Aaron’s upper arm in assurance. The boy only gazed down at the ground. Jarrod left him, standing like a hen-pecked, battered scarecrow, the stuffing gone, slumping on his post, inert and forgotten. Even by the birds, the scarecrow is ignored.

Jarrod tied his horse to the hitching post, then walked up the steps to the front door of the tiny farm house. Always clean and tidy as if nothing else mattered on earth. Jarrod knocked on the door and Rosemary answered.

"Jarrod, come on in," she said flatly. Jarrod stepped in, removing his hat. As always Rosemary was inanimate, showing no more emotion than her son.

"I need to see Ike."

"I’ll get him for you."

"Thank you," he replied as she took slothful steps to the kitchen. Jarrod still could not believe Rosemary was only forty-six. She seemed like eighty-six and at that some eighty-six year olds had more energy. Now he understood Christina’s description of her mother as "an old, dull rock with as much personality." Then Ike appeared.

"Jarrod."

"Ike I’ve decided to go to San Francisco and see if I can find Christina for you. But I’ll need the last address you have for her."

"Oh, bless you, Jarrod." Relieved, like an exuberant school boy, Ike went to get the letters with Christina’s address.

"I did find a letter that mentions her room mate," Ike said returning with a spring in his step. "Her name is Cleo Valentine and she still may be at that address. It’s a boarding house," Ike said, pointing out the address.

"I know where it is." Ike eyed Jarrod for a moment, hesitating.

"What kind of neighborhood is it?" Jarrod was not stunned by the question.

"It’s a little run-down but not seedy. More working class, I’d say." Ike seemed somewhat at ease. "Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to find her and let you know when I get any information." Jarrod stated, slipping the letters into the inside breast pocket of his vest.

"Thank you, Jarrod."

"You’ll be doing me a favor. It gets me out of a round-up with Nick. I’ll go deaf if I have to listen him yell at the cattle for twelve hours a day. I don’t know why he never gets laryngitis," Jarrod said, looking puzzled as he put on his hat, while Ike was laughing.

As Jarrod sat drinking his coffee and smoking a cigar, he listened to the rhythm of the train. He remembered a moment five years ago when he and Crown were discussing the farmers. Ike Kleiger was one of them.

Turning to look out, swift the valley went passing by in all its vastness. Dotted with cattle and sheep and limitless rows of lettuce, tomatoes, figs, grapes, orchards of peaches and oranges. The mowing field, heavy with dew in the yellow mist of the early morning glow. The meadows, cluttered with wild flowers, touched gently by a thawing spring breeze. Mountains huddling together, still and noble. Even the sweet smell of the earth itself after the rain. Wide open land, beckoning, welcoming the man who dares to set down roots. Virginal, fearless, and untamed except for the farmer, defying fate to bend its will. Turning away, Jarrod thought of the sun burnt hillsides, the withered, bruised and battered crops, reminders of nature’s punishment. A punishment the farmer can never understand. Particularly God fearing as Ike Kleiger who finally resigned himself to this life. Trial by survival, the people living and dying on the land were at nature’s mercy. Jarrod, remembering a time when he was young and had viewed the sacrifice. His father had been one. Ike Kleiger’s oldest son had been the other. Ike came home that day, looking at Rosemary.

"Danny?" She asked approaching Ike. Ike took her hand, holding it tight.

"Dead." Was all he said.

Jarrod’s thoughts turned to Christina Kleiger. Christina,...willowy, flaxen hair with a face like a china doll. Wild and dancing cornflower blue eyes, an upturned nose and shapely rose-bud mouth. He could still hear that intimate, whispering voice, floating along like a warm spring breeze. Christina, with dreams whirling in her head and an agitated heart, destined for more than to struggle with fate.

When Jarrod arrived in San Francisco, he went immediately to the boarding house where Christina had been staying. It was shabby to say the least, with gray paint flaking away, exposing patches, scattering the front like battle scars. Residents of the neighborhood gazed at Jarrod while he was mounting the front stoop, which was cracking in places. Their eyes, fixed on his crisp gray suit, starched white shirt and gold cufflinks or eyeing him up and down, taking in the image of the entire man with loathing. Jarrod was no stranger to this, graciously ignoring their glaring, he stuck to the purpose of his visit. One woman, in her early thirties, skipping out the door stopped, leering at him. He tipped his hat, smiling as she threw her feather boa around her neck and over her shoulder, hitting Jarrod in the face. Drawing away from the feathers tickling his nose and the smell of her cheap perfume, she then continued skipping down the steps, swinging her bag and whistling. Jarrod then knocked on the door. There was no response. Knocking again, there was still no response. A huge, older, woman with shaggy hair came up beside him.

"You want Sapphire, honey?" She asked, looking at him head-on, showing a semi-toothless grin.

"Who?" Jarrod inquired, thinking he had not heard the woman with few teeth. Then he noticed dried food on her dress.

"Move it, honey," she said, shoving Jarrod aside. With her great, meaty fist, she pounded on the door, rattling the door’s dingy yet delicately etched windows.

"Hey, Sapphire, wake up in there," She bellowed. Closing his eyes, Jarrod thought, "She could rival Nick’s hollering." When hit in the face by a pungent aroma, Jarrod thought, "she obviously does not recognize soap and water either," keeping his distance in what small space there was on the stoop. A slender black woman appeared at the door.

"Whatch’ you hollerin’ for Mavis?" Mavis stood back.

"The gentleman was knocking," She quietly said, pointing to Jarrod. Turning, Mavis returned to her spot on the stoop to continue her gossip session.

"Well?" Asked Saphire, her hands on her hips, tossing back her head.

"My name is Jarrod Barkley and I’m looking for Christina Kleiger." Sapphire’s eyes narrowed, noticing the eavesdroppers asked, "Whatch’ yall lookin’ at?" Everyone turned their heads in unison, huddling together. "I ain’t got no Christina Kleiger."

"You’re sure?"

"Yeah, I’m sure."

"How about Cleo Valentine?" Sapphire burst out laughing, startling Jarrod.

"Yeah, her I got. But you just missed her."

"Do you know when she’ll be back?"

"I ain’t her caretaker. Tonight sometime is all I know."

"I see." Jarrod was thoughtful for a moment.

"You want me to tell her you was here?"

"Would you?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Thank you, I’ll stop back later," Jarrod said, starting back down the steps.

"Hey, mister." Jarrod turned, squinting up at Sapphire in the sunlight. "I said I had no Christina Kleiger but I did have a Christina Peterson." Then it clicked, it was Rosemary’s maiden name.

"You say you did have?"

"She’s been gone...oh, I’d say a month now."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No, just left. Still owes me a weeks rent." Jarrod walked back upstairs, taking out his billfold and handing a couple of bills to Sapphire. Wary, she took it.

"Will that pay her rent?"

"It sure will," she replied, counting the money. Her turban wrapped head remaining bowed, Sapphire suddenly thawed, bewildered by such generosity. Peering up at Jarrod, her small, heart shaped face softened. "Thank you." Jarrod smiled.

Later, during dinner.

"Jarrod," came a familiar voice across the clamor. Jarrod looking up and around, recognized Senator Stanford Abbott, an old friend from law school. "Jarrod, how are you?" He greeted Jarrod, shaking his hand, pumping it up and down like a sink handle. He was all politician.

"Stan, I haven’t seen you in a while." Jarrod remarked, rising.

"It’s been too long. So, how are you?"

"Can’t complain."

"I guess not with your success, looks and money."

