CHAPTER 1

When I lay sucking at my mother’s breast, I had no notion how I should afterwards eat, drink, or live.

Martin Luther

The baby was wide awake, although it was after his bedtime. His mother had dressed him in shoes and warm socks and a woolly hooded zipsuit. He was hot. He stood up in his crib and bounced, enjoying the creak of the springs. The curtains were drawn and he could see nothing in his little room but the dark shapes of the dresser and the changing table, and a streak of light under the door.

From the next room he could hear music, and his mother talking to someone. Her voice was comforting, as always. The music flowed around his head, his mother’s words went up and down.

The other voice was sharper. “The car’s ready. Your stuff is in the back seat. Let’s go.”

“I’m not coming. I’ve changed my mind.”

“You’ve what?”

“I’ve got to tell them. I can’t let him take the blame. I’m not coming with you.”

“Look, I told you, it isn’t just this fire, it’s all of them. Not to mention manslaughter and murder. You’re not just in trouble, you’re in prison.”

“I don’t care. I want to tell them. I’ve got to.”

“My God, Rosie, Kraeger’s all right. His congregation has gorged itself on the pleasure of forgiving him. Forget about Kraeger. Come on.”

“No, no, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not coming. I can’t let him be blamed for what he didn’t do. Let go of me, let go! Let go!”

The baby stopped bouncing and listened to the unfamiliar sound of a scuffle, and his mother’s angry voice, shouting above the music. He began to cry.