STRANGERS [065-5.0]

BY DEAN KOONTZ

Synopsis:

A group of seemingly diverse people are experiencing fugue states and

debilitating nightmares.  Have they all shared a common experience? And,

does that experience portend the end of humanity as we know it?

Praise for Dean Koontz's

STRANGERS

"Koontz] is a great storyteller, and STRANGERS features a plot so

original you'll be reading, with chills, well into morning."

-New York Daily News

"The plot twists ingeniously ...  an engaging, often chilling, book.  I

found the novel tough to put down, except when making sure that the

doors and windows were securely locked."

-New York Times Book Review

"Koontz is a master at constructing vivid, eerily realistic worlds that

hold readers spellbound.  A memorable thriller."

-Booklist

"Dean Koontz is a master storyteller, building suspense page by page,

episode by episode.  He has absolutely amazing knowledge of his subject

matter, whether it be religion, military weapons, medicine, or an

understanding of human nature.  STRANGERS is absolutely enthralling."

-Witchita Falls Times

"An almost unbearably suspenseful page-turner.  His ability to maintain

the mystery through several plot twists is impressive, as is his array

of believable and sympathetic characters.  STRANGERS may be the suspense

novel of the year."

-Library Journal

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that

this book is stolen property.  it was reported as "unsold and destroyed"

to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received

any

payment for this "stripped book."

To Bob Tanner

whose enthusiasm at a crucial stage

was more important than he can know.

Definition for "fugue"

taken from Taber's EnCyclopedia Medical Dictionary, Clayton L.  Thomas,

M.D., M.P.H., (Ed.), 12th Edition, p.  F-44.  Published in 1973 by F.A.

Davis Company, Philadelphia.

This Berkley book contains the complete text of the original hardcover

edition.  It has been completely reset in a typeface designed for ea,,;y

reading and was printed from new film.

STRANGERS

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

G.  P.  Putnam's Sons

Printing HISTORY

G.  P.  Putnam's Sons edition published / April 1986

Berkley edition / December 1986

All rights reserved.

Copyright 0 1986 by Nkui, Inc.

Cover photo credit (D Jeny Bauer.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or

any other means, without permission.

For information address: G.  P.  Putnam's Sons, 200 Madison Avenue, New

York, New York 10016.

The Putnam Berkley World Wide Web site address is

littp:Hw.berkley.com

ISBN: 0-425-11992-0

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison

Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

BERKLEY and the "B" design are trademarks belonging to Berkley

Publishing Corporation.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

30 29 28 27 26 25

A faithful friend is a strong defense.

A faithful friend is the medicine of life.

-APOCRYPHA

A terrible darkness has fallen upon us, but we must not surrender to it.

We shall lift lamps of courage and find our way through to the morning.

-ANONYMOUS MEMBER OF THE

FRENCH RESISTANCE (1943)

November 7-December 2

1.

Laguna Beach, California

Dominick Corvaisis went to sleep under a light wool blanket and a crisp

white sheet, sprawled alone in his bed, but he woke elsewhere-in the

darkness at the back of the large foyer closet, behind concealing coats

and jackets.  He was curled in the fetal position.  His hands were

squeezed into tight fists.  The muscles in his neck and arms ached from

the tension of a bad though unremembered dream.

He could not recall leaving the comfort of his mattress during the

night, but he was not surprised to find that he had traveled in the dark

hours.  It had happened on two other occasions, and recently.

Somnambulism, a potentially dangerous practice commonly referred to as

sleepwalking, has fascinated people throughout history.  It fascinated

Dom, too, from the moment he became a baffled victim of it.  He had

found references to sleepwalkers in writings that dated as far back as

1000 B.C.

The ancient Persians believed that the wandering body of a sleepwalker

was seeking his spirit, which had detached itself and drifted away

during the night.  Europeans of the grim medieval period favored demonic

possession or lycanthropy as an explanation.

Dom Corvaisis did not worry about his affliction, though he was

discomfited and somewhat embarrassed by it.  As a novelist, he was

intrigued by these new nocturnal ramblings, for he viewed all new

experiences as material for his fiction.

Nevertheless, though he might eventually profit from creative use of his

own somambulism, it was an affliction.  He crawled out of the closet,

wincing as the pain in his neck spread up across his scalp and down into

his shoulders.  He had difficulty getting to his feet because his legs

were cramped.

As always, he felt sheepish.  He now knew that somnambulism was a

condition to which adults were vulnerable, but he still considered it a

childish problem.  Like bed-wetting.