"Well, you’re not exactly poor and ugly yourself."

"Too true," Stan replied, laughing. " How is the family?"

"Doing just fine." A woman appeared out of the crowd, dressed in a cherry red velvet dress trimmed in black gimp and jet buttons; a black net veil shadowing her still youthful face.

"Phylicia," Jarrod’s voice was smooth as he bowed his head toward her.

"Jarrod," Appreciating his potent charm, she gently removed her veil, whisking it back over her tiny black velvet hat, draped in netting and adorned with cherries. Phylicia Drummond Abbott was still the toast of San Francisco and had the admiration of every sycophant who wanted to rise to greater heights on her bustle. She admired Jarrod for being genuine. Loathing phoniness, Phylicia became proficient at spotting it like a bird dog. "What brings you to San Francisco? I would think springtime in the valley would be soothing."

"That’s surprising," Stan said, Phylicia glaring at him. Jarrod was quick to notice Stan’s almond shaped hazel eyes changing from a dance to still, coldness.

"Not with everything Nick has to do on the ranch and yelling about it as well. I think I’m safer here or at least it is more soothing to my ears."

"Oh, no," Phylicia remarked, laughing in deep, rich tones. Stan could never make her laugh. "You must come for dinner while you’re in town. How about tomorrow at seven?" Stan stood like a statue,

"That would be perfect, I’ll be there."

"See you then. Come Stan, my headache is getting worse."

"Good evening, Jarrod." Stan said, head hanging low while turning to leave. Jarrod watched as Stan was dragging himself behind Phylicia. Without finishing the remainder of his meal, Jarrod paid the check and went on to the boarding house.

Sapphire answered the door.

"Mr. Barkley, come in." Jarrod could hear a woman robustly singing in the living room as he stepped in, removing his hat. "This way." Jarrod followed Sapphire into the living room, while a slender colorful woman was entertaining two boarders. One was playing the piano. The other was clearly unconscious; stretched out in a chair, arms flung over the sides. Jarrod recognized the woman as the one with the feather boa who had leered at him earlier. Dressed in an emerald green satin dress, trimmed in jet black crystal beads and black silk fringe, she was flinging her scarlet feather boa about the room, swaying to the music. Her ginger colored hair mushroomed up with a tail of corkscrew curls bobbing while she danced. Her lips glistened ruby red in the glow of the lamplight as her fake diamond earrings swung like pendulums. She dipped into a low curtsy when the applause came from the piano player, then springing back up on her feet. Jarrod could not understand how anyone could sit through such a disturbing performance unless comatose. That included the piano that was in need of tuning.

"Thank you, thank you." Her sparkling aquamarine eyes darted around the room, finally settling on Jarrod, "Well, well, who is this fine gentleman?"

I’m Jarrod Barkley," Jarrod said amused. Cleo threw her feather boa over her ivory white shoulders, coyly peering up at him.

"He wants to talk to you about Christina Peterson," Sapphire added.

"Oh." The feather dropped down by her sides as she drifted over to the unconscious man, slapping him on the arm. "Wake up Fred, show’s over." Fred startled awake, blinking and sitting forward in his seat. Cleo planted herself in an overstuffed chair nearby, crossing her legs.

"Fred is going to die of alcohol poisoning, now you don’t want to miss that Mr. Barkley," said Cleo, swinging one leg up and down, while plucking stray feathers from her boa. Fred rose, stumbling into the furniture then crashing into Jarrod, who then steadied him toward the staircase. Fred, grabbing the banister, swaying for a moment, then went weaving his way up the stairs. Jarrod looked concerned as Cleo was blowing the stray feathers into the air like a child blowing bubbles.

"I guess I’ll go up to see if Fred makes it," Sapphire responded, lifting her skirts and mounting the steps. Jarrod turned to Cleo.

"Miss Valentine, I’d like to ask you a few questions about..."

"Call me Cleo, honey."

"Cleo." Walking over to the couch, Jarrod settled in, crossing his legs. "Can you tell me where I can find Christina Peterson?"

"Who are you?"

"A friend of Christina’s father. He hasn’t heard from her and is concerned."

"I don’t know where she is. All I know is that she took off one night, bag in hand."

"Didn’t you share a room?"

"We did," she answered, whipping away another stray feather from her boa.

"Did she tell you anything?"

"About what?" Cleo avoided his gaze, making him suspicious.

"Oh, where she was going when she left here."

"Said she got an acting part and could afford a better place to live."

"You don’t know where?"

"No."

"There was a man she was seeing. Do you know anything about him? His name?" Instantly, Cleo was becoming irritated by his questions.

"What are you? Some kind of a detective?" She snapped.

"No, I’m a lawyer,"

"Well, that explains it."

"Explains what?"

"Your rapid-fire questions."

"Which you have not answered."

"She said he was somebody rich and important. I don’t know anything more than that."

"Christina told you nothing else about him?"

"No, why would she. We weren’t that close."

"You’re positive?"

"Look," Cleo announced, jumping to her feet. "I told you all I know. So, just leave me alone."

"Sorry to have bothered you," Jarrod said, rising from the couch, hat in hand. At once, Cleo regained her sweetness. Flipping emotions was easy for the actress yet it did not fool Jarrod and Cleo knew it.

"No bother when someone is as handsome is you." She purred. Jarrod remained indifferent, leaving without any further word. He was annoyed by the games these women played, being evasive and manipulative, disguising their motives. At the same time, thinking they could mislead him.

When Jarrod went out the door, Cleo began searching for her bag. Upon finding it, she dashed for the door.

"Where are you off to in a such a hell fire hurry?" Sapphire inquired, coming downstairs.

"I forgot I have a late date."

"Oh, I’m sure of that." Cleo went scurrying out the door.

Cleo kept rapidly banging the large brass door knocker until someone finally answered. Standing in the doorway was Gordon Barrett, Senator Abbott’s campaign manager. He had narrow, cold eyes like smoky stones.

"What do you want?"

"I have to see Senator Abbott."

"He’s busy right now."

"It’s important."

"I can’t imagine that anything you would have to say would be considered important."

"I have to see him," Cleo coming face to face with him as he barred her entrance. Everything about him was resistant; his clothes pressed rigidly, his stance military and even his walnut colored mustache was stiff as a brush.

"Perhaps I can give the senator a message."

"It’s about Christina Peterson. Now can I see him?" Gordon grabbed her roughly by the arm, shoving her back out onto the stoop, closing the door behind him. Cleo noticed his demon eyes, staring out at her through dim lamplight, shrinking back as he still firmly held her arm.

"What about Christina Peterson?"

"There was a man."

"What man?"

"A lawyer, by the name of Jarrod Barkley." Gordon’s eyes shifted while he was thinking. Cleo pulled away from him, rubbing her arm.

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. But I will if you don’t pay me the money I asked for." Suddenly, Gordon thrust his arm out, gripping her by the throat. Controlled...very controlled, holding her as she stiffened against him. Cleo, had in the past, been attacked by men in passion but not like this. This frightened her, it was foreign, unfamiliar and dark.

"You’ll say nothing," Gordon was calm, as he spoke between clenched teeth.

"All right," she wheezed, hoping that agreeing with him would diffuse his anger. At once, he let go. Cleo’s hand, crept to her throat, rubbing it gently, knowing tomorrow there would be bruises.

"What is Barkley snooping around about?"

"You know him?"

