They were pictures of a younger Joshua Appleton and several friends-the same friends, apparently the crew of a sailboat-the occasion identified by the center photograph. It showed a long banner being held by four men standing on the deck of a sloop. Marblehead Regatta Championship -Summer, 1949.

  Only the center photograph and the three above it showed aR four crew members. The three lower photographs were shots of only two of the four.

  Appleton and another young man, both stripped to the waist-slender, muscular, shaking hands above a tiller; smiling at the camera as they stood on either side of the mast, and sitting on the gunnels, drinks held forward in a salute.

  Scofield looked closely at the two men, then compared them to their associates. Appleton and his obviously closer friend had a strength about them absent in the other two, a sense of assurance, of conviction somehow. They were not alike except perhaps in height and breadthathletic men comfortable in the company of each’s peeryet neither were they dissimilar. Both had sharp if distinctly different features-strong jaws, wide foreheads, large eyes, and thatches of straight, dark hair-the kind of faces seen in scores of Ivy League yearbooks.

  There was something disturbing about the photographs. Bray did not know what it was-but it was there. Instinct.

  “They look as if they could be cousins,” he said.

  “For years they acted as though they were brothers,” replied the old woman. “In peace, they would be partners, in war, soldiers togetherl But he was a coward, he betrayed my son. My beautiful Joshua went to war alone and terrible things were done to him. He ran away to Europe, to the safety of a chateau. But justice is odd; he died in Gstaad, from injuries on a slope. To the best of my knowledge, my son has never mentioned his name since.” “Since?… When was that?” “rwenty-five years ago.” “Who was he?” She told him.

  Scofield could not breathe; there was no air in the room, only shadows in a vacuum. He had found the shepherd boy, but instinct told him to look for something else, a fragment as awesome as anything he had learned. He had found it. The most devastating piece of the puzzle was in place, the quantum jump explained. He needed only proof, for the truth was so extraordinary.

  He way in a tomb; the dead had journeyed in darkness for twenty-five years.

  He guided the old woman to her bedroom, poured her a final brandy, and left her. As he closed the door she was sitting on the bed chanting that unsingable tune. Appleton Hall… way up onAppleton Hill.

  Notes picked out on a harpsichord more than a hundred years ago. Notes lost, as she was lost without ever knowing why.

  He returned to the din-dy lit room that was the resting place of memories and went to the cluster of photographs on the wall. He removed one and pulled the small picture hook out of the plaster, smoothing the wallpaper around the hole; it might delay discovery, certainly not prevent it. He turned off the lights, closed the door, and went downstairs to the front hall.

  The guard-nurse was still unconscious; he left her where she was. There was nothing gained by moving her or killing her. He turned off every light, including the carriage lamps above the front steps, opened the door, and slipped out into Louisburg Square. On the pavement, he turned right and began walking rapidly to the corner where he would turn right again, descending Beacon Hill into Charles Street to find a taxi. He had to pick up his luggage in the subway locker in Cambridge. The walk down the hill would give him time to think, time to remove the photograph from its glass frame, folding it carefully into his pocket so that neither face was damaged.

  He needed a place to stay. A place to sit and fill up pages of paper with facts, conjectures and probabilities, his bill-of-particulars. In the morning, he had several things to do, among which were visits to the Massachusetts General Hospital and the Boston Public Library.

  The room was no different from any other room in a very cheap hotel in a very large city. The bed sagged, and the single window looked out on a filthy stone wall not ten feet from the cracked panes of glass. The advantage, however, was the same as it was everywhere in such places; nobody asked questions. Cheap hotels had a place in this world, usually for those who did not care to join it. Loneliness was a basic human right, not to be tampered with lightly.

  Scofield was safe; he could concentrate on his bill-ofparticulars.

  By 4:35 in the morning, he had filled seventeen pages. Facts, conjectures, probabilities. He had written the words carefully, legibly, so they could be clearly reproduced. There was no room for interpretation; the indictment was specific even where the motives were not. He was gathering his weapons, storing his bandoliers of ammunition; they were all he had. He fell back on the sagging bed and closed his eyes. Two or three hours sleep would be enough.

  He heard his own whisper float up to the cracked ceiling.

  “Taleniekov… keep breathing. Toni, my love, my dearest love. Stay alive… keep your mind.”