Wearing blue pajama bottoms, bare-chested, slipperless, he shuffled

across the living room, down the short hall, into the master bedroom,

and into the bath.  In the mirror, he looked dissipated, a libertine

surfacing from a week of shameless indulgence in a wide variety of sins.

In fact, he was a man of remarkably few vices.  He did not smoke,

overeat, or take drugs.  He drank little.  He liked women, but he was

not promiscuous; he believed in commitment in a relationship.  Indeed,

he had not slept with anyone inwhat was it now?-almost four months.

He only looked this bad-dissipated, wrung-out-when he woke and

discovered that he had taken one of his unscheduled nocturnal trips to a

makeshift bed.  Each time he had been exhausted.  Though asleep, he got

no rest on the nights he walked.

He sat down on the edge of the bathtub, bent his leg up to look at the

bottom of his left foot, then checked the bottom of his right foot.

Neither was cut, scratched, or particularly dirty, so he had not left

the house while sleepwalking.  He had awakened in closets twice before,

once last week and once twelve days prior to that, and he had not had

dirty feet on those occasions, either.  As before, he felt as if he had

traveled miles while unconscious, but if he actually had gone that far,

he had done it by making countless circuits of his own small house.

A long, hot shower soaked away a lot of his muscle discomfort.  He was

lean and fit, thirty-five years old, with recuperative powers

commensurate with his age.  By the time he finished breakfast, he felt

almost human.

After lingering with a cup of coffee on the patio, studying the pleasant

geography of Laguna Beach, which shelved down the hills toward the sea,

he went to his study, sure that his work was the cause of his

sleepwalking.  Not the work itself so much as the amazing success of his

first novel, Twilight in Babylon, which he had finished last February.

His agent put Twilight up for auction, and to Dom's astonishment a deal

was made with Random House, which paid a remarkably large advance for a

first novel.  Within a month, movie rights were sold (providing the

down-payment on his house), and the Literary Guild took Twilight as a

main selection.  He had spent seven laborious months of sixty-,

seventy-, and eighty-hour weeks in the writing of that story, not to

mention a decade getting himself ready to write it, but he still felt

like an overnight success, up from genteel poverty in one great leap.

The once-poor Dominick Corvaisis occasionally caught a glimpse of the

now-rich Dominick Corvaisis in a mirror or a sun-silvered window, saw

himself unguarded, and wondered if he really deserved what had come his

way.  Sometimes he worried that he was heading for a great fall.  With

such triumph and acclaim came considerable tension.

When Twilight was published next February, would it be well received and

justify Random House's investment, or would it fail and humiliate him?

Could he do it again-or was Twilight a fluke?

Every hour of his waking day, these and other questions circled his mind

with vulturine persistence, and he supposed the same damn questions

still swooped through his mind while he slept.  That was why he walked

in his sleep: he was trying to escape those relentless concerns, seeking

a secret place to rest, where his worries could not find him.

Now, at his desk, he switched on the IBM Displaywriter and called up

chapter eighteen on the first disk of his new book, as yet untitled.  He

had stopped yesterday in the middle of the sixth page of the chapter,

but when he summoned the document, intending to begin where he had left

off, he saw a full page where there had been half.  Unfamiliar green

lines of text glowed on the word processor's video display.

For a moment he blinked stupidly at the neat letters of light, then

shook his head in pointless denial of what lay before him.

The back of his neck was suddenly cool and damp.

The existence of those unremembered lines on page six was not what gave

him the creeps; it was what the lines said. Furthermore, there should

not have been a page seven in the chapter, for he had not yet created

one, but it was there.  He also found an eighth page.

As he scrolled through the material on the disk, his hands became

clammy.  The startling addition to his work-in-progress was only, a

two-word sentence, repeated hundreds of times:

I'm scared.  I'm scared.  I'm scared.  I'm scared.

Double-spacing, quadruple indentation, four sentences to a line,

thirteen lines on page six, twenty-seven lines on page seven, another

twenty-seven on page eight-that made 268 repetitions of the sentence.

The machine had not created them by itself, for it was merely an

obedient slave that did precisely what it was told.  And it made no

sense to speculate that someone had broken into the house during the

night to tamper with his electronically stored manuscript.  There were

no signs of a break-in, and he could not think of anyone who would play

such a prank.  Clearly, he had come to the word processor while

sleepwalking and had obsessively typed in this sentence 268 times,

though he had absolutely no recollection of having done it.

I'm scared.

Scared of what-sleepwalking?  It was a disorienting experience, at least

on the morning end, but it was not an ordeal that would cause such

terror as this.