"Everyone does except you, you stupid tramp." Cleo looking away for a moment, humiliated by his remark. Thinking perhaps she could still make a deal with Jarrod. Jarrod seemed a more willing target for her extortion and less of a threat. Either way, stupid or not, with Gordon she would be dead. With Barkley, she might get some money or worse a jail sentence.

"I didn’t tell him anything. Why do you think I came to you first? He said Chrisitna’s father wanted to know where she was. He hadn’t heard from her."

"Keep your mouth shut, do you understand? If Barkley comes back, tell him nothing."

"Sure...sure, I understand." Cleo said, looking tense. Cleo already made up her mind what had to be done. Cleo racing down the steps, picked up her skirt and started running down the street. When she was out of sight, she went on walking. Unruffled by the decision she made to bargain with Jarrod, she never wanted to see Gordon Barett again. Besides, "seeing Jarrod again would be a pleasure," she thought to herself, while swinging her back and whistling off into the deep shadows of the night.

The next morning, Jarrod was putting on his tie when he heard a knock at the door. He was coming downstairs as Mrs. Curry, his housekeeper was opening the door.

"Is Mr. Barkley at home?"

"Who is it Ida?"

"A young man," Mrs. Curry replied as Aaron was peering in at Jarrod.

"Aaron, what brings you here?"

"I had to come," he said, twisting the brim of his hat.

"Does your father know you’re here?"

"I left him a note."

"Come in." Aaron reluctantly stepped in, gazing in awe at the dark, rich colors and fabrics circling him; sober, refined and masculine.

"Wow, what a nice place." Aaron thinking other people do live differently and there are other worlds outside the farm. This must have been what Christina wanted. Smiling, Jarrod closed the door, then clasped his hands behind his back.

"Thank you. Ida, would you make Aaron some breakfast."

"Surely, be glad to." Ida went off to the kitchen.

"She makes the best bacon and eggs this side of San Francisco."

"I’m bothering you."

"No, not at all. Here, let me take your hat." Jarrod gently took Aaron’s hat from his grasp. Aaron then removed his coat, handing it to Jarrod, while continuing to stare at the oriental rug he was standing on, as if hypnotized by its kaleidoscope effect.

"Did you find my sister," He asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Not yet. But I’m going to the police station this morning to check on any missing persons. Lets have breakfast. You must be starved."

"I haven’t eaten since yesterday."

"Come on then," Jarrod roused Aaron, while swinging his arm around his shoulders and guiding him into the dining room.

At the police station, Aaron was on the seat of anxiety, either twisting the brim of his hat, rubbing his chin or forehead while he waited. At last, a young Inspector Stallings with dark brown wavy hair and sympathetic eyes appeared.

"Mr. Barkley?" Both Jarrod and Aaron rose together.

"Yes."

"We have an unidentified woman matching your missing person’s description. Or so it seems."

"Where?" Jarrod asked as inspector Stallings hesitated, looking at the floor then back up at Jarrod.

"In the morgue." Both men were stunned. Jarrod never expected the spirited girl’s life to end this way. "I’ll need someone to identify the body."

"We can," Aaron replied. Jarrod glanced sideways at Aaron.

"You’re sure you want to go down there?"

"I"m sure." Aaron remaining silent, followed both men downstairs.

A cold, endless concrete corridor lit by dim gas lights received them; thin shadows stretching along the bare walls. Not a sound was heard except for the three men walking. Inspector Stallings stopped in front of a door, opening it a crack. Looking again at both men, Jarrod nodded and the Inspector went on into the room. Following the Inspector, Jarrod looked back at Aaron who was sedate.

"Are you all right?"

"I’m fine, Jarrod," Aaron replied, avoiding eye contact with him. The inspector stood on the other side of the shrouded body.

"We’re ready," Jarrod said and the Inspector responded by carefully lifting the sheet as Aaron was still showing a stoical calm.

The room seemed like the end of the world. The eerie silence lingering like an alien of the invisible regions where they could not follow. As the sheet was pulled back over the face, Aaron did not flick an eyelid. Jarrod glanced down at the face first.

"I’m afraid she’s been in the water for a while," the inspector remarked as Jarrod was looking up at him. Aaron came around the other side of Jarrod, forcing himself to look, unaffected by fear. The inspector continued, "She was hit on the back of the head with some force. We don’t know yet how it happened or who might be responsible."

"That’s Christina," Aaron said with a quiet assurance. Gently its touch awakened him. Jarrod then bowed his head. Fascinated by the abstract, death was some riddle, vague as a dream. This was not make believe, limbs too hard and cold to stir. Once a girl with determination and purpose. Now a struggling heart at rest. Inspector Stallings gently laid the sheet back over her face.

"I’m sorry," Stallings said, his words polite and meaningless. Aaron drifted from the room.

"Thank you inspector," Jarrod said.

"Mr. Barkley." The inspector beckoned as Jarrod had his hand on the doorknob.

"Yes?"

"I think you should know the postmortem showed she was pregnant." Jarrod’s eyes widened. Jarrod then went out into the hall, where he noticed Aaron leaning against the wall weeping. Jarrod said nothing as he slid an arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him close. Both walked back down the corridor, the echo of their footsteps the last sounds heard in the grayness.

After dropping Aaron off at the townhouse, Jarrod had the difficult task of sending a wire to Ike confirming that Christina was dead. Jarrod deciding to walk back to his office, as he came in, he noticed Cleo waiting for him. This time Cleo was dressed for business in a mustard colored silk dress with brown soutache braid. Perched on her head was a brown velvet hat with brown ostrich plumes, waving as she spoke.

"I had a change of heart."

"I see," Jarrod said with questioning eyes, tossing his hat into a nearby chair and sitting down at his desk. Jarrod pierced her with his blue bedroom eyes, pinning her against the chair. "And what may I ask is this sudden change of heart?" He asked, folding his hands on the desk, waiting for one of Cleo’s glorious explanations.

"All right, I’ll come straight out with it," she replied, looking directly at him.

"That would be refreshing, thank God I’m sitting down." Cleo did not like his flip remark, yet could not fault him for saying it. If she had been direct with him from the beginning, then she would not be so anxious about Gordon Barrett’s implied threat. Now realizing that telling Gordon Barrett anything she knew about Christina was a foolish action, she had to clean up the mess she made or it would cost her, her life.

"I need some money to get out of town. The sooner the better." Jarrod raised his eyebrows.

"Oh? And how do I fit into your scheme?"

"It’s not a scheme, this is a business deal."

"It sounds like extortion to me."

"Oh, hell," she snapped, tossing her head back and forth sideways, "will you stop thinking like a lawyer and help me. In exchange, I’ll give you all the information about Christina."

"How do I know this isn’t folklore, Cleo?"

"It’s not, I swear. You’ll just have to trust me." Jarrod grinned, being accustomed to this gimmick but detecting that she was sincerely troubled, he figured to give her a chance. It would also save him a tedious investigation if he got the information he needed. He preferred not to say anything about Chrisitna, since it might spook her.

"Go on," he said, leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingers on the arms.

"Christina was the mistress of a powerful man in this state. A man with money and influence."

"Who is this wealthy and powerful man?"

"I can’t tell you." Jarrod looked away, exasperated.

"Cleo, I’m warning you, I’m not in the mood for "ring-around-the -rosy," he looked right at her then added, "either you tell me the truth or you know where the door is," he stated, pointing at her, then at the door.

"Ok...ok...bring me two thousand dollars tonight at 9:00 sharp and I’ll tell you everything."

