"Oh, we'll call them. We always do. But they can't do anything," her husband said, with sudden violence. He ran a big hand across his face. He had one of those neatly trimmed beards that frames the mouth. "They couldn't do anything before. They won't do anything now." Cliff Eggers's voice was choked and unsteady. He was fumbling with the keys to the door and he managed to open it.

They stepped in their hall, and Tamsin beckoned me in behind them. I caught a glimpse of a large, friendly room. There were pictures hung over an antique chest to the right of the door. In the framed grouping I saw a wedding picture with Tamsin in full white regalia, and her husband's business college diploma. There was a big brass bowl of potpourri on the chest, and my nose began to stop up almost instantly.

Tamsin said, "We'll call them tomorrow morning." Her husband nodded. Then he turned back to us. "We appreciate your coming to help us. I'm sorry to involve you in something so unpleasant."

"Excuse us, please," Tamsin said. She was obviously just barely containing her anguish. I felt she knew she'd made a mistake asking us in, that she was just waiting for us to leave so she could drop that facade, crumble completely.

"Of course," Jack said instantly. He looked at Cliff. "Would you like us to ..." and he nodded toward the squirrel.

"Yes," Cliff said with great relief. "That would be very kind. The garbage can is at the rear of the backyard, by the hedge."

We stepped back out on the porch, and Cliff and Tamsin had closed the door before Jack and I chanced looking at each other.

"Huh?" I said, finally.

"Double huh," Jack said. He fished a pocketknife out of his jeans and leaned over the waist-high railing to cut the string. Holding the little corpse at arm's length, he went down the steps and around the house to the garbage can. Cliff's telling Jack that the garbage can was "by the hedge" was unnecessary, since everything in the Eggers-Lynd yard was "by the hedge." It was an older home, and the original owners had believed in planting. The front yard was open to the street, but the clipped thick growth followed the property line down both sides and across the back of the yard. The surrounding greenery gave the yard a feeling of enclosure. While I waited, I thought I heard voices, so I went around the house to look into the backyard. In the darkness by the hedge at the rear of the property, I saw two figures.

Jack came back after a few more seconds. "Their neighbor was outside, wanted to know what had happened," he explained. "He's a town cop, so at least law enforcement will know something about this." I could tell Jack had suspected Cliff Eggers wouldn't call about the incident.

I wondered belatedly if I should have tried to deduce something from the state of the squirrel's body. But I was clueless about squirrel metabolism, especially in this heat, and it would be way beyond me to try to estimate how long the poor critter had been dead. After a last glance at the blood, and a pang of regret that I had nothing with which to swab it up, I joined Jack on the driveway and we resumed our walk.

We didn't say anything else until we were a block away from the house, and then it wasn't much. Someone was stalking Tamsin Lynd, and from all the cues in the conversation we'd had with the couple, this persecution had been going on for some time. If Tamsin and her husband were unwilling to ask for help, what could be done?

"Nothing," I concluded, straightening up after washing my face in the bathroom sink.

Jack picked up on that directly. "I guess not," he agreed. "And you watch your step around her. I think this therapy group is good for you, but I don't want you catching some kind of collateral fallout when her situation implodes."

As I composed myself for sleep thirty minutes later, I found myself thinking that it hardly seemed fair that Tamsin had to listen to the group's problems, while her own were kept swept under the rug of her marriage. I reminded myself that, after all, Tamsin was getting paid to do her job, and she had been trained to cope with the inevitable depression that must follow hearing so many tales of misery and evil.

Jack wasn't yet asleep, so I told him what I'd been thinking.

"She listens to a lot of bad stuff, yeah," he said, his voice quiet, coming out of the darkness. "But look at the courage, look at the toughness. The determination. She hears that, too. Look how brave you all are."

I couldn't say anything at all. My throat clogged. I was glad it was dark. At last, I was able to pat Jack's shoulder; and a minute later, I heard by his breathing that he was asleep. Before it could overcome me, too, I thought, This is why Jack is here beside me. Because he can think of saying something like he just said.

That was a fine reason.