He was frightened by the quickness of his literary ascent and by the

possibility of an equally swift descent into oblivion. Yet he could not

completely dismiss the nagging thought that this had nothing to do with

his career, that the threat hanging over him was something else

altogether, something strange, something his conscious mind did not yet

see but which his subconscious perceived and which it had tried to

convey to him by means of this message left while he was sleeping.

No.  Nonsense.  That was only the novelist's overactive imagination at

work.  Work.  That was the best medicine for him.

Besides, from his research into the subject, he knew that most adult

sleepwalkers made short careers of it.  Few experienced more than half a

dozen episodes, usually contained within a time span of six months or

less.  Chances were good that his sleep would never again be complicated

by midnight ramblings and that he would never again wake huddled and

tense in the back of a closet.

He deleted the unwanted words from the disk and went to work on chapter

eighteen.

When he next looked at the clock, he was surprised to see that it was

past one and that he had labored through the lunch hour.

Even for southern California, the day was warm for early November, so he

ate lunch on the patio.  The palm trees rustled in a mild breeze, and

the air was scented with autumn flowers.  With style and grace, Laguna

sloped down to the shores of the Pacific.  The ocean was spangled with

sunlight.

Finishing his last sip of Coke, Dom suddenly tilted his head back,

looked straight up into the brilliantly blue sky, and laughed.  "You

see-no falling safe.  No plummeting piano. No sword of Damocles."

It was November 7.

2.

Boston, Massachusetts

Dr.  Ginger Marie Weiss never expected trouble in Bernstein's

Delicatessen, but that was where it started, with the incident of the

black gloves.

Usually, Ginger could deal with any problems that came her way.  She

relished every challenge life presented, thrived on trouble.  She would

have been bored if her path had been always easy, unobstructed. However,

it had never occurred to her that she might eventually be confronted

with trouble she could not handle.

As well as challenges, life provides lessons, and some are more welcome

than others.  Some lessons are easy, some difficult.

Some are devastating.

Ginger was intelligent, pretty, ambitious, hard-working, and an

excellent cook, but her primary advantage in life was that no one took

her seriously on first encounter.  She was slender, a wisp, a graceful

sprite who seemed as insubstantial as she was lovely.  Most people

underestimated her for weeks or months, only gradually realizing that

she was a formidable competitor, colleague-or adversary.

The story of Ginger's mugging was legend at Columbia Presbyterian, in

New York, where she had served her internship four years prior to the

trouble at Bernstein's Deli catessen.  Like all interns, she had often

worked sixteen-hour shifts and longer, day after day, and had left the

hospital with barely enough energy to drag herself home.  One hot, humid

Saturday night in July, after completing an especially grueling tour of

duty, she headed for home shortly after ten o'clockand was accosted by a

hulking Neanderthal with hands as big as shovel blades, huge arms, no

neck, and a sloping forehead.

"You scream," he said, launching himself at her with jackin-the-box

suddenness, "and I'll bust your goddamned teeth out." He seized her arm

and twisted it behind her back.  "You understand me, bitch?"

No other pedestrians were close, and the nearest cars were two blocks

away, stopped at a traffic light.  No help in sight.

He shoved her into a narrow night-mantled serviceway between two

buildings, into a trash-strewn passage with only one dim light.  She

slammed into a garbage bin, hurting her knee and shoulder, stumbled but

did not fall.  Many-armed shadows embraced her.

With ineffectual whimpers and breathless protests, she made her

assailant feel confident, because at first she thought he had a gun.

Humor a gunman, she thought.  Don't resist.  Resisters get shot.

"Move!" he said between clenched teeth, and he shoved her again.

When he pushed her into a recessed doorway three-quarters of the way

along the passage, not far from the single faint bulb at the end, he

started talking filthy, telling her what he was going to do with her

after he took her money, and even in the poor light she could see he

held no weapon.  Suddenly she had hope.  His vocabulary of obscenities

was blood-curdling, but his sexual threats were so stupidly repetitive

that they were almost funny.  She realized he was just a big dumb loser

who relied on his size to get what he wanted.  Men of his type seldom

carried guns.  His muscles gave him a false sense of invulnerability, so

he probably had no fighting skill, either.

While he was emptying the purse that she willingly relinquished, Ginger

summoned all her courage and kicked him squarely in the crotch.  He

doubled over from the blow.  She moved fast, seized one of his hands,

and bent the index finger

backward, savagely, until the pain must have been as excruciating as the

throbbing in his bruised privates.

