Will began his morning with a cup of coffee at the Stumptown. He must have been moping because Howard, wearing a concerned frown, was giving him a wide berth.
     “What the hell is this?” Will snapped, “First Lucy, now you. Can’t you people mind your own business? Everybody thinks they know what’s best for Will Adelhardt.”
     “Okay, Will, I don’t give a damn. I hope that makes it better for you.”
     “Look, Howard, I just need to grieve in my own way. I’ll wallow in the mud and one day I’ll devolve again into a land mammal.”
     “Will, you’ve been wallowing so long down there you’re never going to pull yourself up. That young woman, she almost had you walking on your two feet. But you were there in the mud before she came along. You know what it is? It’s all that post-modern theory. That shit was invented by a bunch of disillusioned lefty professors. It made them feel so lonely, they had to drag everybody down with them.”
     “Well, that should make you happy, Howard.”
     “It spoils my day, Will. Who wants to argue with an old cynic?”
     Howard disappeared into the kitchen. Will stared at the newspaper, without reading. An old cynic? Is that what he was? He wanted to believe in the feelings Emmy had stirred up in him. He wanted to continue to feel them. He waited a moment for Howard to surface again, to continue the argument, but when he didn’t reappear, Will allowed his gaze to focus on a headline: “Activist Charged With Murder: Lab Results Point to Date Rape Drug, Absinthe.”
      It took a moment for the realization to come to him that the article was about Emmy’s murder. Then another, before his attention settled on the last word in the headline: absinthe. Le fée verde…the green faerie. Will was dumbfounded. This particular nectar-of-the-gods hasn’t been legal for nearly a century, he thought. He scanned the article for an explanation.

     …lab results have been withheld until now, according to Chief Palmeroy, “due to the sensitivity of our investigation.”
     The date rape drug, GHB is sometimes called “liquid ecstasy” due to its ecstasy-like body high. Unlike the amphetamine ecstasy, however, GHB is a powerful sedative which leaves the victim limp and may cause memory loss and unconsciousness.
     Absinthe is an anise-flavored beverage fermented from the herb wormwood and high-grain alcohol. Once popular in the nineteenth century, the illegal concoction has made a comeback in recent years. Banned in much of the western world because of its harmful health effects, Absinthe is thought by its adherents to be a hallucinogen with aphrodisiac qualities.
     Police, who originally believed that D’Angelos’ death was the result of a sex-game gone awry, now think that the killer deliberately incapacitated the young woman before she was strangled. Questions still remain…

     
     Will put his head in his hands. He felt nauseous. Emmy, you were pregnant. My god, why were you drinking that stuff? He felt himself slipping. All the doubts and bewilderment ricocheted in his head. I have to know, Emmy. I have to know. Who were you? Were we real or just some pathetic delusion that I created to make me feel like I had something going on?
     Will’s cup was empty. Howard was deep into conversation with someone else. Will folded up the paper, tucked it under his arm, pulled a couple dollars out of his pocket and tossed them on the table. Maybe there was an answer somewhere amongst the Emmy’s stuff in those boxes he’d brought back from her place.
     Back at the apartment, Will pulled a box of memories out from beneath his desk, and carried it to the dining room table. He spread Grandma Emmaline’s scrapbooks in front of him, three of them, tattered around the edges. The string binding had worn the holes, cut through a number of them. Several of the time-yellowed pages were altogether liberated from the bindings and in danger of being lost.
      There was no one left now to care about these pages except for a middle-age adjunct professor of history, who wasn’t even part of the family. Just a washed-up old fool who fell in love with a young woman hardly older than Zoe, damn it. What would Zoe have thought about Emmy? What had he been thinking? That he was a young man again? That he was still that idealistic rebel of his youth? Yes, Emmy had him feeling like that. The first time he made love to her, he was twenty again. That sense of possibility, a sense of a future still before him, undetermined, followed him when he was with her, beating along with his heart, pushing his blood before it into his extremities. And when he was not with her, when the cold seeped back in reclaiming his fingers and toes, enough of a warmth remained to cause him to long for her. He didn’t think he’d ever felt that way before.
