Programmed for Peril

to get married if Carson will leave us alone.” Was it quite that cut and dried, she wondered. To her surprise she found herself telling Jerry about Foster’s wish to marry in Portugal and her surprising refusal. She laughed nervously. “It seems I want there to be more testing of our relationship. It will be tested, I know.”
    He touched her lightly on the shoulder. “If Foster doesn’t pass the test, I want to put in my dibs right now.” The late-afternoon light had brought out granite flecks in his brown eyes, hard bits amid gentleness.
    She looked away. “I appreciate the compliment. You’re a good man. I sense it.”
    “I’m old-fashioned. I believe in right and wrong.”
    Trish put her arm lightly around his waist. It was narrow. She sensed a hard belly. “Maybe that’s what I need: a dose of simplicity.” Even as she spoke she was reminded how elusive that condition was. If she and Foster parted—she couldn’t bear to think of it!—Jerry imagined he might step forward as sole successor. It made a certain sense, until she thought of... Dino.
    “Because I stand behind what I believe in—right and wrong—I won’t say anything else personal,” Jerry said. “You’re engaged. I wouldn’t do anything to interfere with that. So when we get together from here on, it’ll be only on Carson business.”
    “You’re so sweet, Jerry. I’m not sure I deserve it.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Spoken like a lady with a past. Is that what you are, Trish?”
    She turned away toward the picnic grounds. “Time to get back. To see if Melody’s staying out of trouble.”
    The fireworks filled the night with showers of red, green, and blue fire. Trish wanted the sky to bloom and boom all night. What had eluded her for six days in Portugal she found for a half hour among oooh-ing and aaah-ing adults and screaming children by a reservoir not ten miles from home.
    Relief from her problems.
    Jerry called her at work the next day. He had doublechecked to make sure that Carson’s photograph had been distributed to police throughout the city. He had made a formal inquiry for information about the Doctor and Daughter Destroyer. So far as his own investigations went, he lacked both clout and what he called “moral force,” meaning that in this city Carson was suspected of no more than committing a minor felony. Unproved suspicions from a continent away added little weight locally. “I have some advice for you, off the record, Trish.”
    “Tell me.”
    “You’re getting some technical help from private sources, right?”
    She thought of odd Nicholas. “In a way.”
    “You might look to get some more. Private detective, bodyguard. That sort of thing.”
    “Are you saying the police aren’t going to be any help?” He hesitated. “It’s just that not enough trouble has come your way yet.”
    “Oh, great!”
    “Trish, listen. I’ll help you. That you can count on. Past that... Hey, I’m just being honest.”
    She remembered her recent chat with Dino Castelli. “You know, I think I’ve already taken those safety steps.” She smiled and spoke in teasing tones. “Well, I’ve handled everything myself, haven’t I? What am I getting for my tax dollar?”
    “Personal attention that no amount of money can buy.
    Mine!”
    “I’ll be more impressed when you actually catch Carson!” Hanging up, she realized what she had said could have been interpreted as rude. She didn’t want to be rude to
    Jerry.
    She simply couldn’t deal with yet another man in her life!
     

15
     
    NICHOLAS MOVED A KNIGHT, PUNCHED THE CHESS clock, and wrote his move down on the score sheet. Move 17. He adjusted his left earphone. Roland Kirk riffed, two reed mouthpieces jammed into his jaw. Blow wild and crazy, Rahsaan! The game’s initiative hung in the balance. Playing the black pieces, he edged toward equality. He had trotted out that old vexer, the Petroff Defense, in the face of white’s king’s pawn opening. White was one of those seventeen-year-old hotshots. Nicholas knew how to handle them: steady, steady play. Seize the initiative and grind, grind, grind. Pimply lads such as the one sitting across from him hadn’t enough tournament experience; they always blundered or crumbled.
    He had won all three games Saturday. This Sunday morning he liked his game. If there was a secret to winning at chess—besides raw talent, preparation, and experience— it was concentration. Getting the game into your teeth and, like a rat