Radical, violent, backward extension of the index finger could quickly

incapacitate any man, regardless of his size and strength.  By this

action she was straining the digital nerve on the front of his hand

while simultaneously pinching the highly sensitive median and radial

nerves on the back.  The intense pain also traveled into the acromial

nerves in his shoulder, into his neck.

He grabbed her hair with his free hand and pulled.  That counterattack

hurt, made her cry out, blurred her vision, but she gritted her teeth,

endured the agony, and bent his captive finger even farther.  Her

relentless pressure quickly banished all thought of resistance from his

mind.  Involuntary tears burst from his eyes, and he dropped to his

knees, squealing and cursing and helpless.

"Let go of me!  Let go of me, you bitch!"

Blinking sweat out of her eyes, tasting the same salty effluence at the

corners of her mouth, Ginger gripped his index finger with both hands.

She shuffled cautiously backward and led him out of the passage in an

awkward three-point crawl, as if dragging a dangerous dog on a tightened

choke-chain.

Scuttling, scraping, hitching, and humping himself along on one hand and

two knees, he glared up at her with eyes muddied by a murderous urge.

His mean, lumpish face became less visible as they moved away from the

light, but she could see that it was so contorted by pain and fury and

humiliation that it did not seem human: a goblin face.  And in a shrill

goblin voice he squealed a chilling array of dire imprecations.

By the time they had clumsily negotiated fifteen yards of the

serviceway, he was overwhelmed by the agony in his hand and by the

sickening waves of pain rushing outward through his body from his

injured testicles.  He gagged, choked, and vomited on himself.

She still did not dare let go of him.  Now, given the opportunity, he

would not merely beat her senseless: he would kill her.  Disgusted and

terrified, she urged him along even faster than before.

Reaching the sidewalk with the befouled and chastened mugger in tow, she

saw no pedestrians who could call the police for her, so she forced her

humbled assailant into the middle of the street, where passing traffic

came to a standstill at this unexpected spectacle.

When the cops finally arrived, Ginger's relief was exceeded by that of

the thug who had attacked her.

In part, people underestimated Ginger because she was small: five-two, a

hundred and two pounds, not physically imposing, certainly not

intimidating.  Likewise, she was shapely but not a blond bombshell.  She

was blond, however, and the particular silvery shade of her hair was

what caught a man's eye, whether he was seeing her for the first time or

the hundredth. Even in bright sunshine her hair recalled moonlight. That

ethereally pale and radiant hair, her delicate features, blue eyes that

were the very definition of gentleness, an Audrey Hepburn neck, slender

shoulders, thin wrists, long-fingered hands, and her tiny waist-all

contributed to a misleading impression of fragility.  Furthermore, she

was quiet and watchful by nature, two qualities that might be mistaken

for timidity.  Her voice was so soft and musical that anyone could

easily fail to apprehend the self-assurance and underlying authority in

those dulcet tones.

Ginger had inherited her silver-blond mane, cerealian eyes, beauty, and

ambition from her mother, Anna, a five-foot-ten Swede.

"You're my golden girl," Anna said when Ginger graduated from sixth

grade at the age of nine, two years ahead of schedule, after being

promoted twice in advance of her peers.

Ginger had been the best student in her class and had received a

gilt-edged scroll in honor of her academic excellence.  Also, as one of

three student performers who had provided entertainment before the

graduation ceremony, she had played two pieces on the piano-Mozart,

followed by a ragtime tune-and had brought the surprised audience to its

feet.

"Golden girl," Anna said, hugging her all the way home in the car.

Jacob drove, blinking back tears of pride.  Jacob was an emotional man,

easily moved.  Somewhat embarrassed by the frequency with which his eyes

moistened, he usually tried to conceal the depth of his feelings by

blaming his tears or reddened eyes on a never-specified allergy.  "Must

be unusual

pollens in the air today," he said twice on the way home from

graduation.  "Irritating pollens."

Anna said, "It's all come together in you, bubbeleh.  My best features

and your father's best, and you're going places, by God, you just wait

and see if you aren't.  High school, then college, then maybe law school

or medical school, anything you want to do.  Anything."

The only people who never underestimated Ginger were her parents.

They reached home, turned into the driveway.  Jacob stopped short of the

garage and said, in surprise, "What are we doing?

Our only child graduates from sixth grade, our child who thinks she can

do absolutely anything-will probably marry the King of Siam and ride a

giraffe to the moon, our child wears her first cap and gown and we

aren't celebrating?  Should we drive into Manhattan, have maybe

champagne at the Plaza?