  The portly female clerk in the hospital’s Department of Records and Billing seemed bewildered but she was not about to refuse Bray’s request.

  It wasn’t as if the medical information held there was that confidential, and a man who produced government identification certainly had to be given cooperation.

  “Now, let me get this cleah,” she said in a strong Boston accent, reading the labels on the front of the cabinets. “The Senator wants the names of the doctors and the nurses who attended him during his stay here in ‘fifty-three and ‘fifty-four. From around November through March?” “That’s right. As I told you, next month’s sort of an anniversary for him. It’ll be twenty-five years since he was given his ‘reprieve,’ as he calls it. Confidentially, he’s sending each of them a small medallion in the shape of the medical shield with their names and his thanks inscribed on them.” The clerk stopped. “Isn’t that just like him, though? To remembah? Most people go through an experience like that and just want to forget the whole thing. They figure they beat the reapah so the hell with everybody.

  Until the next time, of course. But not him; he’s so… well, concerned, if you know what I mean.” “Yes, I do.” “The votahs know it, too, let me tell you. The Bay State’s going to have its first President since J.F.K. And there won’t be any of that religious nonsense about the Pope and the cahdnells running the White House, neither.” “No, there won’t,” agreed Bray. “I’d like to stress again the confidential nature of my being here. The Senator doesn’t want any publicity about his little gesture…… Scofield paused and smiled at the woman. “And as of now you’re the only person in Boston who knows.” “Oh, don’t you worry about that. As we used to say when we were kids, my lips are sealed. And I’d really treasure a note from Senator Appleton with his signature and everything, I mean.” The woman stopped and tapped a file cabinet. “Heah we are,” she said, opening the drawer. “Now, remembah, all that’s heah are the names of the doctahssurgeons, anesthesiologists, consultants-listed by floor and O.R. desks; the staff nurses assigned, and a schedule of the equipment used, There are no psychiatric evaluations or disease-related information; they can only be obtained directly through the physician. But then you’re not interested in any of that; you’d think I was tahkin’ to one of those damned insurance sneaks.” She gave him the file. “There’s a table at the end of the aisle. When you’re finished, just leave the foldah on my desk.” “That’s okay,” said Bray, knowing better. “I’ll put it back; no sense bothering you. Thanks again.” “Thank you.” Scofield read through the pages rapidly to get a general impression.

  Medically, most of what he read was beyond his comprehension, but the conclusion was inescapable. Joshua Appleton had been more dead than alive when the ambulance had brought him to the hospital from the collision on the turnpike. Lacerations, contusions, convulsions, fractures, along with severe head and neck wounds painted the bloody picture of a mutilated human face and body. There were lists of drugs and serums used to prolong the life that was ebbing, detailed descriptions of the sophisticated machinery employed to stop deterioration. And ultimately, weeks later, the reversal began to take place. The incredibly more sophisticated machine that was the human body started to heal itself.

  Bray wrote down the names of the doctors and the attending nurses listed in the floor and O.R. schedules. Two surgeons, one a skin-graft specialist, and a rotating team of eight nurses appeared consistently during the first weeks, then abruptly their names were no longer there, replaced by two different physicians and three private nurses assigned to eight-hour shifts.

  He had what he needed, a total of fifteen names, five primary, ten secondary. He would concentrate on the former, the last two physicians and the three nurses; the earlier names were removed from the time in question.

  He replaced the folder and went back out to the clerk’s desk. “All done,” he said, then added as if the thought had just struck him. “Say, you could do me-the Senator –one more favor, if you would.” “If I can, sure.” “I’ve got the names here, but I need a little updating. After all, it was twentyfive years ago. Some of them may not be around any longer. It would help if I got some current addresses.” “I can’t help,” said the clerk, reaching for the phone on her desk, “but I can send you upstairs. This is patient territory; they’ve got the personnel records. Lucky bahstaads, they’re computerized.” “I’m still very concerned about keeping this confidential.” “Hey, don’t you worry, you’ve got Peg Flannagan’s word for it. My girlfriend runs that place.” Scofield sat next to a bearded black college student in front of a computer keyboard. The young man had been assigned to help by Peg Flannagan’s girlfriend. He was annoyed that his office-temp job had suddenly required him to put down his textbooks.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” said Bray, wanting a temporary friend.