"That’s not much insurance. Besides, I only have your word about Christina’s relations with this man, whoever he is. In a court of law, it would be hearsay."

"But this man would know where Christina is. Anyway, why would it have to be brought up in a court of law?"

"I know where she is."

"What?" She asked, puzzled.

"Chrstina is in the morgue."

"No, it can’t be," Cleo barely blurted out, rising from her chair in slow motion.

"They found her in the bay. Her head was bashed in." Cleo’s eyes grew wider, while fiddling with the drawstring on her brown velvet bag.

"I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get away, far away," she muttered coming unraveled. Jarrod leaned forward in his chair.

"If you don’t tell me now what’s going on, do you think you’ll be left alive to tell anyone else more than what you’ve told me." Jarrod was adamant. Cleo was not going to back off from her opportunity for a new life. This was her chance to escape a living nightmare. She leaned forward on the desk, almost coming nose to nose with Jarrod.

"Now, do you understand why I need that money to get out of town."

"All right, but you better be straight with me."

"I’ll write it all down. When you give me the money, you get the letter. But don’t open it until I’m out of town. I’ll be on the 9:40 train tonight."

"Fair enough," he agreed, realizing he had no choice. As Cleo was leaving, Jarrod said, "Cleo, I think you should also know that Christina was pregnant." Cleo stopped abruptly, keeping her back to him. She said no more as Jarrod watched her neat rows of silk ruffles waver like fishtail, swishing out the door.

Jarrod arrived at senator Abbott’s house as promised, promptly at 7:00. The butler was taking his hat as Phylicia traipsed out from the living room in a squall of pale pink silk taffeta.

"Jarrod, I’m so glad you came," she said, taking his hand and leading him into the living room. She then took his arm, leaning close to him. "It’s been so boring. Stan and Gordon Barrett, Stan’s campaign manager have been droning on about business."

"Well, it’s an election year, that’s to be expected."

"You don’t discuss politics or your law practice."

"Because when a beautiful lady is present, she deserves the attention." Phylicia blushed like a school girl with a crush, still beaming as they entered the living room. The air was thick with cigar smoke, heavy on politics. Neither of the men realizing Phylicia and Jarrod were in the room. Phylicia cleared her throat.

"Gentlemen, I think that’s quite enough for this evening. I hope that you won’t carry on like this at dinner."

"I’m not staying for dinner," Gordon announced, picking up his jacket off the couch, his cigar firmly planted between his teeth.

"Jarrod," Stan moved toward Jarrod, shaking his hand, "Jarrod, I’d like you to meet Gordon Barrett, my campaign manager." Gordon’s eyes narrowed seeing Jarrod.

"Mr. Barrett," Jarrod responded, regarding Gordon as he shook hands with him.

"Mr. Barkley, I’ve heard a lot about you and your family," Gordon said, putting on his coat. Jarrod noticed a heavy solid gold onyx ring on Gordon’s hand, dismissing its insignificance.

"I’m sure you have." That mistrustful feeling struck Jarrod, while looking into Gordon’s cool, probing eyes.

"Sorry, I can’t stay for dinner, but I have other engagements. Nice to meet you Mr. Barkley." Gordon swiftly left the room.

"Well, I hope it wasn’t anything I said," Phylicia remarked as Stan scowled at her.

"How about a drink?" Stan asked.

"Whiskey," Jarrod replied.

"Come sit down next to me," Phyicia said, patting the couch. Jarrod obliged. Stan glowered at them, handing Jarrod a drink. Uneasy, Jarrod sat rigidly, sipping his whiskey.

"What are you doing here?" Stan asked, sitting opposite them. Jarrod considered Stan’s question for a moment, thinking it was more like an interrogation than a friendly inquiry.

"Business as usual. I do have a practice here you know."

"Oh, I know, I was just wondering if it was anything interesting."

"Stan, can’t we talk about something other than law and politics?" Phylicia interrupted.

"All right, you pick the music and I’ll dance," Stan sneered, folding his arms.

"Well, if you’re that curious, I’m here because Ike Klieger had not heard from his daughter."

"Ike Klieger, now where have I heard that name."

"You remember Ike, he owns one of the large farm in Stockton."

"Ike?... Oh, yeah, always went to church and nothing else. Old fire and brimstone Ike," Stan remarked, tossing it off as trivial. Jarrod did not care for Stan’s appraisal.

"That’s the one."

"What happened to his daughter?"

"She was missing. Don’t you remember his daughter?...Christina?" Stan was suddenly silent, casting his eyes down.

"Stan, what’s wrong? You look so pale," Phylicia inquired.

"Nothing. You talk about her in the past tense. Nothing happened to her, I hope." Jarrod being an expert, watching Stan’s face, knew he was lying as Stan nervously rubbed his hands together, his palms glistening.

"She’s dead, Stan," Jarrod answered firmly. Phylicia’s eyes showing a thousand questions.

"Stan, did you know this girl?"

"I barely remember her. She was just a child the last time I saw her."

"Quite a child. And quite a young woman," Jarrod commented, gazing down at his whiskey glass. "I remember when Christina was about nine or ten, she would climb the ladder to the hayloft, grab onto a rope tied to a beam and swing out. In and out of the door she flew. Always, a Tom boy, always daring and never settling for anything... A restless spirit." Jarrod then peered up at Stan, who was sitting like a statue, staring into nothing as if paralyzed by some unexpected force.

"Dinner is ready," the butler announced. Stan jumped up from his chair, following the butler out.

"Typical," Phylicia muttered while Jarrod escorted her to the dining room.

After, leaving the Abbotts, Jarrod kept his appointment as promised with Cleo. Arriving at the boarding house, noticing the front door was left ajar, there was an odd quiet about the place. Jarrod carefully stepping inside, looking around, saw nothing unusual.

"Sapphire?" There was no answer anywhere in the house. Jarrod saw out of the corner of his eye, a heap of mustard colored silk crumpled on the floor. Limbs were in disarray, poking out from under the voluminous ruffles. On a closer look, Jarrod saw that it was Cleo, face down and that she was dead. Jarrod stooped down beside the body, checking her pulse, but realizing this was a futile effort. Then looking up, he saw Fred, passed out in his usual chair. Yet, this time, the knife, covered in blood, was in Fred’s right hand. Suddenly, there came blaring scream.

"Oh, my God." Behind him was Sapphire, clutching her bag to her chest. Jarrod springing to his feet, quickly turned Sapphire away from the scene, holding her steady by the shoulders. "What happened?" Sapphire asked, wrapping her arms around her body.

"One of us has to notify the police." Sapphire whirled around, facing him.

"I will, I don’t want to stay here alone with a dead body," Sapphire volunteered.

"All right, ask for inspector Stallings." Sapphire, picking up her skirts, scurried out the door. Just then, Fred roused from is stupor, moaning. Jarrod rushing over to him, prodded him awake.

"Fred...Fred." Fred’s eyes were a soggy crimson. Fred shook his head, trying to focus on Jarrod. Jarrod kept shaking him.

"Who are you?" Dazed, Fred was squinting at Jarrod’s fuzzy form.

"Fred, listen to me..." Fred then noticed the bloody knife in his hand. His eyes grew wide, staring at the knife. Dropping it on the floor, he appeared to go into a trance. Suddenly, falling back into the chair, Fred covered his face with his hands, weeping uncontrollably.

Jarrod walked back over to Cleo, noticing something shining beneath the outstretched fingers of her left hand. Lifting her fingers, he saw that it was a gold and onyx ring. It was familiar but at that moment he could not think why.