Dinner at the Waldorf?  No.  Something better.  Only the best for our

giraffe-riding astronaut.  We'll go to the soda fountain at Walgreen's!"

"Yeah!" Ginger said.

At Walgreen's, they, must have been as odd a family as the soda jerk had

ever seen: the Jewish father, not much bigger than a jockey, with a

Germanic name but a Sephardic complexion; the Swedish mother, blond and

gloriously feminine, five inches taller than her husband; and the child,

a wraith, an elf, petite though her mother was not, fair though her

father was dark, with a beauty altogether different from her mother's-a

more subtle beauty with a fey quality.  Even as a child, Ginger knew

that strangers, seeing her with her parents, must think she was adopted.

From her father, Ginger had inherited her slight stature, soft voice,

intellect, and gentleness.

She loved them both so completely and intensely that, as a child, her

vocabulary had been insufficient to convey her feelings.  Even as an

adult, she could not find the words to express what they had meant to

her.  They were both gone now, to early graves.

When Anna died in a traffic accident, shortly after Ginger's twelfth

birthday, the common wisdom among Jacob's relatives was that both Ginger

and her father would be adrift without the Swede, whom the Weiss clan

had long ago ceased to regard as an interloping gentile and for whom

they had developed both respect and love.  Everyone knew how close the

three had been, but, more important, everyone knew that Anna had been

the engine powering the family's success.  It was Anna who had taken the

least ambitious of the Weiss brothers-Jacob the dreamer, Jacob the meek,

Jacob with his nose always in a detective novel or a science fiction

storyand made something of him.  He had been an employee in a jewelry

store when she married him, but by the time she died he owned two shops

of his own.

After the funeral, the family gathered at Aunt Rachel's big house in

Brooklyn Heights.  As soon as she could slip away, Ginger sought solace

in the dark solitude of the pantry.  Sitting on a stool, with the aroma

of many spices heavy in the air of that narrow place, praying to God to

bring her mother back, she heard Aunt Francine talking to Rachel in the

kitchen. Fran was bemoaning the grim future awaiting Jacob and his

little girl in a world without Anna:

"He won't be able to keep the business going, you know he won't, not

even once the grief has passed and he goes back to work.  The poor

lufunensch.  Anna was his common sense and his motivation and his best

adviser, and without her in five years he'll be lost."

They were underestimating Ginger.

To be fair, Ginger was only twelve, and even though she was already in

tenth grade, she was still a child in most people's eyes.  No one could

have foreseen that she would fill Anna's shoes so quickly.  She shared

her mother's love of cooking, so in the weeks following the funeral she

pored through cookbooks, and, with the amazing diligence and

perseverance that were her trademarks, she acquired what culinary skills

she had not already learned.  The first time relatives came for dinner

after Anna's death, they exclaimed over the food.  Homemade potato rolls

and cheese kolacky.  Vegetable soup with plump cheese and beef kreplach

floating in it.  Schrafe fish as an appetizer.  Braised veal paprika,

tzimmes with prunes and potatoes, creamy macaroni patties fried in hot

fat and served in tomato sauce.  A choice of baked peach pudding or

apple schalet for dessert.  Francine and Rachel thought Jacob was hiding

a marvelous new housekeeper in the kitchen.  They were disbelieving when

he pointed to his daughter.  Ginger did not think she had done anything

remarkable.  A cook was needed, so she became a cook.

She had to take care of her father now, and she applied herself to that

responsibility with vigor and enthusiasm.  She cleaned house swiftly,

efficiently, and with a thoroughness that defied her Aunt Francine's sub

rosa inspections for dust and grime.  Although she was only twelve, she

learned to plan a budget, and before she was thirteen she was in charge

of all the household accounts.

At fourteen, three years younger than her classmates, Ginger was the

valedictorian of her high-school class.  When it became known that she

had been accepted by several universities but had chosen Barnard,

everyone began to wonder whether, at the tender age of fourteen, she had

finally taken too big a bite and would choke trying to swallow it.

Barnard was more difficult than high school.  She no longer learned

faster than the other kids, but she learned as well as the best of them,

and her grade average was frequently 4.0, never less than 3.8-and that

was the semester in her junior year when Jacob was sick with his first

bout of pancreatitis, when she spent every evening at the hospital.

Jacob lived to see her get her first degree, was sallow and weak when

she received her medical degree, even hung on tenaciously until she had

served six months of her internship. But after three bouts of recurring

pancreatitis, he developed pancreatic cancer, and he died before Ginger

had finally made up her mind to go for a surgical residency at Boston

Memorial instead of pursuing a career in research.