     Emmy stirred his youth, awakened it out of the gravity of his years, so quickened his memories that on his trip to Eugene the ghosts of his past infiltrated his senses. He heard cries of revolution in the streets, at the ramparts on 13th Street one long April night in 1970, at Adkinson Hall after Kent State when the National Guard marched onto campus and the whole student body poured out of the dorms. Birth cries among the teargas and flying stones. Emmy had brought that all back to him, that feeling that he was embarking on a new life, a new world of possibility. Had Emmy been just one more illusion, destined to crumble like the mortar in those barricades?
     Before him lay a hundred years of photos and clippings in Emmaline’s albums, from baby Catherine to Emmy’s graduation from PSU. Will turned the pages slowly, trying to absorb each carefully annotated picture. Catherine Bartlett as a Child, 1902; Catherine with Parents, Andrew and Enid; Catherine Bartlett with Sister, Sarah Jane, c. 1915. Following this last photo was an obituary from The Oregonian, dated December 21, 1917. “Sarah Jane Bartlett, 1900–1917″.
     “Young Sarah Jane Bartlett,” the article explained, “daughter of Andrew and Enid Bartlett, died Thursday evening following a tragic accident.”
     In the back of the album was an old news clipping, a photo. A young man stood before a blackened building, a large Victorian house with a well-manicured lawn. Something about the photo, about the boy seemed familiar. Maybe it was his posture, or the look of privilege. Maybe it was the context, the burnt building. “Young Hero,” read the caption. “Sixteen year old Doug Bartlett saves a family’s home from destruction.”
     Will remembered another article, still in his briefcase, with his research materials from Eugene. He retrieved it from his office and removed a piece he had copied from The Daily Emerald, the U of O student newspaper, dated February 17, 1970. A photograph showed two young men in front of another blackened building. One had the same casual stance, the same privileged appearance, the same facial features as the boy in the first photo. It was, in fact, the same person. The caption this time said: “ROTC Firebombing. Students David Bowman and Steven Andrews stand in front of U of O Physical Education building, which houses the campus ROTC program. The building was the site of last night’s arson.”
     So why, Will wondered, was Doug Bartlett attending the University of Oregon under an alias, David Bowman? Will searched his memory, under the file: anti-war movement, for some reference to a David Bowman. It came up empty. But if anyone would know, it would be Rich Weinstein. Rich had been a pre-law student in the early seventies and head of the Young Socialist Alliance on campus. He knew everyone, the anarchists, SDS, Trots, Maoists, and most of the young student activists whose politics were more indefinable and amorphous.
     Rich was living in Portland, according to the last alumni newsletter that Will had bothered to read. Will remembered that he had earned his law degree, practiced for a few years, then dropped out to join a rock and roll band. Now, according to the Alumni Association, he was a promoter and owned a small recording studio.
     Will found Rich’s number in the book under Weinstein Productions. Rich, himself, answered the phone.
     “Yo, Weinstein. What can I do you for?”
     Will was taken aback. It was as though thirty years had not passed. He imagined Rich as the long-haired rock and roller, still smoking dope, a fifty-something kid.

     
     Late June and most of the lawns Marta could see out the windows of the Glisan Street bus were brown already. Now and then, a well-watered green patch flashed with extravagant carelessness. Marta leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. Generally, she could catch a few before work, but not this morning.
     Behind her a woman was saying, “Looks like that guy murdered that girl at that Bartlett place. You know, the perverted sex murder. Says here that the charge against him has been revised from negligent homicide to murder one.”
     “It’s about time,” her seatmate said. “I don’t know what took them so long. You don’t try to burn someone up if you care about them.”
