"Now go to sleep."

"Can I read? I'm not sleepy."

"Sure. Read your new book, hon, until you get tired."

"Thanks, Mommy."

"Good night, hon."

"Good night."

Chris blew her a kiss from the door and them closed it. She walked down the stairs. Kids!

Where do they get their ideas! She wondered if Regan connected Dennings to her filing for divorce. Oh, come on, that's dumb. Regan knew only that Chris had filed. Yet Howard had wanted it. Long separations. Erosion of ego as the husband of a star. He'd found someone else.

Regan didn't know that. Oh, quit all this amateur psychoanalyzing and try to spend a little more time with her!

Back to the study. The script. Chris read. Halfway through, she saw Regan coming toward her.

"Hi, honey. What's wrong?"

"There's these real funny noises, Mom."

"In your room?"

"It's like knocking. I can't go to sleep." Where

the hell are those traps!

"Honey, sleep in my bedroom and I'll see what it is." Chris led her to the bedroom and tucked her in.

"Can I watch TV for a while till I sleep?"

"Where's your book?"

"l can't find it. Can I watch?"

"Sure; okay." Chris tuned in a channel on the bedroom portable. "Loud enough?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Try to sleep."

Chris turned out the light and went down the hall. She climbed the narrow, carpeted stairs that led to the attic. She opened the door and felt for the light switch; found it; flicked it, stooping as she entered.

She glanced around. Cartons of clippings and correspondence on the pinewood floor. Nothing else, except the traps. Six of them. Baited. The room was spotless. Even the air smelled clean and cool. The attic was unheated. No pipe. No radiator. No little holes in the roof.

"There is nothing."

Chris jumped from her skin. "0h, good Jesus!" she gasped, turning quickly with her hand to a fluttering heart. "Jesus Christ, Karl, don't do that!" He was standing on the steps.

"Very sorry. But you see? It is clean."

"Yeah, it's clean. Thanks a lot."

"Maybe cat better."

"What?"

"To catch rats."

Without Waiting for an answer, he nodded and left.

For a moment, Chris stared at the doorway. Either Karl hadn't any sense of humor whatever, or he had one so sly it escaped her detection. She couldn't decide which one it was.

She considered the rappings again, then glanced at the angled roof. The street was shaded by various trees, most of them gnarled and interwined with vines; and the branches of a mushrooming, massive basswood umbrellaed the entire front third of the house. Was it

squirrels after all? It must be. Or branches. Right. Could be branches. The nights had been windy."

"Maybe cat better."

Chris glanced at the doorway again. Pretty smartass? Abruptly she smiled, looking pertly mischievous.

She went downstairs to Regan's bedroom, picked something up, brought it back to the attic, and then after a minute went back to her bedroon. Regan was sleeping. She returned her to her room, tucked her Into her bed, then went back to her own bedroom, turned off the television set and went to sleep.

The house was quiet until morning.

Eating her breakfast, Chris told Karl in an offhand way that she thought she'd heard a trap springing shut during the night.

"Like to go and take a look?" Chris suggested, sipping coffee and pretending to be engrossed in the morning paper. Without any comment, he went up to investigate.

Chris passed him in the hall on the second floor as he was returning, staring expressionlessly at the large stuffed mouse he was holding. He'd found it with its snout clamped tight in a trap.

As she walked toward her bedroom, Chris lifted an eyebrow at the mouse.

"Someone is funny," Karl muttered as he passed her. He returned the stuffed animal to Regan's bedroom.

"Sure a lot of things goin' on," Chris murmured, shaking her head as she entered her bedroom.

She slipped off her robe and prepared to go to work. Yeah, maybe cat better, old buddy. Much better. Whenever she grinned, her entire face appeared to crinkle.

**********

The filming went smoothly that day. Later in the morning, Sharon came by the set and during breaks between scenes, in her portable dressing room, she and Chris handled items of business: a letter to her agent (she would think about the script); "okay" to the White House; a wire to Howard reminding him to telephone on Regan's birthday; a call to her business manager asking if she could afford to take off for a year; plans for a dinner party April twenty-third.

Early in the evening, Chris took Regan out to a movie, and the following day they drove around to points of interest in Chris's Jaguar XKE. The Lincoln Memorial. The Capitol. The cherry blossom lagoon. A bite to eat. Then across the river to Arlington Cemetery and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Regan turned solemn, and later, at the grave of John F. Kennedy, seemed to grow distant and a little sad. She stared at the "eternal flame" for a time; them mutely reached for Chris's hand. "Mom, why do people have to die?"

The question pierced her mother's soul. Oh, Rags, you too? You too? Oh, no! And yet what could she tell her? Lies? Slue couldn't. She looked at her daughter's upturned face, eyes misting with tears. Had she sensed her own thoughts? She had done it so often... so often before.