About the time Cleo was supposed to be on the 9:40 train out of San Francisco, the police were searching for clues, examining the weapon, talking to witnesses and eventually...removing the body. Jarrod sitting down next to Sapphire on the staircase, asked, "Are you all right?"

"I’ll be ok."

"Where were you?"

"I was at choir practice. Every Wednesday night is choir practice at my church," Sapphire sniffed, twisting a handkerchief.

"What time did you leave for choir practice?"

"Oh, I’d say about quarter to seven."

"Where was everyone else?"

"Ralph, the piano player was at his job in a saloon. Emily is working in a show and I evicted John. Didn’t pay his rent. Owes me two months."

"I’m not paying his rent." Sapphire laughed.

"John was no good anyway."

"Was he capable of ..."

"Killing Cleo, no. John is many things but a killer isn’t one of them. Besides, I heard he was a deserter in the Civil War. Yellow is what they all said."

"What time did they all leave?"

"Ralph left at around six and Emily left at five thirty. John left earlier."

"And Fred? Did Cleo and Fred get along?"

"Cleo was ok with Fred. Oh, he’d be mean, fighting drunk at times and Cleo would tease him. But it seemed to me, Fred just didn’t care. If he wanted to kill anyone it would have been himself." Sapphire turning to Jarrod, asked, "What will happen to Fred?" Just as Jarrod was about to speak, Fred was being lead out the door by police. Jarrod feeling sorry for Fred, summoned inspector Stallings.

"Yes, Mr. Barkley?"

"Would you mind if I went along with you and talked with Fred. Maybe I can help him. After all, he is entitled to counsel."

"If you wish." Jarrod went to retrieve his hat off the hall table.

"Mr. Barkley."

"Yes?"

"Did you ever find Christina?" Jarrod lowered his eyes to the floor, knowing he could not avoid her question, he quickly answered her.

"She’s dead." Sapphire sitting motionless, left silent as Jarrod walked out the door.

The police gave Fred some coffee as Jarrod listened to his story. With the weight of reality bearing down on Fred, the world never looked uglier than at this moment in his small existence.

"Fred, I want to help you, but you have to tell me what happened." Fred’s eyes gradually lifted. His body still drooping over the table, as he cradled his coffee cup in his hands.

"I used to dress like you ," he stated, eyeing Jarrod, "I had your life once."

"What happened?" Jarrod saw a door opening.

"Lost it all. My investments went sour during the depression, my business partner took the rest of the business we had together and my wife. No doubt you’ve heard these sad tales before and would prefer to hear no more."

"Go on."

" So, I drink. Suicide seemed too easy a way out...no, I guess it was that I was too much of a coward to kill myself." He paused, sipping his coffee. "Believe it or not Mr. Barkley, I came from one of the premier families of Boston. Perhaps you’ve heard of them, the Iversons?"

"Yes, of course."

"Lovely family...it gives me a warm feeling all over just thinking about them," Fred remarked bitterly, with cynicism. "So, like all young men, I went west to seek my fortune and an identity. And for one brief moment...a spark in my life, I had it all...then lost it. My family was very successful. That’s how you gained respect but never love. That word was never uttered in our home. It was managed more like a military academy. I use the word managed because living never seemed a suitable word to describe the household I grew up in. Nor, do any of them waste a moment reminding me of my failures. And the list grows. ...Now this." Jarrod was able to identity with Fred’s breeding, education and wealth; yet still could not comprehend a family who would abandon their son because he could not live up their expectations.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I’m boring you. It doesn’t surprise me. I bore everyone. A failure and a bore."

"Fred, listen to me, I can’t help you unless you tell me what happened. I can’t change the past but maybe I can help you change the future. Maybe even help you start a new life."

"I wish I could remember, but I can’t. Maybe I did do it and blacked out," Fred defeated, rubbing his fingers through his wispy gray hair. Jarrod leaned forward, tightly grasping Fred’s forearm.

"Fred, did you kill Cleo Valentine?"

"I couldn’t have,...I just don’t remember." The harder Fred tried, he had the feeling his head would rupture. Jarrod sighed, letting go of Fred’s arm. The door began to close.

"Do you remember when you arrived back at the boardinghouse?"

"Around eight, I think...I’m not sure."

"Did you see Cleo when you came in?"

"No...oh, I don’t know, maybe...I just can’t remember anything."

"Fred, you have to remember. Your life depends on it. Did you see anyone?"

" I don’t know." Just then inspector Stallings walked in the room. Fred picked up his cup with his left hand, sipping the lukewarm coffee. Jarrod could not help noticing.

"Fred, are you right or left handed?" Jarrod anxiously asked.

"I’m left handed."

"Why do you ask," queried inspector Stallings, interested, looking at Jarrod.

"When I found Fred, the knife was in his right hand." The three men pondered this revelation, while Fred hoping it was significant enough to free him. Jarrod seeing a the wide open door now hanging on a slim thread of evidence but enough to convince Fred and Jarrod of Fred’s innocence and soon Fred would remember.

Leaving the room, Jarrod had another thought.

"Inspector?"

"Yes, Mr. Barkley."

"Did you an envelope with a letter addressed to me?"

"No, we didn’t. Why?"

"Cleo said she would leave me some information contained in a letter. It had to do with Christina Kleiger."

"Oh?"

"Did anyone search her room?"

"Didn’t think it was necessary, since she was killed downstairs, we concentrated on the clues there." Jarrod sighed again, coming up against a wall.

"Well, thank you for your time. I’ll be by tomorrow for Fred’s arraignment."

Jarrod decided to return to the boardinghouse and search for the letter. Since Fred could not recall the evenings' events, Jarrod could only assume that Cleo had time to write the letter, stashing it somewhere before being killed.

"Saphhire, I need to look around Cleo’s room."

"Sure, follow me." Sapphire led the way upstairs. Opening the door to Cleo’s bedroom, both walked into a plain, neat room, nothing rearranged. An eerie stillness hung heavy over them. Jarrod surveying the room, noticing the only color was a crazy patchwork quilt on the brass bed and a faded, scruffy, red velvet chair next to the nightstand. Beside the chair, was a steamer trunk, littered with labels from around the country and a frayed leather bag with tarnished brash buckles. His eyes drifted to the two envelopes on the nightstand, poking out from beneath Cleo’s brown velvet drawstring bag. Retrieving the envelopes with their names on them, Jarrod handed one to Sapphire.

"What’s this?" Sapphire asked, cradling it in her hands.

"Open it." Jarrod replied, opening his envelope. Enclosed was the letter Cleo had promised Jarrod. Rapidly reading it, Jarrod then stuffed it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

"Can you imagine that."

"What?"

"Cleo left me her rent money."

"Did Cleo have any family?"

"Never talked much about them. Think her daddy had a dry goods store at some fort in Wyoming."

"I’ll let inspector Stallings know and maybe he can track them down and notify them." Jarrod then left.

The following morning, Aaron met Jarrod downstairs for breakfast as Jarrod was about to leave.

"Jarrod."

"Aaron. How are you?" Jarrod asked, gulping down his coffee.

"Oh, I’ll be ok."

"I have to go on an urgent errand but I want to talk with you later. I’ll be home for dinner," Jarrod announced, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time. "About six."

"I’ll be here." Jarrod pushing his chair back, left in a rush.

A half hour later, Jarrod arrived at Senator Abbott’s home. The butler announced Jarrod as Gordon and Stan were about to leave for meetings and a series of campaign speeches.