     Marta felt sick. Colin must be totally panicked. It was all so out of control. And suddenly Marta was angry with Emmy. If she hadn’t gotten herself killed…Marta’s chest began to constrict; her breath came in short gasps. The bus was too crowded with morning commuters. Every seat was occupied, even the aisle was crammed with people holding onto the rails, swaying as the bus lurched from stop to stop. Marta closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deep into her stomach. The pasty cold feeling was almost gone by the time the bus picked up speed and Marta knew they were on the Burnside Bridge. She opened her eyes, yanked on the signal cord and the woman next to her obligingly moved her legs to one side. Mumbling, “Excuse me, pardon me, thanks,” Marta squeezed her way to the rear exit. The gap she left behind her was immediately filled.
     Her’s was the first downtown stop and a third of the passengers joined Marta at the rear exit. Marta was disgorged onto the sidewalk in the midst of this small crowd whose momentum carried her down the stairway from the bridge to the street below where the light rail would pick them up. The bottom of the stairs faced the undercarriage of the bridge. On an early weekday morning such as this the bedroom of the homeless intersected with the bedlam of the commute. Marta scanned the remnants of night residents who were variously occupied with rolling up bedding or brushing their teeth, or lighting up the first smoke of the day. There was seldom anyone she knew among these late risers, but she always checked. Sometimes she was rewarded and spent a few minutes catching up with some kid just back from the U district in Seattle on the way to Eugene or San Francisco. Mostly though, the people here were older, were some indefinable age between thirty-five and death. Marta lifted her pack to her shoulder and turned toward Stumptown and the morning shift.
     The café patrons were being stingy with their newspapers. It was nearly mid-morning before someone left the front section behind. Marta snagged it and started reading. She ignored Howard when he complained he wasn’t paying her to read the paper.
     It wasn’t front-page news any more, but it was third page and there was a small picture of Emmy looking innocent and one of Colin looking sinister. Marta gritted her teeth. There’s never any attempt at objectivity, she thought. She searched the article for some kind of clue that would give her something to go on, some way to prove Colin’s innocence. Absinthe, date-rape drug, Emmy’s boss’s statement about phone calls…
     Out of the corner of her eye, Marta saw him. He sat in the corner sipping coffee, pretending to read a book. It was the same guy who had gotten on the bus behind her the day before on her way home. He’d creeped her out then, the way he sat a few seats behind her and got off the bus when she did, and followed her to Freddy’s. She’d lost him in the store between bras and panties where even he would have felt conspicuous. But here he was again.
     “Howard,” Marta said, “can I talk to you in back?” When they were both in the kitchen, Marta said, “That creep out there with the California tan is following me around. Can I toss him out?”
     “Marta, you’re paranoid.”
     “I know, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being followed.”
     “If he is following you, it’s better to keep him in sight. You’re safe here. If it makes you feel better, I’ll watch him.” Howard went back to the counter.
     Marta fumed in back. She emptied a tub full of dishes into the sink. Mr. California was long gone by the time Marta finished her shift at two. Howard was sleeping on the cot in back. He arrived at the shop every morning at 5 a.m. and took a nap right after the lunch crowd faded as long as there was someone there to relieve him. Marta woke him, handing him a cup of tea. Howard didn’t really like coffee–a secret Marta helped him keep.
     Marta stepped out into the sunshine and scoped the street. The creep spooked her, but he also pissed her off. She wanted to go on the offensive. She had to do something about being followed, and about Colin, and she was beginning to feel like the two were connected. The guys who beat up Colin and cornered Bug and Tweak–the boneheads, They have to have something to do with this, Marta thought. Who hired them? Why?
     Bug and Tweak were sitting on the sidewalk next to the otter fountain in the shade of the old Courthouse.
     “Hello, girls,” Marta said lowering herself down beside them.
     “Check it out, Marta,” Tweak nudged her elbow against Marta’s arm. “That guy’s almost as dark as you.”
