n Saturday morning in the Bowden household, nobody got up until at least nine. This morning at 9.30, Todd and his father were reading at the table and Monica, who was a slow waker, served them scrambled eggs, juice, and coffee without speaking, still half in her dreams. Todd was reading a paperback science fiction novel and Dick was absorbed in Architectural Digest when the paper slapped against the door.

"Want me to get it, dad?"

"I will."

Dick brought it in, started to sip his coffee, and then choked on it as he got a look at the front page.

"Dick, what's wrong?" Monica asked, hurrying towards him.

Dick coughed out coffee that had gone down the wrong pipe, and while Todd looked at him over the top of his paperback in mild wonder, Monica started to pound him on the back. On the third stroke, her eyes fell to the paper's headline and she stopped in mid-stroke, as if playing statues. Her eyes widened until it seemed they might actually fail onto the table.

"Holy God up in heaven!" Dick Bowden managed in a choked voice.

"Isn't that . . . I can't believe . . ." Monica began, and then stopped. She looked at Todd. "Oh, honey""

His father was looking at him, too.

Alarmed now, Todd came around the table. "What's the matter?"

"Mr Denker," Dick said"it was all he could manage.

Todd read the headline and understood everything. In dark letters it read: FUGITIVE NAZI COMMITS SUICIDE IN SANTA DONATO HOSPITAL. Below were two photos, side by side. Todd had seen both of them before. One showed Arthur Denker, six years younger and spryer. Todd knew it had been taken by a hippie street photographer, and that the old man had bought it only to make sure it didn't fall into the wrong hands by chance. The other photo showed an SS officer named Kurt Dussander, swagger-stick cocked jauntily (arrogantly, some might have said) under one arm, his cap cocked to one side.

If they had the photograph the hippie had taken, they had been in his house.

Todd skimmed the article, his mind whizzing frantically. No mention of the winos. But the bodies would be found, and when they were, it would be a worldwide story. PATIN COMMANDANT NEVER LOST HIS TOUCH, HORROR IN NAZI's BASEMENT. HE NEVER STOPPED KILLING.

Todd Bowden swayed on his feet

Far away, echoing, he heard his mother cry sharply: "Catch him, Dick! He's fainting!"

The word

(fatntingfaintingfainttng)

repeated itself over and over. He dimly felt his father's arm grab him, and then for a little while Todd felt nothing, heard nothing at all.