Because she had been given more years with Jacob than she had been given

with her mother, her feelings for him were understandably more profound,

and the loss of him was even more devastating than the loss of Anna had

been.  Yet she dealt with that time of trouble as she dealt with every

challenge that came her way, and she finished her internship with

excellent reports and superb recommendations.

She delayed her residency by going to California, to Stanford for a

unique and arduous two-year program of additional study in

cardiovascular pathology.  Thereafter, following a one-month vacation

(by far the longest rest she had ever taken), she moved East again, to

Boston, acquired a mentor in Dr.  George Hannaby (chief of surgery at

Memorial and renowned for his pioneering achievements in various

cardiovascular surgical procedures), and served the first three-quarters

of her two-year residency without a hitch.

Then, on a Tuesday morning in November, she went into Bernstein's Deli

to buy a few items, and terrible things began happening.  The incident

of the black gloves.  That was the start of it.

Tuesday was her day off, and unless one of her patients had a

life-threatening crisis, she was neither needed nor expected at the

hospital.  During her first two months at Memorial, with her usual

enthusiasm and tireless drive, she had gone to work on most of her days

off, for there was nothing else that she would rather do.  But George

Hannaby put an end to that habit as soon as he learned of it.  George

said that the practice of medicine was high-pressure work, and that

every physician needed time off, even Ginger Weiss.

"If you drive yourself too hard, too fast, too relentlessly," he said,

"it's not only you that suffers, but the patient as well."

So every Tuesday she slept an extra hour, showered, and had two cups of

coffee while she read the morning paper at the kitchen table by the

window that looked out on Mount Vernon Street.  At ten o'clock she

dressed, walked several blocks to Bernstein's on Charles Street, and

bought pastrami, corned beef, homemade rolls or sweet pumpernickel,

potato salad, blintzes, maybe some lox, maybe some smoked sturgeon,

sometimes cottage cheese vareniki to be reheated at home.  Then she

walked home with her bag of goodies and ate shamelessly all day while

she read Agatha Christie, Dick Francis, John D.  MacDonald, Elmore

Leonard, sometimes a Heinlein.  While she had not yet begun to like

relaxation half as much as she liked work, she gradually began to enjoy

her time off, and Tuesday ceased to be the dreaded day it had been when

she first began her reluctant observance of the six-day week.

That bad Tuesday in November started out fine-cold with a gray winter

sky, brisk and invigorating rather than frigidand her routine brought

her to Bernstein's (crowded, as usual) at ten-twenty-one.  Ginger

drifted from one end of the long counter to the other, peering into

cabinets full of baked goods, looking through the cold glass of the

refrigerated display cases, choosing from the array of delicacies with

gluttonous pleasure.  The room was a stewpot of wonderful smells and

happy sounds: hot dough, cinnamon; laughter; garlic, cloves; rapid

conversations in which the English was spiced with everything from

Yiddish to Boston accents to current rock-and-roll slang; roasted

hazelnuts, sauerkraut; pickles, coffee; the clink-clank of silverware.

When Ginger had everything she wanted, she paid for it, pulled on her

blue knit gloves, and hefted the bag, going past the small tables at

which a dozen people were having a late breakfast, then headed for the

door.

She held the grocery bag in her left arm, and with her free hand she

tried to put her wallet back in the purse that was slung over her right

shoulder.  She was looking down at the purse as she reached the door,

and a man in a gray tweed topcoat and a black Russian hat entered the

deli at that moment, his attention as distracted as hers; they collided.

As cold air swept in from outside, she stumbled backward a step. He

grabbed at her bag of groceries to keep it from falling, then steadied

her with one hand on her arm.

"Sorry," he said.  "That was stupid of me."

"My fault," she said.

"Daydreaming," he said.

"I wasn't looking where I was going," she said.

"You all right?"

"Fine.  Really."

He held the bag of groceries toward her.

She thanked him, took the bag-and noticed his black gloves.  They were

obviously expensive, of high-grade genuine leather, so neatly and

tightly stitched that the seams were hardly visible, but there was

nothing about those gloves that could explain her instant and powerful

reaction to them, nothing unusual, nothing strange, nothing threatening.

Yet she did feel threatened.  Not by the man.  He was ordinary, pale,

doughy-faced, with kind eyes behind thick tortoiseshell glasses.

Inexplicably, unreasonably, the gloves themselves were what abruptly

terrified her.  Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart hammered.