  “It’s nothin’, man,” answered the student, punching the keys. “It’s just that I got an exam tomorrow and any piss ant can run this barbarian hardware.” “What’s the exam?” “Tertiary kinetics.” Scofield looked at the student. “Someone once used the word ‘tertiary’ with me when I was in school around here. I didn’t know what he meant.” “You probably went to Harvard, man. That’s turkeytime. I’m at Tech.” Bray was glad the old school spirit was still alive in Cambridge. “What have you got?” he asked, looking at the screen above the keyboard. The black had keyed in the name of the first doctor.

  “I’ve got an omniscent tape, and you’ve got nothin’.” “What do you mean?” “The good doctor doesn’t exist. Not as far as this institution is concerned. He’s never so much as dispensed an aspirin in this joint.” “That’s crazy. He was listed in the Appleton records.” “Speak to the lord-of-the-phi’s, man. I punched the letters and up comes No Rec.” “I know something about these machines. They’re easily programmed.” The black nodded. “Which means they’re easily deprogrammed. Rectified, as it were. Your doctor was deeleted. Maybe he stole from Medicare.” “Maybe. Let’s try the next.” The student keyed in the name. “Well, we know what happened to this boy.

  Ceb. Hem. He died right here on the third floor. Cerebral hemorrhage.

  Never even got a chance to get his tuition back.” “What do you mean?” “Med school, man. He was only thirty-two. Hell of a way to go at thirty-two.” “Also unusual. What’s the date?” “March 1, 1954.” “Appleton was discharged on the thirtieth,” said Scofleld as much to himself as to the student. “These three names are nurses. Try them, please.” Katherine Connally. Deceased 3-6-54.

  Alice Bonelli. Deceased 3-6-54.

  Janet Drummond. Deceased 3-6-54.

  The student sat back; he was not a fool. “Seems there was a real epidemic back then, wasn’t there? March was a rough month, and the twenty-sixth was a baad day for three little girls in white.” “Any cause of deathT’ “Nothin’ listed. Which only means they didn’t die on the premises.” “But all three on the same day? It’s…

  “I dig,” said the young man. “Crazy.” He held up his hand. “Hey, there’s an old cat who’s been here for about six thousand years. He runs the supply room on the first floor. He might remember something; let me get him on the horn.” The black wheeled his chair around and reached for a telephone on the counter. “Get on line two,” he said to Bray, pointing to another phone on a nearby table.

  “Furst floor supply,” said the voice in a loud Irish brogue.

  “Hey, Methusala, this is Amos-as in Amos and Andy.” “You’re a nutty boy-yo, you are.” “Hey, Jimmy, I got this honkey friend on the horn here. He’s looking for information that goes back to when you were the terror of the angels’ dorm.

  As a matter of fact, it concerns three of them. Jimmy, you recall a time in the middle fifties when three nurses all died on the same day?” “T’ree.Oh, indeed I do. ‘Twas a terrible thing. Little Katie Connally was one of ‘em.” “What happened?” asked Bray.

  “They drowned, sir. All three of the girls drowned. They was in a boat and the damn thing pitched over, throwin’ lern into a bad sea.” “In a boat? In March?” “One of those crazy things, sir. You know bow rich kids prowl around the nurses’ dormitories. They figure the girls see naked bodies all the time, so maybe they wouldn’t mind lookin’ at theirs. Well, one night these punk-swells were throwin’ a party at this fancy yacht club and asked the girls up. There was drinkin’ and all kinds of nonsense, and some jackass got the bright idea to take out a boat. Damn fool thing, of course. As you say, it was in March.” “It happened at nightT’ “Yes, indeed, sir. The bodies didn’t wash up for a week, I believe.” “Was anyone else killed?” “Of course not. It’s never that way, is it? I mean, rich kids are always such good swimro.ers, aren’t they now?” “Where did it happen?” asked Scofield. “Can you remember?” “Sure, I can, sir. It was up the coast. Marblehead.” Bray closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly, replacing the phone.

  “Thanks, Methusala.” The student hung up, his eyes on Scofield. “You got trouble, don’t you?” “I got trouble,” agreed Bray, walking back to the keyboard. “I’ve also got ten more names. Two doctors and eight nurses. Can you run them through for me just as fast as you can?” Of the eight nurses, half were still alive. One had moved to San Francisco—address unknown; another lived with a daughter in Dallas, and the remaining two were in the St. Agnes Retirement Home in Worcester. One of the doctors was still alive. The skin-graft specialist had died eighteen months ago at the age of seventy-three. The first surgeon of record, Dr.

