The staked Goat

then slid off and down onto my knees. I leaned over, so the top edge of the mattress pressed deeply and firmly against my tense solar plexus. Then I buried my face in my hands and prayed.
    After fifteen minutes or so, I surfaced. It was stupid to go back to Boston tonight. I couldn’t find Marco at my leisure last week, with his family at least approachable. I’d never find him on a Sunday night with the D’Amicos and their neighbors buttoning up the fortress. Planning Jesse and Emily’s funeral would be simple enough, since neither had any family. All I had to do was call George, the friend who had helped me with the arrangements for Al. If I could reach Nancy by telephone, she could put things on hold till Tuesday night, by which time I’d be back in Boston. I was also pretty sure that whatever J.T. could give me would lead back to Boston. So, Washington it was.
    I finished packing and went downstairs. Dale was scraping one-third of brunch for three into the garbage. He renewed his insistence on driving me to the airport. We confirmed six o’clock.
    I left the house to cross the street. I debated between Carol’s house and Martha’s. The biting February wind encouraged me to make up my mind quickly. I chose Carol’s.
    She answered on the second ring and gave me a throw-your-head-back laugh. ”John, you look blue. Come in, come in.”
    I moved past her into the hall. What I could see of her house was similar in floor plan to Martha’s, and somewhere between Martha’s and Dale’s in decor.
    She took my hand and tugged me into the living room. ”Your hand’s like ice, Detective,” she said, leading us to her couch. ”You’ve got to learn to wear a coat in this town.”
    We sat down. She had on a mesh sweater and the same jeans. She didn’t seem to be wearing anything under the sweater. Again. Women seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
    ”What can I get you? Ask for what you want. If I don’t have it, I won’t be embarrassed.”
    ”Vodka. Maybe orange juice.”
    ”Cornin’ up.” She squeezed my hand and went to the kitchen.
    I looked around the room. Two chairs, the couch, a coffee table. Dark brown rug and fireplace. Picture frames standing on the mantel and some of the shelves. Photographs of Carol, of Kenny, of Carol and Kenny together. One or two of Martha and Al, Dale and Larry. Homey. But none of any other man. Like a man for Carol. Not so homey.
    She came back into the room juggling a tray with a bottle of Gordon’s vodka, a plastic decanter through which orange juice showed, and two glasses with ice. ”For a waitress, you don’t look too steady.”
    ”Thanks,” she said sarcastically, ”but I’m used to six-ounce glasses, not thirty-two-ounce bottles.”
    ”They’re metric now.”
    ”Huh?”
    ”Metric. The booze bottles. It’s not quart anymore, or fifth. Now it’s point-seven-five or one liter.”
    ”Oh,” she said, examining the bottle as if it were a recently discovered artifact. ”You’re right. I never noticed before. Huh.” She smiled. ”So, how many whatevers do you want with your juice?”
    ”One finger would be fine.”
    She smiled. ”Glad to see some things don’t change.” She fixed my drink and stirred it with a spoon on the tray, then repeated for herself.
    She handed me my glass. ”Cheers,” she said, clinking.
    ”Cheers,” I said and sipped. She wasn’t breaking eye contact.
    ”So,” she said, running her index finger around the rim of her glass. ”Did you sleep well last night?” She smiling, eyes glittering naughtily.
    I took another sip. ”Fine,” I said. ”Carol, look, I’m sorry to change gears on you, but I just got some bad news. Some people I know, a couple who helped me in Boston, are dead. They were—” I stopped. Carol had dropped her smile, and I realized I was just taking a coward’s way out, using Jesse and Emily as my way.
    ”John,” she said putting down her drink, ”I’m so sorry. I... can I do anything?”
    I shook my head. ”No, the police are on it, and there’s—”
    ”The police?” she said. ”You mean they were... killed?”
    ”Yes,” I said.
    ”Oh, God.” She twisted her hands in her lap. ”God, this doesn’t have anything to do with... with Al’s...”
    ”Oh, oh, no,” I said, and just stopped a smile of relief in time. ”No, they were helping me on an arson case and, well, I won’t be sure till I get back there, but I’m betting the brother of the guy—” I stopped again and