It certainly did. At the moment, the Sways had no home. Dianne worked in a sweatshop. There were no relatives in Memphis.

"They're not mobile right now," she said. "Ricky is confined to the hospital."

"We've already located a children's psychiatric hospital in Portland that can take him right away," Lewis explained. "It's a private one, not a charity outfit like St. Peter's, and it's one of the best in the country. They'll take him whenever we ask, and, of course, we'll pay for it. After he's released, we'll move the family to another city."

"How long will it take to place the entire family into the program?" Harry asked.

"Less than a week," Lewis answered. "Director Voyles has given it top priority. The paperwork takes a few days, new driver's license, social security numbers,

Ilk.C urn. _i lie iam-ily has to make the decision to do it, and the mother must tell us where she wants to go. We'll take over from there."

"What do you think, Ms. Love?" Harry asked. "Will Ms. Sway go for it?"

"I'll talk to her. She's under enormous stress right now. One kid in a coma, the other in jail, and she lost everything in the fire last night. The idea of running away in the middle of the night could be a hard sell, at least for now."

"But you'll try?"

"I'll see."

"Do you think she could be in court tomorrow? I'd like to talk to her."

"I'll ask the doctor."

"Good. This meeting is adjourned. I'll see you folks at noon tomorrow."

THE BAILIFF HANDED MARK TO TWO MEMPHIS POLICEMEN IN

plain clothes, and they took him through a side door into the parking lot. When they were gone, the bailiff climbed the stairs to the second floor and darted into an empty rest room. Empty, except for Slick Moeller.

They stood before the urinals, side by side, and stared at the graffiti.

"Are we alone?" asked the bailiff.

"Yep. What happened?" Slick had unzipped his pants and had both hands on his waist. "Be quick."

"Kid wouldn't talk, so he's going back to jail. Contempt."

"What does he know?"

"I'd say he knows everything. It's rather obvious.

He said he was in the car with Clifford, they talked about this and that, and when Harry pressed him on the New Orleans stuff the kid took the Fifth Amendment. Tough little bastard."

"But he knows?"

"Oh sure. But he's not telling. Judge wants him back tomorrow at noon to see if a night in the slammer changes his mind."

Slick zipped his pants and stepped away from the urinal. He took a folded one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the bailiff.

"You didn't hear it from me," the bailiff said.

"You trust me, don't you?"

"Of course." And he did. Mole Moeller never revealed a source.

MOELLER HAD THREE PHOTOGRAPHERS POISED AT VARIOUS

places around the Juvenile Court building. He knew the routines better than the cops themselves, and he figured they'd use the side door near the loading dock for a quick getaway with the kid. That's exactly what they did, and they almost made it to their unmarked car before a heavy woman in fatigues jumped from a parked van and nailed them straight on with her Nikon. The cops yelled at her, and tried to hide the kid behind them, but it was too late. They rushed him to their car, and pushed him into the backseat.

Just great, thought Mark. It was not yet 2 P.M., and so far this day had brought the burning of their trailer, his arrest at the hospital, his new home at the jail, a hearing with Judge Roosevelt, and now, another

damned photographer shooting at him for what would undoubtedly be another front-page story.

As the car squealed tires and raced away, he sunk low in the backseat. His stomach ached, not from hunger, but from fear. He was alone again.

26

rOLTRIGG WATCHED THE TRAFFIC ON POYDRAS STREET

and waited for the call from Memphis. He was tired of pacing and checking his watch. He had tried to return phone calls and dictate letters, but it was hopeless. His mind could not leave the wonderful image of Mark Sway sitting in a witness chair somewhere in Memphis telling all his splendid secrets. Two hours had passed since the hearing was scheduled to start, and surely they'd take a recess along the way so Fink could dash to a phone and call him.

Larry Trumann was on standby, waiting for the call so they could swing into action with a posse of corpse hunters. They had become quite proficient in digging for bodies during the past eight months. They just hadn't found any.

But today would be different. Roy would take the call, walk to Trumann's office, and off they'd go to find the late Boyd Boyette. Foltrigg talked to himself, not a whisper or a mumble, but a full-blown speech in which he addressed the media with the thrilling announcement that, yes, they had indeed found the senator, and,

yes, he died of six bullet wounds to the head. The gun was a .22, and the bullet fragments were definitely, without the slightest doubt, fired from the same handgun that had been so meticulously traced to the defendant, Mr. Barry Muldanno.