“You’re right. This was not the smartest idea I’ve ever had.” The waitress served the beers. I paid her and shoved my glass to one side. “See her?” “ No,” you said. You picked up your mug and wiped at a lipstick stain on the rim. The stain didn’t come off. “ Let’s go.” You didn’t have to ask twice. I took your arm again as I led you out of the bar. The other customers stayed away from us. I think they were as relieved that we were leaving. The air was cooler outside and even the stink of the lake was welcome. The scene inside the bar left me feeling as uncomfortable as the crank letter had. I was about to ask you to come home with me—I would like to say for protective reasons, but there might have been more to it than that—when someone cracked me on the head. I fell forward. Gravel stung against my palms as my hands broke the fall. Then you screamed. I pushed myself up and absently rubbed my hands against my jeans as I looked for you. Then I heard ripping cloth, and turned in the direction of the sound. You were lying in the mud just past the row of cars and a man was bent over you. All of your energies were concentrated on fighting him off; you probably didn’t even think to scream again. I ran up behind him and grabbed his shoulders, trying to pull him away. He reached back and managed to grip my jaw. I tried to move away, his grip was too strong and he shoved me back into the bumper of a rusty Falcon. I lay there, dazed for a moment, then I felt around me for a weapon. I couldn’t find anything except gravel. There was blood trickling down the side of my face and I felt dizzy. How could I fight him when I could barely situp? I didn’t want to leave you, but I didn’t think I had any other choice. Slowly I got up and staggered back to the building. I knew better than to ask any of the patrons for help, but I leaned over the bar itself and grabbed the bartender’s sleeve. “Gotta phone?” He pointed at the pay phone over on N o girl gets raped on the waterfront,” he said and cut me off. Then I knew what was happening. You had been set up, Molly. This time when I got the dispatch, I altered my voice and asked for Mike Larsson. I had known Larsson for years and I knew he would get a squad out right away. the wall. “ Look,” I said, “ this is an emergency. I want to use your phone and I want to use it now.” He put a portable phone on the bar. I pulled up the antennae, punched “O,” and had the operator put me through to the police. When I got the dispatch, I told him that a woman was being raped down on the waterfront. “ No girl gets raped on the waterfront,” he said and cut me off. Then I knew what was happening. You had been set up, Molly. Either someone recognized you or they realized what you were doing, but you had been set up. I leaned my head on the bar for a moment, then dialed again. This time when I got the dispatch, I altered my voice and asked for Mike Larsson. I had known Larsson for years and I knew he would get a squad out right away. By the time I got back out to the parking lot, your attacker was gone. You were laying spread-eagle in the mud. I approached you slowly, afraid of what I would find. Apparently he hadn’t raped you. My attack must have changed his mind about that. He had grabbed you by the face so hard that his fingers left bruises in your cheeks and then he had slammed your head repeatedly against a dry concrete parking block near that decrepit Falcon. I reached out to touch you, but my fingers stopped just above your shoulder. I didn’t want to feel the emptiness of your flesh. Slowly I gathered my knees to my chest and rocked until Mike appeared. It was only when they tried to move me that I noticed the wallet clutched in your right hand. can imagine what happened: You knew you were no match for him and you figured he would get away, so you grabbed his wallet. You slipped your small fingers around the leather and squeezed. As the pain got worse, you concentrated on that thick wad of identification because you knew that without it, you w ou ld make no im p a c t , no difference. ' ■ ' he department is trying to cover ■ th is up, you know, although JL Larsson is making a fuss. Someone got to the DA because he says he needs more evidence before opening an investigation. Knudson won’t print anything until we have what he calls “ proof positive”—as if a wallet carrying a policeman’s i.d. is not enough. I thought of calling the Journal, but there are still people there that remember the Milwaukee Press Club awards 13 years ago. So much for your tribute, Molly. I have to go back and edit this down to five hundred noteworthy words, concisely saying nothing. Then I’ ll see if I can find an address for that non-commercial radio station of yours. I’ve never written for radio before, but I assume that it too concentrates on who, what, when, where and how. And you know, with a little digging and a few witnesses, I might even be able to add why. I think I can handle the interview. When I’m angry, I ’m damn good. So, ignore the next five hundred words and concentrate on what I write in the future—because that will be your tribute, Molly, no matter what else they may call it. Writer Kristine Kathryn Rusch lives in Eugene. She’s currently editing Pulphouse, a Science Fiction-Fantasy-Horror magazine due out this fall. This is her first story in CSQ. Artist Jessica Dodge lives in Seattle. Her last work in CSQ was for “Judgement” and “Letter to Hammond.” Leach Roon Books Bought & Sold The Great Northwest Bookstore Forerunner of short, grey days. 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