  Nathaniel Crawford, had retired and was living in Quincy.

  “May I use your phone?” asked Scofield. “I’ll pay whatever charges there are.” “Last time I looked, none of these horns was in my name. Be my guest.” Bray had written down the number on the screen; he went to the telephone and dialed.

  “Crawford here.” The voice from Quincy was brusque but not discourteous.

  “My name is Scofield, sir. We’ve never met and I’m not a physician, but I’m very interested in a case you were involved with a number of years ago at Massachusetts General. I’d like to discuss it briefly with you, if you wouldn’t mind.” “Who was the patient? I had a few thousand.” “Senator Joshua Appleton, sir.” There was a slight pause on the line; when Crawford spoke, his brusque voice took on an added tone of weariness. “Those godamned incidents have a way of following a man to his grave, don’t they? Well, I haven’t practiced for over two years now, so whatever you say or I say, it won’t make any godamned difference…. Let’s say I made a mistake.” “Mistake?” “I didn’t make many, I was head of surgery for damn near twelve years. My summary’s in the Appleton medical file; the only reasonable conclusion is that the X-rays got fouled up, or the scanning equipment gave us the wrong data.” There was no summary from Dr. Nathaniel Crawford in the Appleton medical file.

  “Are you referring to the fact that you were replaced as surgeon of recordT’ “Replaced, hellf Tommy Belford and I got our asses kicked four-square out of there by the family.” “Belford? Is that Dr. Belford, the skin-graft specialist?” “A surgeon. A plastic surgeon and a godamned artist. Tommy put the man’s face back on like he was Almighty God Himself. That whiz-kid they brought in messed up Tommy’s work, in my opinion. Sorry about him, though. The kid hardly finished when his head blew.” “Do you mean a cerebral hemorrhage, sirr’ “That’s right. The Swiss was right there when it happened. He operated but it was too late.” “When you say ‘the Swiss,’ do you mean the surgeon who replaced you?” “You got it. The great Herr Doktor from Zilrich. That bastard treated me like a retarded med school dropout.” “Do you know what happened to him?” “Went back to Switzerland, I guess. Never was interested in looking him up, myself.” “Doctor, you say you made a mistake. Or the X-rays did or the equipment.

  What kind of a mistakeT’ “Simple. I gave up. We had him on total support systems, and that’s exactly what I figured they were. Total support; without them he wouldn’t have lasted a day. And if he had, I thought it would be a waste; he’d live like a vegetable.” “You saw no hope of recovery?” Crawford lowered his voice, strength in his humility. “I was a surgeon, I wasn’t God. I was fallible. It was my opinion then that Appleton was not only beyond recovery, he was dying a little more with each minute… I was wrong.” “Thank you for talking to me, Doctor Crawford.” “As I said before, it can’t make any difference now, and I don’t mind. I had a hell of a lot of years with a knife in my hand; I didn’t make many mistakes.” “I’m sure you didn’t, sir. Goodbye.” Scofield walked back to the keyboard; the black student was reading his textbook. “X-rays?…” said Bray softly.

  “What?” The black looked up. “What about X-rays?” Bray sat down next to the young man. If he ever needed a temporary friend it was now; he hoped he had one. “How well do you know the hospital staff?” “It’s a big place, man.” “You knew enough to call Methusala.” “Well, I’ve been working here off and on for three years. I get around.” “Is there a repository for X-rays going back a number of years?” “Like maybe twentyfive?” “Yes.,, “There is. It’s no big deal.” “Can you get me one?” The student raised an eyebrow. “That’s another matter, isn’t it?” The black grimaced. “Oh, maul It’s not that I look askance at bread, believe me. But I don’t steal and I don’t push and God knows I didn’t inherit.” “What I’m asking you to do is the most legitimateeven moral, if you like-thing I could ask anyone to do. I’m not a liar.” The student looked into Bray’s eyes. “If you are, you’re a damned convincing one. And you’ve got troubles, I’ve seen that. What do you want?” “An X-ray of Joshua Appleton% mouth.” “Mouth? His mouth?” “His head injuries were extensive, dozens of pictures had to be taken.