The most bizarre thing was the way every object and all the people in

the deli began to fade as if they were not real but merely figments of a

dream that was dissolving as the dreamer woke.  The customers having

breakfast at the small tables, the shelves laden with canned and

packaged food, the display cases, the wall clock with the Manischewitz

logo, the pickle barrel, the tables and chairs all seemed to shimmer

and slip away into a niveous haze, as if a fog was rising from some

realm beneath the floor.  Only the portentous gloves did not fade, and,

in fact, as she stared at them they grew more detailed, strangely more

vivid, more real, and increasingly threatening.

"Miss?" the doughy-faced man said, and his voice seemed to come from a

great distance, from the far end of a long tunnel.

Although the shapes and colors of the delicatessen bleached toward white

on all sides of Ginger, the sounds did not dwindle as well but, instead.

, grew louder, louder, until her ears filled with a roar of meaningless

jabber and with the jarring clatter of silverware, until the clinking of

dishes and the soft chatter of the electronic cash register were

thunderous, unbearable.

She could not take her eyes off the gloves.

"Is something wrong?" the man asked, holding up one leather-clad hand,

half-reaching toward her in an inquisitive gesture.

Black, tight, shiny .  .  .  with a barely visible grain to the leather,

neat little stitches along the fingers .  .  .  taut across the knuckles

.  .  .

Dizzy, disoriented, with a tremendous weight of indefinable fear

pressing down on her, she suddenly knew that she must run or die.  Run

or die.  She did not know why.  She did not understand the danger.  But

she knew she must run or perish where she stood.

Her heartbeat, already fast, became frantic.  The breath that was

snagged in her throat now flew free with a feeble cry, and she lunged

forward as if in pursuit of the pathetic sound that had escaped her.

Amazed by her response to the gloves but unable to be objective about

it, confused by her own behavior even as she acted, clutching the

grocery bag to her breast, she shouldered past the man who had collided

with her.  She was only vaguely aware that she almost knocked him off

his feet.  She must have wrenched open the door, though she could not

remember having done so, and then she was outside, in the crisp November

air.  The traffic on Charles Street-car horns, rumbling engines, the

hiss-sighcrunch of tires-was to her right, and the deli windows flashed

past on her left as she ran.

Thereafter she was oblivious of everything, for the world around her

faded completely away, and she was plunging through a featureless

grayness, legs pumping hard, coattails flapping, as if fleeing across an

amorphous dreamscape, struck dumb by fear.  There must have been many

other people on the sidewalk, people whom she dodged or shoved aside,

but she was not cognizant of them.  She was aware only of the need to

escape.  She ran deer-swift though no one pursued her, with her lips

peeled back in a grimace of pure terror though she could not identify

the danger from which she fled.

Running.  Running like crazy. Temporarily blind, deaf.

Lost.

Minutes later, when the mists cleared, she found herself on Mount Vernon

Street, part of the way up the hill, leaning against a wrought-iron

railing beside the front steps of a stately red-brick town house.  She

was gripping two of the iron balusters, with her hands curled so tightly

around them that her knuckles ached, her forehead on the heavy metal

balustrade as if she were a melancholy prisoner slumped against the door

of her cell.  She was sweating and gasping for breath.  Her mouth was

dry, sour.  Her throat burned, and her chest ached. She was bewildered,

unable to recall how she had arrived at this place, as if washed onto an

alien shore by moon-timed tides and waves of amnesia.

Something had frightened her.

She could not remember what it had been.

Gradually the fear subsided, and her breathing!  rei!ained an almost

regular rhythm; her heartbeat slowed slightly.

She raised her head and blinked her eyes, looking around warily and in

bafflement as her tear-bluffed vision slowly cleared.  She turned her

face up until she saw the bare black branches of a linden and a low,

ominous gray November sky beyond the skeletal tree.  Antique iron gas

lamps glowed softly, activated by solenoids that had mistaken the wintry

morning for the onset of dusk.  At the top of the hill stood the

Massachusetts State House, and at the bottom the traffic was heavy where

Mount Vernon intersected Charles Street.

Bernstein's Delicatessen.  Yes, of course.  It was Tuesday, and she had

been at Bernstein's when .  .  .  when something happened.

What?  What had happened at Bernstein's?

And where was the deli bag?

She let go of the iron railing, raised her hands, and blotted her eyes

on her blue knit gloves.

Gloves.  Not hers, not these gloves.  The myopic man in the Russian hat.

His black leather gloves.  That was what had frightened her.