"What is it Jarrod? I’m very busy right now."

"I’m sure you are."

"Mr. Barkley, I’m sure anything you and Senator Abbott have to discuss can wait." Gordon stood behind Stan, his shoulders rigid in a military position, cracking his knuckles. Jarrod was not impressed with Gordon’s arrogance. The sound drew Jarrod’s eyes to Gordon’s busy hands. Jarrod observed a wide band of white on Gordon’s ring finger on the right hand. Gordon dropped his hands down by his sides, noticing Jarrod eyeing his finger with suspicion.

"I’ll be brief."

"That would be a first for a lawyer."

"And a politician." Jarrod rattled off easily. Gordon did not care for Jarrod’s prompt recovery, regarding it as threatening.

"What is it Jarrod?" Stan asked, overlooking their adversarial positions.

"You did know Christina Kleiger."

"You know I did."

"Not back in Stockton but here in San Francisco."

"What are you talking about?"

"Senator, we don’t have time for this," Gordon intercepted.

"You better make time. We’re talking about murder." Gordon’s eyes narrowed, glaring at Jarrod. Jarrod stared right back, unaffected by Gordon’s intimidating gaze.

"Murder, what is going on here?"

"Cleo Valentine was murdered last night."

"Am I supposed to know her?"

"You play the innocent very well. Maybe not, but you knew her roommate, Christina Kleiger intimately. So well in fact she was pregnant with your child."

"Do you realize what you’re saying?" Stan began speaking fast, coming unwound like a clock spring wound too tight. Gordon came up, standing between Stan and Jarrod.

"As a lawyer, you know better than to come in here and fling accusations like that at the senator. This could ruin his chances of re-election, not to mention his career and his reputation.."

"If you’ll pardon me, a young girl is lying in the morgue, her family mourning for her. Another woman was murdered in cold blood and an innocent man could go to prison for it. I don’t think the senator’s career or his reputation can make up for the pain he’s caused. Ruining it doesn’t matter to me if my client can be cleared and get on with his life. Then my time invested here would not have been worthless."

"That’s a pretty and noble speech, Mr. Barkley. Tell me what’s really in it for you?" Jarrod looking disgusted, chose to ignore the question.

"There is proof of what I’m stating is true." Without any further word, Jarrod turned and left. Suddenly, Phylicia appeared in the doorway.

"I’ll meet you outside. Do hurry," Gordon said, brushing passed Phylicia.

"Phylicia."

"I’m going to say only one thing. I’ll not be made a fool of anymore, Stan. I want a divorce."

"What are you saying?"

"I heard what Jarrod said."

"It’s not true," he pleaded.

"I don’t care. She was one in a long line of them and I want no part of a murder."

"Jarrod is just speculating, he’s not one hundred percent sure of anything. He was just trying to rattle me. You know.

"I know. But I have my reputation to consider and I want you out my life before there is a scandal."

"But then people will believe I’m guilty if you turn away." Phylicia turning her back on Stan, also left the room.

Jarrod arrived at the police station to talk with Fred before his arraignment. Inspector Stallings met Jarrod, appearing despondent.

"What’s wrong?"

"I don’t want to tell you this."

"What? Out with it."

"Fred Iverson is dead." Bewildered, Jarrod sat down.

"When?...How?"

"We think it was sometime before early morning. He hung himself."

"Was there anyone in the cell with Fred?"

"No, he was alone."

"Did anyone see anything?"

"No."

"Even if they did they were probably bought off or threatened."

"You make it sound like murder and a conspiracy."

"Did Fred remember anything?"

"Parker might know." Stallings scanned the room for officer Parker. Finally spotting him, he summoned him over. A Tall, brawny man swaggered across the room to where they were.

"Yes, inspector."

"Did Fred Iverson happen to recall anything about last night before he died?"

"Not that I know of."

"Did you see him before he died?" Asked Jarrod, rising from his chair. Parker fixed his eyes on Jarrod, grinding away at him, making Jarrod feel uneasy. Jarrod was trespassing and Parker seemed delighted in making the lawyer nervous.

"He didn’t say anything to me?"

"Who found the body?" Jarrod questioned.

"I did," Parker announced.

"And you didn’t see anyone or anything?"

"Didn’t I just say that?" He snapped.

"You haven’t said anything useful." Parker took immediate offense, taking a step closer to Jarrod, as if ready to strike at any moment.

"All right Parker, that will be all. Thank you." Turning to Jarrod, the inspector said, "Sorry, I couldn’t be more help."

"Inspector, Cleo Valentine, left behind a letter, naming Senator Abbott as Christina Kleiger’s lover and the father of her unborn child."

"You know we need more evidence than that."

"I know, that’s what’s been bothering me. We may never be able to prove his connection with Christina or that he may have been responsible for her death."

"That’s wild."

"Also, that ring that was under Cleo’s hand when she died, could I see it again?"

"What ring?"

"The ring that was next to the body at the murder scene."

"I didn’t see any ring."

"It was gold and had an onyx stone. It’s a man’s ring."

"I’m sorry, Mr. Barkley, I don’t recall seeing it." Jarrod was beginning to worry that the conspiracy inspector Stallings was talking about, was spreading like wild fire.

"Thank you for your time." Jarrod’s faith in the inspector was rickety, linked to Parker’s intimidation, left Jarrod unsure of whom to trust.

About quarter to six, Jarrod sat motionless, thinking. Unable to concentrate on his work, he leaned back into the dark brown, tufted leather chair, letting his arms drape over the sides. Jarrod turned, gazing out the window in sullen silence. Loose ends were unattractive. By this time, there was knocking on his door.

"Come in." Jarrod continued staring out the window into the calm slate-blue of nightfall. He then swiveled his chair to greet his guest. Eyeing Gordon Barrett, Jarrod was leery of any explanations.

"What can I do for you?" Jarrod said in a smooth, low voice; his expression unchanging yet a slow fire burning in his eyes.

"I’d like to apologize for my behavior this morning. The things I said were...uncalled for. I was rude." Jarrod noticed Gordon was more relaxed.

"Cut to the chase, Barrett. What do you want?" Gordon walked forward standing before Jarrod, like one of Jarrod’s clients, humble before the judge.

"You can understand Senator Abbott’s position if what you say is true and word got out about this alleged affair."

"And you’d like me to keep my mouth shut." Jarrod said rising and moving to the bar for a drink.

"You don’t have any proof."

"How do you know I don’t?...Drink?"

"Yes, thank you." Jarrod’s eyes narrowed, questioning Gordon’s next move as if they were both in a chess match. Jarrod handed a drink to Gordon, while returning to his chair. All of a sudden, the papers on Jarrod’s desk spilled onto the floor.

"Damn," Jarrod muttered, trying to retrieve them.

"So, sorry, let me help."

"You’ve helped enough, thank you." While Jarrod bent down to gather his contracts and briefs, Gordon took a small bottle out of his pocket. Pulling the cork out, he slipped the contents into Jarrod’s drink. As Jarrod began rising, Gordon quickly returned the bottle to his pocket. Slamming the pile of paper down on his desk, Jarrod then sipped his drink and sat down.

Gordon, leisurely sat down in the forest green velvet arm chair. Admiring it, stroking the carved mahogany arms, he commented, "What a handsome chair."

"You didn’t come here to discuss antique chairs."

"As I was saying you have no proof that Senator Abbott and this girl were having an affair."

"Cleo Valentine wrote a letter to me stating just that. And then there is the ring."