     Marta swore. It was him. The tan man tail. She turned her back to him. If he could read lips, he’d have to do it through the back of her head. “Turn around,” she said. “Don’t let him see us talk.”
     Marta said, “Colin got beat up by boneheads, you guys got roughed up, and I’m being followed by some guy who spends way too much time working on his skin. Somehow, it’s all connected. Except maybe the skin part. Anyway, I need you guys to help me. Tweak, you said you knew one of the creeps who tried to scare you and it really sounded like one of the same ones who worked over Colin.”
     “Yeah,” Tweak nodded.
     “He’s a sweeper for some downtown fat cats. Works mostly around Salmon, up above Broadway,” Bug said.
     Teddy Milcheford’s store, Tierra del Fuego, is up there, Marta thought. Was it possible that Milcheford knew that she and Colin had taken Maddy? Did he know Emmy was involved? Was that what this was all about? That twisted bastard. Did Emmy die because Teddy Milcheford was a weak, sleazy, incestuous pig?
     “Marta.” Bug shook Marta’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s up?”
     “We’ve got to find out who hired them. I can’t be taking time off from work to follow them around. Besides, I’ve got this idiot following me,” she jerked her thumb back in the direction of her shadower. “I’d pay you guys to follow them.”
     “I don’t know,” Tweak said. She ran a finger along the insole of her heavy black boots. “What if they go after us again?”
     “They’re too stupid. They won’t remember us. Besides we can stay out of sight,” Bug said.
     “Thanks. I owe you.”
     “Owing is worth piss. How about a five so we can get a sandwich?” Tweak asked.
     Marta opened her wallet. All she had was a single ten. What the hell, the girls could use it. She handed Tweak the ten and stood up. “Call me as soon as you know anything.”
     Marta went up a block to the Square and over to Yamhill where she caught the Max. When she saw her faithful follower enter the train, she decided to get off at the next stop, two blocks down. If she couldn’t lose him, maybe she could bore him. Marta spent the next couple of hours wandering in and out of stores, vacillating between olive bread and sourdough at the Mill Bakery, trying on shoes at the Rack. She read fifty sympathy cards in a stationery store on Alder. Some kind of providence blessed her when she stepped onto the sidewalk, her head reeling with “our thoughts and prayers are with you in this your time of sorrow” and other noncommittal lines of comfort. There in front of her waiting for the light to change was Will Adelhardt’s Triumph. She knew it was his by the duct tape that held the plastic rear window to the canvas top.
     She opened the passenger door and slid in. “Hey, Will.”
     “What am I, your taxi now?” Will asked.
     “Did I say I’d pay you? Where are you headed?” As the light turned and the car moved toward the Morrison Bridge, Marta looked back. California was gone.
     “I’m going to eat with an old college friend over in Hawthorne.”
     “Why didn’t you take the Hawthorne Bridge?”
     “I hate that bridge. The grating grabs your tires. It feels like you’re out of control. I avoid it whenever possible.”
     “That’s reasonable,” Marta said.
     “Who are you running from?” Will asked.
     Marta gave him a sharp look. “Some guy’s been following me. Don’t you dare tell Mom.”
     “I’m not sure I can promise you that.”
     “It’s probably just a cop. How much danger could I be in? We’ve given him the slip, anyway.”
     Will was maneuvering the car up Belmont, moving to the right as the street narrowed to two lanes. “I guess you’ve probably heard that the charge has been changed to first degree murder. You’re still sure he’s innocent?”
     “I know he’s innocent. I’ve got a feeling about somebody. Do you remember what you said the other night at Mom’s about Teddy Milcheford?” When he nodded, Marta continued, “There’s a good chance that the boneheads who beat up Colin are working for him. Bug and Tweak are going to find out and let me know.”
     “It would be quite a coincidence, but it doesn’t exactly point to him as the murderer.”
     “Yeah, well, there are other things. Here’s 39th. Why don’t you let me out here?”
