fter the squad car had pulled away with Jake handcuffed in the back seat, Abby's stunned mind reeled. Three investigators combed both houses, collecting evidence and taking everyone's statement. When they had finally left, Abby was frantic to know what to do next.

"I'm calling Pat," declared John. As he turned, he suddenly noticed for the first time that his wife was up and walking about outside. "Little Dove," he sighed, "you need to go back and lay down."

"But," resisted the mother, echoing her daughter's sentiments, "I need to do something!"

"Then pray," came his sober answer, as he helped his wife back inside the house.

"Don't worry," Terry tried to assure Abby in an unsteady voice, "Pat will know what to do."

Pat, or Mr. O'Shea, as Abby always called him, was the local attorney at law everyone turned to in Three Mile Bay for legal advice. The father wasted no time in reaching Pat, and quickly related to him the direness of Jake's situation.

"John," Pat hesitated with a heavy sigh, "I'm not a criminal lawyer. You need someone who practices that kind of law. Wait, I know this guy in Watertown... let me get his number for you."

While Mr. O'Shea searched his rolodex for the telephone number, Abby paced back and forth in the living room. The last time Abby had seen everyone's faces this grave, was when her unborn baby sister, Grace, had died.

Izumi lay down to rest on the nearby couch, unwilling to return to the bedroom just yet. This was a family crisis, and it was impossible for her to be where she couldn't hear what was going on.

"I can't believe this is happening," muttered Terry, trying to get out of Abby's way as she paced. "Abby," he asked, "did anyone see you both on the beach last night? Maybe, a witness could establish the fact that Jake was with you, and not somewhere else."

"We saw no one, Uncle Terry!" exclaimed Abby, fighting back panic. "Dad?" she asked, ceasing her pacing long enough to pull at her father's shirt sleeve. "I want to go see Jake."

"Just hold on," he replied firmly. "What was that, Pat? Could you repeat that number once more?"

"Uncle Terry, what time is it?" asked Abby.

"I don't know," Terry hesitated uncertainly, glancing up to check the clock. "It's almost eight. If we go down to the police station, (or wherever it is they're holding him), I don't know if they'll let us see Jake this late in the evening."

"I don't care," she replied in a determined voice. "They came and hauled away a perfectly innocent person! The least they can do is let us see him! Dad? Are you coming?"