Chapter Three

By my third therapy session, Tuesday night was no longer a time I dreaded.

I'd had hours sitting in a car, standing in a convenience store, and drifting around a mall - all in pursuit of the Worker's Comp. claimant - to analyze our counseling sessions. I had to admit I couldn't tell if Tamsin Lynd was following some kind of master plan in directing us along the path to recovery. It seemed to me that often we just talked at random; though from time to time I could discern Tamsin's fine hand directing us.

Not one of the women in the group was someone I would've picked for a friend, with the exception of Janet Shook. Sandy McCorkindale made me particularly edgy. She tried very hard to be the unflawed preacher's wife, and she very nearly succeeded. Her veneer of good modest clothes and good modest makeup, backed by an almost frenzied determination to keep the smooth surface intact, was maintained at a tremendous, secret cost. I had lived too close to the edge of despair and mental illness not to recognize it in others, and Sandy McCorkindale was a walking volcano. I was willing to bet her family was used to living on tiptoe, perhaps even quite unaware they were doing so.

The other women were OK. I'd gradually learned their personal histories. In a town the size of Shakespeare, keeping identities a secret was impossible. For example, not only did I know that Carla (of the croaking voice) was Carla Preston, I knew that her dad had retired from Shakespeare Drilling and Exploration, and her mom took the lunch money at the elementary school cafeteria. I knew Carla smoked like a chimney when she went out the back door of the Health Center, she'd been married three times, and she said everything she thought. She'd become a grandmother when she was thirty-five.

Melanie Kleinhoff no longer looked quite as sullen, and despite her youth and pale doughy looks, she set herself goals and met them (no matter how difficult) to the point of idiocy. She had never graduated from high school and she was still married to the man whose brother had raped her. Firella Bale, probably the most educated of all of us - with the exception of our counselor - seemed baffled sometimes by how to fit in; she was black, she was smart and deliberate, she had taught others, and she worked in a position of authority. She was a single mother and her son was in the army.

Sandy, Janet, and I had never doubted that we could share our problems with a woman of another race. Tamsin seemed a little more careful of Carla and Melanie. We would all have known right away if Carla was uncomfortable with Firella, since Carla had few thoughts she didn't set right out in front of us. Luckily, she seemed to have passed that particular rock in the road. Melanie hadn't, and we could watch her prejudice struggle with her good sense and her own kindness. Our common fate transcended our color or economic status or education, but that was easier for some of us to acknowledge than others.

I had neither witnessed any more incidents nor heard any rumors about Tamsin and her husband. I had not spoken a word about what Jack and I had seen that evening while we were out walking. As far as I could tell, no one in Shakespeare knew that someone was stalking our counselor.

Sandy McCorkindale was waiting outside when I arrived for our third evening together. While I knew more about Sandy's life than I knew about almost any of the others - I'd met her husband, seen her sons, worked in her church, walked by her home - I realized I understood her less than any member of our little group. Waiting in the heat with her was not a happy prospect.

In the two weeks since our first meeting, the season had ripened to full-blown summer. It was hotter than the six shades of hell standing on the asphalt, maybe the temperature was down to ninety-four from the hundred and four it had been that afternoon. At eight o'clock, the parking lot wasn't dark; there was still a glow from the nearly vanished sun. The bugs had started their intense nightly serenade. If I drove out of town right now and parked by the road in an isolated place and tried to talk to a companion, the volume of bug and frog noise would put a serious crimp in the conversation. Anyone expecting nature to be silent - especially in the South - was plain old nuts.

I got out of my car reluctantly. It had been a fruitless day on stakeout in Little Rock, and Jack was out of town on a missing-persons job, so I wasn't having the mild glow of accomplishment I usually enjoyed after a long day. When I went home after the therapy hour, I promised myself, I would take a cool shower and I would read. After a day spent dealing with others, television was just one more batch of voices to listen to; I'd rather have a book in my hands than the remote control.

