pleasant,
unfamiliar lack of feeling. If he took his story to the F.B.I. he had
no doubt that Charles, Sophia and whoever else worked this thing with
them would be caught, but he, Temple, would find himself with a
lifelong, unslakable emotional thirst. He had to quench it now and
then feel sorry so that he might heal. He had to quench it with
Sophia's blood ... alone.

* * * * *

He found her a week later at their lake. He had looked everywhere and
had about given up, almost, in fact, ready to turn his story over to
the police. But he had to think and their lake was the place for that.

Apparently Sophia had the same idea. Temple parked on the highway half
a mile from their lake, made his way slowly through the woods, golden
dappled with sunlight. He heard the waters gushing merrily, heard the
sounds of some small animal rushing off through the woods. He saw
Sophia.

She lay on their sunning rock in shorts and halter, completely
relaxed, an opened magazine face down on the rock beside her, a pair
of sunglasses next to it. She had one knee up, one leg stretched out,
one forearm shielding her eyes from the sun, one arm down at her side.
Seeing her thus, Temple felt the pressure of his automatic in its
holster under his arm. He could draw it out, kill her before she was
aware of his presence. Would that make him feel better? Five minutes
ago, he would have said yes. Now he hesitated. Kill her, who seemed as
completely Lucy as he was Temple? Send a bullet ripping through the
body which he had known and loved, or the body that had seemed so much
like it he had failed to tell the difference?

Murder--Lucy?

"No," he said aloud. "Her name is Sophia."

The girl sat up, startled. "Kit," she said.

"Lucy."

"You can't make up your mind, either." She smiled just like Lucy.

Dumbly, he sat down next to her on the rock. Strong sunlight had
brought a fine dew of perspiration to the bronzed skin of her face.
She got a pack of cigarettes out from under the magazine, lit one,
offered it to Temple, lit another and smoked it. "Where do we go from
here?" she wanted to know.

"I--"

"You came to kill me, didn't you? Is that the only way you can ever
feel better, Kit?"

"I--" He was going to deny it, then think.

"Don't deny it. Please." She reached in under his jacket, withdrawing
her hand with the snub-nosed automatic in it. "Here," she said, giving
it to him.

He took the gun, hefted it