The Edge

were side by side in the driveway. We heard them yelling at each other from the front porch and stopped a moment beside a hanging plant that looked a lot happier than I did. We stood quietly outside the front door, listening.

    "You damned little worm," we heard Maggie scream at the top of her lungs. "Don't say or do anything like that again, Paul, or I'll take your head off. Are you nuts? How long has Jilly been gone?"

    "What do you know? You don't know anything. You like to play at doing a man's job, but you don't do it well. But as a woman, Maggie, you really suck. Maybe this is the ideal job for you. What are you, a dyke?"

    We heard a crash. I sighed, opened the door, walked into the small foyer, and looked to the right, into the living room. There I saw Maggie straddling Paul, who was lying flat on his back in his black-and-white living room.

    She had him by the neck, his head pressed against the floor.

    Savich calmly walked over to her, grabbed her under her arms, and pulled her straight up. She turned on him, fists raised. He held her up by her armpits and said in that deep, smooth voice of his, "Not smart. Don't do it."

    "Enough, both of you," I said, and gave Paul a hand up. "Now, what's this all about? We could hear you screaming at each other from the front porch."

    "He's a stupid prick," Maggie said. "Let me down, you jock. I'm the sheriff. I'll arrest you."

    "I'm not a jock, ma'am. I'm a Special Agent, Dillon

    Savich, FBI."

    "Oh," she said, and immediately went still. "I'm sorry. You're here for Mac, aren't you? I saw you at Charlie Duck's funeral but I was late and didn't have a chance to meet you."

    "That's right. Can I put you down now?" "Please do. I won't hurt that little wimp." She looked over at Paul like she wanted to spit on him.

    "Paul," I said, "go sit down. We need to talk. Maggie, you sit over in that chair. Either of you makes a move toward the other and Savich or I will flatten you. Well, Savich will for sure. My ribs are a bit on the sore side.

    Got it?"

    "I'm the" sheriff," Maggie said, tucking her blouse back in. "I'll do whatever the hell I want to."

    "Fine," Savich said. "That's the spirit. What we'd really like is for you to sit down and tell us if you've heard anything about Mac's sister."

    "Not a blessed thing," Maggie said, looking over at Paul. "I even spoke to Minton this morning, not something I was crazy about doing, but he didn't have anything new, just sputtered and whined about not knowing what you and Ms. Scott are up to. I told him that if it had been any of his business, you would have told him." She smiled. "He called me a bitch. Made my day. I'm leaving now. If I stay in the room any longer with this jackass, I'll lose it. Call me if you find out anything, Mac." She nodded. "Agent Savich, thank you for your generous help. I'm sure you'll let me know if you need anything."

    "Wait a minute, Maggie, I'll walk you out," I said.

    "He's a pathetic jerk," Maggie said in my direction as we walked out of the house.

    "What did he say this time to make you blow up?"

    "You won't believe it, Mac. He tried to get in my pants. Well, to get under my uniform so he could find my pants. The little jerk. It took me a while to get him off me, so I could beat the crap out of him."

    "Why would he do that?"

    "God knows. I've always thought he was weird."

    "Okay, Maggie. We'll keep in touch."

    I waited until she drove off, waving at me. When I came back into the living room, Savich was waiting. "All right, Paul," he said as I came in, "tell us about the drug you've developed."

    "Yes. We're real interested in that, Paul."

    Paul just sat there, staring down at his hands that were clasped between his legs. "I don't have a damned thing to tell either of you. Go away."

    "No, we're not going anywhere until you tell us about it."

    Paul looked as if he wanted to fold in on himself. Again, I thought he looked scared. "Talk," I said.

    He walked around the room a couple of times, pausing in front of one of the stark modern paintings. We waited until finally he turned back to us and said, "It's all experimental, Mac. It's doubtful anything will come of it, truth be told. You know the odds against developing successful drugs these days. The business of pharmaceutical research is astronomically expensive, demands incredible numbers of man-hours and highly specialized computer programs. And then there's the PDA to contend with."

    He paused a moment and pulled at a loose thread on