"What ring?" Jarrod downed the rest of his drink.

"The ring you were wearing the first night I met you and are not wearing now." A sinister grin spread across Gordon’s face.

"You have the ring?"

"No, but it was at the murder scene and now it’s disappeared."

"Are you trying to say I killed Cleo Valentine? I didn’t even know the wretched woman." All of a sudden, Jarrod began feeling drowsy. His next thought was unclear and jumbled. As he was trying to structure words in his mind, nothing made sense, it was all absurd, meaningless. Gordon stopped talking, staring at Jarrod, as Jarrod struggled to stay awake. "Something wrong?"

"What did you do?"

"Do? I’m not sure I understand you." Jarrod did not seem able to respond as everything became blurred, drifting into unconsciousness.

The time was 9:10 when Aaron arrived at Jarrod’s office. Aaron and Mrs. Curry became concerned when Jarrod did not show up for dinner around six as he had promised. Mrs. Curry was adamant that Jarrod was always prompt.

The office door was left ajar and Aaron cautiously walked into the office. The room was deluged in silence. Aaron had the same feeling about this moment as he did in the morgue when he finally found his sister

"Mr. Barkley?" Nothing, only the silence remained. Reluctant, Aaron went into the inner office. He saw Jarrod’s coat and tie draped over the back of a maroon wingback chair with Jarrod’s hat lying on the seat. He observed Jarrod’s cluttered desk with papers, legal books, and two glasses, one still filled, undisturbed. He peeked into Jarrod’s coat pockets, finding his billfold, house and office keys. It would be premature to think the worst had happened yet Aaron could not neglect his apprehension. Thinking he would be unable to find Jarrod on his own, he remembered inspector Stallings and thought he might be able to help. He also thought of wiring Nick to ask for assistance as well.

Jarrod started to come around. His eyes gradually opening, trying to adjust to the dim light in the room. Weakened, his body seemed heavy as he tried to move yet could not. His brain kept nagging, "move, move...move," but his firm, smooth limbs refused to obey. Knowing he was alive meant he still had a chance to remain that way. What was happening? Where was he? He was dead certain of the why he was here. He was still tired and his body would not budge. What time was it? What day was it? Sleep was forcing him to ignore any further effort to think.

Heath dashed in the door.

"Nick...Nick, where are you?"

"Yeah, what is it, Heath?" Nick sauntered in, spurs jangling.

"You have a telegram from Aaron Kleiger."

"Aaron Kleiger, what the hell does he want?"

"He’s in San Francisco, staying with Jarrod." Heath handed Nick the telegram.

"Huh?" Nick swiftly read it, then smacked Heath on the arm, "come on lets go."

"Where are we going?"

"To San Francisco. Aaron thinks something may have happened to Jarrod."

Jarrod awoke again, groggy but able to move. Rising up, he became dizzy. The room was swirling as if he was in the middle of a surreal dream, an exaggeration of the mind. Groping in the faint light for something to hang onto, he grasped the brass bed, pulling himself up to his feet. Floundering, he managed to get to the door. Discovering it was locked, he began frantically pounding on it and yelling. Not knowing where he was, he wasn’t sure if anyone would hear him.

"Help...help...please, someone help me," he yelled. All of a sudden he heard the heavy footsteps of one person. He stopped beating on the door to listen. Slow and deliberate as the person approached the door. The walking outside ceased. Jarrod resumed pounding on the door and yelling, "Help me." Next, he heard the jangle of keys. His breath caught in his throat. Then as a key twisted in the lock, backing away from the door, Jarrod was more apprehensive. In summoning whoever with his yelling, he may have provoked the kidnapper. The door creaked open as Jarrod’s eyes were still trying to adjust to the light. He heard someone move forward into the room.

"What do you want?" A familiar voice inquired.

"Where am I?" Jarrod’s eyes widened as officer Parker stepped out of the shadows.

"You’re not getting any answers this time counselor. I didn’t like the way you grilled me." Officer Parker advanced on Jarrod like the school bully.

"I wanted to know what happened to my client."

"I killed your client. ...Broke his neck," smiling as he spoke. Just then Parker took hold of Jarrod’s clean, crisp collar of his shirt, rubbing it between his fingers. "You certainly are a fine gentleman." Parker sneered, still grinning like a demonic Cheshire cat. Jarrod slapped his hand away. He stopped smiling, backhanding Jarrod, sending him into some nearby crates. Jarrod regained his balance before falling as Parker lunged for him, grabbing him roughly around the waist. Parker dragged Jarrod over to the bed, throwing him down. Parker’s mouth was a tight, straight line, his eyes burning as Jarrod looked up at him. Even though Jarrod appeared afraid, Parker was angry rather than delighted. As Jarrod recovered, leaning back on the bed, he heard a snapping noise and a sharp object glistening in the faded light. Jarrod heard Parker’s voice in the fuzzy shadows where he was hiding. "You’re a mighty handsome man. You won’t be when I get done with you." Fear pulsing, Jarrod watched as Parker was closing in on him. The knife inches away from his cheek as he turned away. Jarrod drawing his leg up, his knee to his chest, with force he slammed his foot into Parker’s stomach, sending him reeling backwards. Jarrod jumped up, scurrying out the door. Feeling his way through the darkness, he spotted some murky light coming through a small, cracked window. He could barely make it out but partially hidden was a step. Next, he ran for the step, finding the banister, he began to climb. He then heard footsteps hurrying after him. Trying to see where he was on the stairs he then felt someone grab his leg, pulling him backwards. Jarrod turned, kicking Parker under the chin. Jarrod began climbing again, when suddenly, a step gave way and he fell through, catching the banister. Pulling himself up, he realized he could not put any weight on his ankle. Despite the pain, he tried limping up the rest of the way, hanging onto the banister for support. At that moment, he looked up to see Gordon Barrett, hovering over him, a gun in one hand and an oil lamp in the other. Just then, Parker seized him from around the neck, choking him.

"Parker, take Mr. Barkley back down. Then I have an errand for you." Jarrod was trying to catch his breath as Parker began hauling him down the stairs. Parker’s arm squeezing his neck like a vice every time Jarrod resisted. Knowing it was futile with his injured ankle, Jarrod went limp.

"I can’t," he gasped.

"Come on."

"I can’t...I sprained my ankle." Having heard enough, Parker let go of Jarrod. But as Jarrod began pulling away, Parker aggressively grabbed him, throwing him over his shoulder. Once in the room, Jarrod still struggled as Parker was flinging him back down onto the bed. Parker looked as if he was going to say something to Jarrod, then left. Jarrod’s head dropped back, as he was rubbing his sore neck.

Jarrod having told Aaron the truth the previous night, Nick thought the best place to start was with Senator Abbott who might know where Jarrod was. Nick had only met Stan once and did not care for him. Nick always had the feeling he was a Judas.

Arriving at Stan’s home they were greeted by Phylicia.

"Gentleman, what can I do for you?" Naturally, Nick did not intend to emulate Jarrod’s compulsion to observe polite ritual, nor did he have the time.

"Where’s Jarrod?" He stood with his hands on his hips. Phylicia admired Nick’s gruffness as she admired Jarrod’s charm. All the devices Stan seem to lack.

"I don’t know."

"Look, I’m not here to play games."

"If I knew what was going on, maybe I could help."

"Jarrod is missing. No one has seen him since yesterday afternoon. He never came home," Heath said, stepping forward.

"I don’t know where he is."

"What about your husband?" Heath added.

