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open wounds.” He forced a laugh. “He’s a sorry loser and a mean winner.”
    “Can I quote you?”
    “Quote away.” He broke the connection and the phone immediately rang. It was his realtor.
    “Hank, what about the offer on the house? We’ve only got twenty-four hours to respond.”
    “I want to walk away with ten thousand cash. You work the numbers and come up with a counter.”
    “That’s not reasonable in this market,” she told him.
    “Well, that’s the deal. See what you can do.” He hung up.
    Again, the phone rang and he picked it up. This time it was a woman he didn’t recognize. “Gus Perkins is in the hospital, Mr. Sutherland. He’s dying.”
    Gus Perkins , he thought. An old promise had come back to haunt him and the name echoed with sorrow. “Where?”
    “Mercy General,” the woman answered. “He’s been waiting for over four years.”
    “I know,” Sutherland said. “I’m on my way.” He broke the connection and dialed building maintenance to have them move his furniture back into his office. He banged down the phone. “What the hell,” he muttered. He was in the right place. He headed for the elevator before the phone rang again. But an administrative assistant stopped him with the news that the D.A. had called an emergency staff meeting. Sutherland shook his head. “I’m late for a prior commitment. The staff meeting will have to wait.”
     
     
    Mercy General was all brisk efficiency and he had no trouble finding the room. A dowdy, very tired, middle-age woman was sitting beside the bed. Should I know her? he thought. At first, he didn’t recognize the man lying in the bed. He remembered Gus Perkins as being a portly, robust, friendly old man. Now, he was a wizened, shrunken gnome. “He’s drifting in and out of consciousness,” she said. He recognized her voice from the phone call. “He got up every morning and got dressed waiting for you to come, like you promised.”
    Sutherland shook his head. “I’m really sorry.” He wanted to offer an excuse, but everything rang false.
    “Talk to him,” she said. “He can hear you.”
    Sutherland sat down. “Hello, Mr. Perkins. I hope you remember me, Hank Sutherland, the prosecutor who tried to convict the man who murdered your daughter. I know that I promised I’d come see you and explain why he got off scot-free. But for some reason I kept putting it off and never got around to it.” He looked at the woman, not able to go on.
    She nodded gently. “Just tell him the truth.”
    “I put it off because it was my fault. I screwed up during the trial and he got off on a technicality.” He stopped himself from going into a masquerade of excuses. It was too late for that. “But I learned and that was the last time I let a killer walk.” Perkins stirred and turned his head toward Sutherland. His eyes were alert and knowing. His hand reached out and Sutherland gently held it until the old man fell into a deep sleep. Sutherland stood to leave. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “Who knows,” the woman said, taking his place. “Maybe waiting was what kept him alive.” She sighed. “He loved her so much. Will they ever get that bastard?”
    Sutherland shook his head.
     
     
    Six messages were waiting when Sutherland went back to the men’s room. The most important was from the D.A. who wanted to know why he had missed the staff meeting. The second was from his realtor. The prospective buyers wanted to go over the house in detail with him before making a counter to his counteroffer. He ignored the other messages and escaped to the parking lot. On the drive home, he tried to visualize the condition of the bedroom. It had been quite a night and they had slept in. Then Shari had suggested an encore in the big Jacuzzi, which had further delayed their departure. Neatness was such an ingrained part of Sutherland’s nature that he couldn’t remember if he had tidied up the bedroom in the scramble to get to work.
    His realtor and the