"Evening, Sandy," I called. At that moment, the pole-mounted security lights came on. With the residual daylight creating long shadows from behind the trees, I was walking across a visual chessboard to reach the woman standing by the side door we always used. As I drew closer, I could see the preacher's wife had sweat beaded on her forehead. She was wearing the current young matron uniform, a white T-shirt under a long sleeveless, shapeless khaki dress. Sandy's streaked hair was still in its slightly teased-with-bangs Junior League coiffure, and her makeup was all in place, but there was definitely something happening in her head. Her brown eyes, dark and discreetly made up, darted from my face to the cars to the bushes and back.

"Tamsin didn't leave the door open," Sandy said furiously. She was carrying her straw shoulder bag in the usual way, but with an abrupt gesture she let the strap slide down her arm and she swung the bag, hard, against the side of her car. That made me jump, and I had to repress a snarl.

I wondered, for maybe the fifth or sixth time, why Sandy kept coming. She'd never talked in any more detail, or with any more feeling, about what had happened to her, but she kept showing up. She was making a real effort to keep herself separated from the common emotional ground. But every Tuesday night, there she was in her chair, listening.

I leaned against the wall to wait for Tamsin to unlock the door. I didn't feel up to any more emotional outbursts from Sandy McCorkindale.

Melanie and Carla arrived together. I had decided they'd known each other before coming to the therapy group. In conversation, I'd heard them refer to common acquaintances.

"Good! I got time for a cigarette," Carla said in her harsh voice. She had one lit and puffing in a flash. "My car done broke down today in front of Piggly Wiggly, and I had to call Melanie here to give me a ride."

Normally I would have expected Sandy to pick up the conversational ball, but not tonight.

"What's wrong with the car?" I asked, after a beat.

"My boyfriend says it might be the alternator," Carla said. "I sure hope it's something cheaper. Tamsin not here yet?"

"Her car is over there," Sandy said resentfully, pointing to Tamsin's modest Honda Civic. "But she won't open the door!"

Melanie and Carla gave Sandy the same kind of careful sideways look I'd found myself delivering.

Firella came walking from the darkness at the other end of the small parking lot, pepper spray in one hand and keys in the other.

"Hey, y'all!" she called. "We meeting out here in the parking lot tonight?" Carla laughed, and Melanie smiled. As Firella drew closer, she counted us and observed, "One of us hasn't made it here yet."

"Oh, Janet's car's here, too," Sandy snapped. "See?"

We all looked over to note that Janet's dark Camaro was half concealed by Tamsin's Honda.

"So where's Janet, and why won't the back door open? You think Tamsin and Janet are in there doin' it?" asked Carla. She didn't sound angry about the possibility - only ready for them to finish and unlock the back door, so she could get in the air conditioning.

Sandy was almost shocked out of her odd mood. "Oh, my gosh," she said, rattled to the core. "I just never believed I could know anyone that... oh, my Lord."

Though I was pretty sure Carla had just been blabbing -  for the pleasure of hearing her own voice, and to shock Sandy - I didn't comment. I got a phone book from the front seat of my car, pulled my cell phone from the pocket of the drawstring sheeting pants I was wearing because they were cool, and dialed the health center number.

Inside the building, we could hear the phone ring, very faintly. That would be the one at the main reception desk, inside the front door.

A voice came on the line. "You have reached the Hartsfield County Health Unit. Our office hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday. If you know the extension of the person you're calling, please press it now." I did.

From inside the building, we heard another phone begin to ring, this time closer. We counted the rings. After four, the female voice came back on the line, to tell me that the party I wanted to contact was away from her desk and to ask me to call back during office hours. She also told me what to do in case of emergency.

"This seem like an emergency?" I asked, not sure I'd said it out loud until Firella said, "It's getting to be."

I stood back and looked at the door. Made of a heavy metal and painted brown, it was intended for staff use, so therapists wouldn't have to enter and exit through the reception area. It was kept locked every evening but Tuesday, as far as I knew, though there might be other kinds of therapy groups that met using the same arrangement. Tamsin always locked the door when the six of us were assembled inside, and something she'd said once had made me think she only unlocked it about ten minutes before group time.