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Quincy hesitated。 Then： 〃Are you a long…lost relative？〃
〃Of Mr。 Wainwright's？ Oh； no。〃
〃A long…lost friend？〃
〃No。 Not that either。〃
〃Well； then； I guess I don't have to be delicate about this。 Dr。 Mitowski； I'm afraid that Palmer Wainwright is dead。〃
〃Dead！〃 she said； astounded。
〃Well； surely you realized there was that possibility。 He was never a well man； downright sickly。 And you've obviously been out of touch with him for a long time。〃
〃Not all that long；〃 she said。
〃Must be at least thirty…five years；〃 Quincy said。 〃He died back in 1946。〃
The air at Grace's back seemed suddenly colder than it had been an instant ago； as if a dead man had expelled his icy breath against the nape of her neck。
〃Thirty…one years；〃 she said numbly。 〃You must be wrong。〃
〃Not a chance。 I was just a green kid back then； a copyboy。 Palmer Wainwright was one of my heroes。 I took it pretty hard when he went。〃
〃Are we talking about the same man？〃 Grace asked。 〃He was quite thin； with sharp features； pale brown eyes； and a rather sallow plexion。 His voice was several notes deeper than you'd expect from just looking at him。〃
〃That was Palmer； all right。〃
〃About fifty…five？〃
〃He was thirty…six when he died； but he did look twenty years older；〃 Quincy said。 〃It was that string of illnesses； one thing right after another； with cancer at the end。 Jt just wore him down； aged him fast。 He was a fighter； but he just couldn't hold on any longer。〃
Thirty…one years in the grave？ she thought。 But I saw him yesterday。 We had a strange conversation in the rose garden。 What do you say to that； Mr。 Quincy？
〃Dr。 Mitowski？ Are you still there？〃
〃Yes。 Sorry。 Listen； Mr。 Quincy； I hate to take your valuable time； but this is really important。 I believe the Bektermann case had a lot to do with the personal business I wanted to discuss with Mr。 Wainwright。 But I don't really know anything about those murders。 Would you mind telling me what it was all about？〃
〃Family tragedy；〃 Quincy said。 〃The Bektermanns' daughter went berserk the day before her sixteenth birthday。 Her mind just snapped。 Apparently； she got it in her head that her mother intended to kill her before she turned sixteen； which was not true； of course。 But she thought it was true； and she went after her mother with an ax。 Her father and a visiting cousin got in the way； and she killed them。 Her mother actually managed to wrench the ax out of the girl's hands。 But that didn't stop the kid。 She just picked up a fireplace poker and kept ing。 When the mother； Mrs。 Bektermann； was backed into a corner and was about to have her skull cracked open with the poker； she didn't have any choice but to swing the ax at her daughter。 She hit the girl once； in the side。 A pretty deep cut。 The kid died in the hospital the next day。 Mrs。 Bektermann only killed in self…defense； and no charges were brought against her； but she felt so guilty about killing her own child that she had a plete breakdown and eventually wound up in an institution。〃
〃And that's the story that won Mr。 Wainwright his Pulitzer nomination？〃
〃Yeah。 In the hands of a lot of reporters； the piece Would have been nothing but sensationalistic garbage。 But Palmer was good。 He wrote a sensitive； well…researched study of a family with serious emotional； interpersonal problems。 The father was a domineering man who set extremely high standards for his daughter and very likely had an unnatural attraction to her。 The mother was always peting with the father for the girl's heart； mind； and loyalty； and when she saw she was losing that battle； she turned to drink。 There were extraordinary psychological pressures brought to bear on the daughter； and Palmer made the reader feel and understand those pressures。〃
She thanked Ross Quincy for his time and consideration。 She hung up the phone。
For a while she just sat there； staring at the softly humming refrigerator； trying to make sense of what she had been told。 If Wainwright had died in 1946； whom had she talked to in the garden yesterday？
And what did the Bektermann murders have to do with her？ With Carol？
She thought of what Wainwright had told her： This damned； endless pursuit。 It's still going on； and it's got to be stopped this tune around ye e to tell you that your Carol is in the middle of it。
You've got to help her。 Get her out of the girl's way。
She felt she was on the verge of understanding what he had meant。 And she was scared。
Even though a number of impossible things had transpired within the past twenty…four hours； she no longer questioned either her sanity or her perceptions。
She was sane； perfectly sane； and in mand of all her faculties。 Senility was not even a remote possibility any longer。 She sensed that the explanation for these events was far more frightening； more soul…shattering even than the prospect of senility； which had once terrified her。
She recalled something else that Palmer Wainwright had said yesterday in the garden： You aren't only who you think you are。 You aren't only Grace Mitowski。
She knew the solution to the puzzle was within her grasp。 She sensed a dark knowledge within her； long…forgotten memories waiting to be tapped。 She was afraid to tap them； but she knew she must do precisely that； for Carol's sake； and perhaps for her own sake as well。
Suddenly； the air in the kitchen； though still quite clear； reeked of wood and tar smoke。 Grace could hear the crackle of fire； although there were no flames here； now； in this place and time。
Her heart pounded frantically； and her mouth turned dry and sour。
She closed her eyes and could see the burning house as vividly as she had seen it in the dream。 She could see the cellar doors； and she could hear herself screaming； calling Laura。
She knew it hadn't been only a dream。 It had been a memory； lost for ages； surfacing now； reminding her that； indeed； she was not only Grace Mitowski。
She opened her eyes。
The kitchen was hot； stifling。
She felt herself being pulled along by forces she could not prehend； and she thought： Is this what I want？ Do I really want to flow with this and discover the truth and turn my little world upside down？ Can
I handle it？
The stench of nonexistent smoke grew stronger。
The roar of nonexistent flames grew louder。
I guess there's no turning back now； she thought。
She held her hands up in front of her face and Stared at them； amazed。 Her flesh had been miraculously disfigured by stigmata。 Her hands were bruised； abraded； bloody。 There were splinters of wood embedded in her palms； splinters from the cellar doors
on which she had pounded such a long； long time ago。
***
At ten o'clock； when the phone rang； Paul had been at his desk； writing； for almost an hour。 The work had just begun to flow smoothly。 He snatched up the receiver and said； a bit impatiently； 〃Yes？〃
An unfamiliar female voice said； 〃Could I speak to Dr。 Tracy； please？〃
〃Speaking。〃
〃Oh。 Uh。。 no。。 。 the Dr。 Tracy I'm looking for is a woman。〃
〃It's my wife you want；〃 he said。 〃She's out of town for a few days。 Can I take a message？〃
〃Yes； please。 Would you tell her that Polly called from Maugham & Crich