5

Stroda's parents still lived in Marin County. Garreth almost wished they did not, that he had been unable to find them.

The mention of her son brought raw pain to Sarah Stroda's face. "You want to talk about Christopher?"

Only moments before Garreth had been admiring her youthfulness and the humor glinting in her eyes as she handed back Garreth's identification, accepting his story of being temporarily attached to the San Francisco Police through a continuing education program for small town officers. Now the humor had gone, while years etched themselves into her face.

"No." She shook her head. "Let's not talk about him. I've read your books, Mr. Fowler, and except for the way your protagonists treat people as disposable tools, enjoyed them, but I don't want my son in one of your books."

"He won't be," Garreth said. "This doesn't have anything to do with your son himself, just people he might have known."

Mrs. Stroda bit her lip. "Come in, then." She stepped back inside the neo-Spanish house, opening the carved door wide though her expression said she longed to close it in their faces. "I think I'd like fresh air." She led the way through to a deck looking out over the bay, where she stood at the railing with her back to them, fingers white on the wrought iron.

Garreth sat down in a redwood chair. "I'm sorry to be bothering you. I wouldn't if it weren't important."

Without looking at him she said, "It's been ten years. You'd think I'd have gotten over it by now, or at least come to terms with it. Instead—it's like it happened yesterday, and I still don't understand why! He was twenty-four, with everything to live for, and he—" She turned abruptly. "What do you want to know?"

He hated himself for opening old wounds. "I need the names of people he saw regularly before he died."

She groped for a chair and sat down. "I don't know who his friends were. The last two years Christopher became a total stranger."

Protest rose in his throat. She had to know something more, anything, even a single name! He forced his voice to remain soothing and patient. "Think very carefully."

He doubted she heard him. Her fingers twined tightly together. "I wish I could find that woman and ask her what she did to him."

The hair rose on Garreth's neck. From the corner of his eye he watched Fowler's eyes narrow. "What woman?"

She shook her head. "Someone he met in Europe the summer between college graduation and medical school. That's when he changed."

"Do you know her name?"

"No. He never talked about her. We just happened to learn from friends of friends that he'd been in a serious car accident in Italy and would have died except that this woman he was traveling with gave blood for him and saved his life. We asked him about it but he kept saying it was nothing and he didn't want to talk about it." She drew in a shaking breath. "Over the months he had less and less to say to us. He dropped out of medical school, and stopped seeing his friends . . . withdrawing, slipping farther away each day, until—" She turned away abruptly.

Garreth fought to keep his face expressionless. Until the widening gulf between Stroda and humanity became unbearable. Going off the bridge was certainly one solution to the pain.

"We thought it was drugs," Mrs. Stroda said, "though he always denied it. I guess it wasn't. The autopsy didn't find any." She turned back. "Who are these people you're looking for? Could they responsible for what happened to him?"

If only he could tell her. Except that could cause far more anguish than it cured. "I can't tell you much about them, but no, they didn't cause your son's death."

She let out her breath. "Good. So I don't have to feel guilty about not being able to help you."

"Perhaps one of your daughters knew something," Fowler suggested.

Mrs. Stroda stiffened. "No! I won't have them hurt again! Allison was only fifteen at the time. How could she know his friends?"

"Mrs. Stroda, it's very important that we find these people," Garreth said.

Fowler nodded. "Lives depend on it . . . sons and daughters of other mothers."

Mrs. Stroda flung up her head, catching her breath.

"Fowler!" Garreth snapped.

But Mrs. Stroda shook her head. "No, he's right. I'll give you the girls' addresses and phone numbers." She stood and disappeared into the house.

Garreth turned on Fowler. "That was a cheap shot!"

The writer smiled. "But effective."

"The end justifies the means?" Garreth said acidly.

The smile thinned. "Don't go casting stones, old son. I've noticed you're not above deceit and manipulation when it suits your purposes."

Garreth opened his mouth . . . and closed it again. What did he think he was going to say, that he acted for a righteous cause, that he tried not to hurt anyone in the process? Rationalizations. No matter how reasonable, they did not change the fact of deceit.

Mrs. Stroda reappeared with a sheet from a memo pad. She held it out to Garreth. "This time of day Janice will be at work. I've included that address, too."

Fowler glanced over Garreth's shoulder at the sheet. "Your daughter Allison is at the Stanford Medical School. Following in her brother's footsteps?"

"Tracking him might be a better description." Years and grief looked out of Mrs. Stroda's eyes. "Allison is studying to become a psychiatrist. Good day, gentlemen."