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I did call Diantha and Winslow Jr., Elsbeth’s daughter and son. Diantha, who has been estranged from Elsbeth for more than a year — some dispute over a boyfriend — broke down and wept. “Let me speak to Mommy,” she kept saying. I put Elsbeth on and tiptoed away, leaving them to a tearful, long-distance reconciliation.

Win Jr., a businessman very much like his late father, took the news very much in stride. He consulted his calendar and said he would fly in from New York this coming Sunday. He had been able, just, it seems, to fit his mother into his schedule.

I also called our good friends Izzy and Lotte Landes. They dropped by in the afternoon “for a drink and a good weep.” Lotte, who has become a good friend of Elsbeth’s over the last couple of years, ran her through a gamut of lifesaving drills. Yes, Berns was a good GP, but Keller Infirmary wasn’t called “Killer Infirmary” for nothing. They knew a specialist in Chicago who had come up with an aggressive new therapy that showed lots of promise.

Elsbeth shook her head. “I’m not up for some kind of high-tech torture.” But she calmed and comforted them as well. Was her resignation, I wondered, her way of reassuring the rest of us?

Korky Kummerbund came over right away, bringing a big bouquet of lilies. He wept and figuratively, anyway, banged the walls. He is quite literally a sweet man, gay, but not in the least fussy about it. He’s of the opinion that people of his predilections should stay in their closets, but make them much bigger, with porches and mountain views, and invite in special friends.

The Reverend Alfie Lopes, Wainscott Minister and Plumtree Professor of Morals (They’ve dropped the “Christian,” I’ve noticed, in the name of fair play. As long as they don’t drop the “Morals,” I shan’t complain.), said he would come to see both Elsbeth and me whenever we wanted him. I said why not simply come over for dinner and a chat. We made a date. As the years go by, I have come to appreciate Alfie more and more. He refers to himself as an Afro-Saxon and is not shy about being proud of both traditions.

Elsbeth’s plight has certainly put matters in perspective for me. I can care for and think of nothing else. Everything else pales to insignificance. Let killers roam the Genetics Lab. Let Wainscott have the museum. Let war begin and the glaciers return. I don’t care. I want my Elsbeth restored to her old vibrant self. I feel cursed. It seems I no sooner have Elsbeth in my life, have scarcely sat down at life’s feast, when it is all going to be taken away from me. Perhaps I am being selfish in this. I know Elsbeth is the one who must suffer and die in the prime of her life. But I would change with her, take her place, in a moment. Only the result would be the same. My life would be over.

7

It is Friday, the thirteenth of October, and the trees are in their autumn beauty as never before. And though as suspicious as anyone, I no longer fear bad luck. Surely we have had our quotient.

Lieutenant Tracy, an edge of worry to the serious set of his face, came by to make what appears to be in retrospect a curious request. It seems that Police Chief Francis Murphy has been putting the pressure on. I watched attentively as the lieutenant rubbed his hands together. “Of course, Norman, he’s only getting heat from the Mayor’s office. His Honor is planning to run for Congress and doesn’t want a monkey around his neck.”

I nodded, indicating my understanding in a general way. Then the lieutenant told me something I had heretofore more felt than realized: It would be better for all concerned if Ossmann-Woodley was a clear-cut murder case; if someone had deliberately dosed them with the intention of having them kill each other in a sexual frenzy.

“People can tolerate evil,” he said. “It’s the unknown that frightens them. Especially when a genetics lab is involved. We still believe in monsters.”

“But Lieutenant, we don’t have enough evidence yet to call it murder,” I pointed out.

He nodded his agreement. “Would you or the museum mind