     Will pulled into the gas station on the corner. “If you’re so sure about him, maybe you should talk to Chris Langford.”
     “Look, there are things you and Mom don’t know and I’d like both of you to get off my case about going to Chris. But thanks, for the ride.”
     “Be careful,” he said as Marta closed the door.

     When he met up with Rich at Mulligan’s, Will realized that his image of the contemporary Rich hadn’t been far off the mark, except for the hair which was non-existent. Rich strolled in wearing cutoffs and a tie-dye tee shirt, a young thing on his arm. Will doubted she was old enough to legally drink. Rich introduced her as Rainbow.
     They found a quiet table in the corner and Rich ordered beers for everyone. Will noted that the waitress didn’t bother to ID Rainbow. The two men filled each other in on their respective lives since the 70’s while Rainbow drank her pint of bitter and looked bored.
     Will detected a sympathetic, slightly condescending smile from Rich as he related the history of his failed marriages and his dull academic career. But it occurred to him that his own attitude toward his old classmate’s immature and hedonistic pursuits was no less condescending.
     There was an awkward moment when Rich said, “I read about you and your chick. Bummer.”
     Will let it pass with only a nod.
     “So, man, who’s this dude you wanna know about? David something?”
     “Yeah. David Bowman.” Will fished the article out of his briefcase.
     Rich studied it for a moment. “Sure. I remember the dude. Some rich kid. A real hothead. Always trying to push the envelope. You know what I mean. Get people to throw bricks through windows and shit.”
     “Could he have been a provocateur?”
     “Yeah. Could’ve been, I guess. He was kind of a loner. You gonna tell me what this is all about?”
     “Just doing some research. Article on the movement.”
     “You still into that shit, man? The sixties are long gone.”
     Will looked at Rainbow with her dreadlocks and glazed eyes, then at Rich wearing his earring and tie-dye. He smiled.

     By the time Marta reached her apartment, it was nearly 5:30. Colin usually called around 6:00. She was feeling the weight of being his lifeline. A small resentment that she pushed away, annoyed by the pettiness. Colin was the one in jail, the one suffering. She had to be there for him. No one else would. Not even Kimmi.
     At six-fifteen Colin called. “They’re pressuring me to plea out.”
     “Plea to what?” Marta asked.
     “Manslaughter. They want me to say I killed Emmy accidentally. My lawyer, the idiot, thinks it’s a good idea. My best chance, she says.”
      “Did Chris really say it like that, that you should plead? It doesn’t sound like her.”
     “She said a plea bargain would eliminate the death penalty and I might get a reduced sentence–if we could prove it was an accident.” There was a short silence. “All right, she didn’t say, I should. She said it was maybe the best option.”
     “Colin, we can prove you didn’t do it,” Marta said.
     “No, Marta. Not that way. Everything we’ve worked for, we can’t throw it away. The fascists would like that.”
     Marta could almost hear Emmy’s voice. Now he thinks about ROOF. After he’s put it all in jeopardy. She resisted the temptation to say it aloud. Besides, she really believed that Colin was right. Sometimes you had to break a law for the greater good, the higher good. To save a life–wasn’t that a higher good? But Colin could lose his own life if he didn’t tell the truth about where he was that night. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to watch you be sacrificed, Colin. I don’t think I could do it.”
     “If you were in here, if our places were switched, you’d say exactly what I’m saying. You’d keep silence, probably longer than I could,” Colin gave a tight little laugh.
      He’s going to pay for that, Marta thought. They’re going to want to know what he’s keeping silent about. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
     “I’ve got to talk to you, Marta, in person. I’ve got to see someone I can trust. My lawyer really sucks. Please come see me again.”
     Marta didn’t want to see him, but she couldn’t tell him that anymore than she could change his attitude toward Chris, even for his own good. And Marta hated to hear him groveling. Colin didn’t beg, he charmed. But not any longer. Colin was turning into a little boy in a cell downtown.