"He went out early this morning. I don’t care if I ever see him again."

"Do you know where he went?" Nick asked.

"Probably to his campaign manager, Gordon Barrett."

"Do you have an address?"

"Yes, I’ll go and get it for you." Phylicia hurried off and came back a few seconds later. "Here it is."

"Come on," Nick said, turning and going out the door.

"Thanks," Heath said, waving the paper in the air. Phylicia nodded, hoping nothing had happened to Jarrod. Thinking ahead, Phylicia knew Jarrod, a young, unattached widower, would make a favorable escort after the divorce. The one man that did not need her money or her social standing. After, three husbands, he would be original.

Stan arrived at Gordon’s in a panic.

"Everything is falling apart."

"Nothing is falling apart," Gordon commanded.

"Jarrod knows the truth, my wife wants to divorce me. It’s enough to ruin me."

"Stan, listen to me. Jarrod is out of our hair for now and your wife, we’ll figure it out. Maybe she can wait until after the election."

"What do you mean Jarrod is out of our hair for now? Gordon, you haven’t harmed Jarrod, have you?"

"No, he’s safely tucked away."

"Where?"

"The less you know the better."

"Gordon, did you kill Cleo Valentine?"

"I had to. The little trollop was trying to blackmail you." Stan dropped down on the couch, covering his face with his hands.

"God, what have I done."

" In this instance I have to agree with your wife. Your little dalliances with cheap women have cost you a great deal. I’m trying to keep these loose ends from fraying anymore." Gordon said, scolding him like a father. Stan peered up at Gordon.

"Please say you didn’t hurt Jarrod."

"Do you really care? Jarrod was an old law school friend you were never that fond of anyway. He’s been a nuisance. If anything you have been jealous of him, competing with him, particularly knowing your wife preferred his easy manner and wit to yours."

"Maybe so, but I never wanted any harm to come to him. And why didn’t you just pay Cleo?"

"You fool. You think one payoff is enough for blackmailers? She would have drained you dry. She did go to Barkely, probably seeing if he would pay her more than you would. Money talks to her kind and there is never enough."

"It’s all my fault."

"It certainly is." That stung Stan.

"What are you planning to do with Jarrod?"

"I haven’t decided what I’ll do with him yet." Stan fell silent, as he rose up from his seat, walking out the door.

Seeing officer Parker with a tray of food, Stan had an idea.

"John."

"Yes, senator."

"Where are you taking that food?"

"Down to Mr. Barkley."

"May I go with you? I’d like to have a word with him." Parker led the way downstairs to the basement, taking it for granted that Stan was allowed to see Jarrod.

"It’s so dark down here."

"This way. Watch it," warning Stan about the broken step. The sunlight from the little window was stronger, illuminating a little more of the basement. Stan tentatively followed closely. Parker stopped, opening the door while holding the tray. Trying to find something to hit Parker with, Stan held back in the hallway. Jarrod was sitting straight up, ready for combat.

"Here is your food." Jarrod glared at him with icy blue eyes. As Parker came closer, Jarrod swung his right arm up in a hook, catapulting the contents of the tray into Parker’s face. He could hear Parker growl and knew he was in for it. At once, Jarrod managed to get up from the bed, limping away as Parker wiped his face. Parker seeing Jarrod trying to flee the room, quickly grabbed him by the arm. Pulling him back, he pushed him back down on the bed. Enraged, he was bearing down on Jarrod’s already bruised throat, squeezing...squeezing a little more. Jarrod attempted to push Parker off of him, but could not. Jarrod trying desperately to breath, thinking how Fred must have felt as the life was flowing out of him. His fingers tightening around Jarrod’s smooth neck, digging into his firm skin. Just then, Parker’s eyes rolling back in his head, let go and fell onto the bed, half on top of Jarrod. Jarrod pushed him away.

"Are you ok?" Stan said, still holding a brick in his hand.

"I am now."

"We’ve got to get out of here." Stan dropped the brick, reaching out to help Jarrod stand up.

"What’s going on?"

"Gordon thinks he’s doing me a favor. He’s going to kill you." Jarrod leaned on Stan.

"No, I’m doing myself a favor." Standing in the doorway, holding a gun was Gordon. "Thought you’d save your neck by saving Jarrod’s life." Stan let go of Jarrod, easing him back down on the bed.

"I never asked for any of this. Now you’ve gotten me involved in murder and kidnapping. I knew I should have gone to the police when it happened but I listened to you."

"What did happen? What started all this?" Jarrod asked.

" I didn’t mean to kill Christina. It was an accident." Stan paused.

"Go ahead, confess to him, he’s going to die anyway." Stan looking worried, continued.

"Christina came to my home. She told me she was pregnant and we argued about me leaving my wife. Christina was wild and came at me. I pushed her away, she caught her heel in the rug, fell backwards and hit her head on the fireplace mantle."

"That explains the blow to the back of the head," Jarrod added.

"I panicked and Gordon said he would take care of it. I didn’t know he dumped her body in the bay."

"I’ve heard enough. I’m afraid our trip down memory lane has ended," Gordon stated, pointing the gun at Jarrod.

"No, I won’t let you," Stan grabbed for the gun, trying to wrestle it away from Gordon. Both continued grappling with the gun while Jarrod tried to find the brick on the floor and get to it. Next, there was a gunshot. Startled, Jarrod did not move. Both men watched each other for a moment. Then Stan dropped to the floor. One eye staring out at Jarrod, like a glassy fisheye. Jarrod knew he was dead.

"Stan." Jarrod tried to kneel down to him but Gordon seized him by the arm, hauling him to his feet.

"Your coming with me Barkley."

"Let me go," Jarrod demanded, trying to pull away.

"Let him go," Nick’s loud, crashing voice was music to Jarrod’s ears. Nick stood with his gun pointed at Gordon. Still holding onto Jarrod, Gordon yanked Jarrod up, pulling him in front of him. Holding him around the waist, he held the gun to Jarrod’s head.

"Out of my way or I’ll kill him."

"No you won’t," Nick said casually confident.

"Do you really want to find out?" He threatened, pressing the gun into Jarrod’s temple. Jarrod brought his arm backwards, ramming his elbow into Gordon’s ribs. Gordon fired his gun, missing Nick as Nick shot back. Gordon clutched his right shoulder while still holding onto the gun. Jarrod then knocked the gun from Gordon’s hand. As it fell to the floor, Nick kicked it aside. Just then inspector Stallings came in with Heath, guns drawn. Stallings checked Gordon, who was moaning.

"You all right?" Nick asked. Jarrod sat back down on the bed.

"How did you find me?"

"Stan’s wife," Nick answered.

"I get the idea she likes you," Heath said lightly, returning his gun to the holster.

"Inspector, I think if you talk with officer Parker here," pointing to the unconscious man. "He will be a wealth of information and can tell you about the ring."

"How did you know about the ring?"

"I saw it on Gordon’s hand two nights ago. Then I saw it on the floor beside Cleo. At the time I didn’t link it with Gordon until I noticed yesterday he wasn’t wearing it and then I remembered."

"Unfortunately for you," Gordon muttered.

"Then when I saw officer Parker here, I realized he must have been the one to take the ring."

"He was at the scene that night," Stallings added. "All right, get these people out of here," Stallings ordered.

"I am so tired. All I want now is to go home, have a hot bath, a steak, a brandy and go to bed."

"Good, then you’ll be all rested for that cattle drive." Jarrod thought for a moment about how he would get out of this situation.

The End