But why had she been gripped by hysteria, overwhelmed by dread at the

sight of them?  What was so frightening about black gloves?

Across the street, an elderly couple watched her intently, and she

wondered what she had done to draw their attention. Though she strained

to remember, she could not summon the faintest recollection of her

journey up the hill.  The past three minutes-perhaps longer?-were

utterly blank.  She must have run up Mount Vernon Street in a panic.

Evidently, judging by the expressions on the faces of those observing

her, she had made quite a spectacle of herself.

Embarrassed, she turned away from them and started hesitantly down Mount

Vernon Street, back the way she had come.  At the bottom, just around

the corner, she found her bag of groceries lying on its side on the

pavement.  She stood over it for long seconds, staring at the crumpled

brown bundle, trying to recall the moment when she had dropped it. But

where that moment should have been, her memory contained only grayness,

nothingness.

What's wrong with me?

A few items had spilled from the fallen parcel, but none was torn open,

so she put them back in the paper sack.

Unsettled by her baffling loss of control, weak in the knees, she headed

home, her breath pluming in the frosty air.  After a few steps she

halted.  Hesitated.  Finally she turned back toward Bernstein's.

She stopped just outside the deli and had to wait only a minute or two

before the man in the Russian hat and the tortoiseshell glasses came out

with a grocery bag of his own.

"Oh." He blinked in surprise.  "Uh .  .  .  listen, did I say I'm sorry?

The way you stormed out of there, I thought maybe I'd only meant to say

it, you know -"

She stared at his leather-sheathed right hand where it gripped the brown

paper bag.  He gestured with his other hand as he spoke, and she

followed it as it described a brief, small pattern in the chilly air.

The gloves did not frighten her now.  She could not imagine why the

sight of them had thrown her into a panic.

"It's all right.  I was here waiting to apologize.  I was startled and

...  and it's been an unusual morning," she said, quickly turning away

from him.  Over her shoulder, she called out, "Have a nice day."

Although her apartment was not far away, the walk home seemed like an

epic journey over vast expanses of gray pavement.

What's wrong with me?

She felt colder than the November day could explain.

She lived on Beacon Hill, on the second floor of a four story house that

had once been the home of a nineteenthcentury banker.  She'd chosen the

place because she liked the carefully preserved period detail: elaborate

ceiling moldings, medallions above the doorways, mahogany doors, bay

windows with French panes, two fireplaces (living room, bedroom)

withornately carved and highly polished marble mantels. The rooms had a

feeling of permanence, continuity, stability.

Ginger prized constancy and stability more than anything, perhaps as a

reaction to having lost her mother when she was only twelve.

Still shivering even though the apartment was warm, she put away the

groceries in the breadbox and refrigerator, then went into the bathroom

to look closely at herself in the mirror. She was very pale.  She did

not like the hunted, haunted look in her eyes.

To her reflection, she said, "What happened out there, shnook?  You were

a real meshuggene, let me tell you.  Totally farfufket.  But why?  Huh?

You're the big-shot doctor, so tell me.  Why?"

Listening to her voice as it echoed off the high ceiling of the

bathroom, she knew she was in serious trouble.  Jacob, her father, had

been a Jew by virtue of his genes and heritage, and proud of it, but he

had not been a Jew by virtue of his religious practices.  He seldom went

to synagogue and observed holidays in the same secular spirit with which

many fallen-away Christians celebrated Easter and Christmas.  And Ginger

was one step farther removed from the faith than Jacob had been, for she

called herself an agnostic.  Furthermore, while Jacob's Jewishness was

integral, evident in everything he did and said, that was not true of

Ginger.  If asked to define herself, she would have said, "Woman,

physician, workaholic, political dropout," and other things before

finally remembering to add, "Jew." The only time Yiddish peppered her

speech was when she was in trouble, when she was deeply worried or

scared, as if on a subconscious level she felt those words possessed

talismanic value, charms against misfortune and catastrophe.

"Running through the streets, dropping your groceries, forgetting where

you are, afraid when there's no reason to be afraid, acting like a

regular farmishteh, " she said disdainfully to her reflection.  "People

see you behaving like that, they'll think for sure you're a shikker, and

people don't go to doctors whore drunkards.  Nu?"

The talismanic power of the old words worked a little magic, not much

but enough to bring color to her cheeks and soften the stark look in her

eyes.  She stopped shivering, but she still felt chilled.

She washed her face, brushed her silver-blond hair, and changed into

pajamas and a robe, which was her usual ensemble for a typically

self-indulgent Tuesday.  She went into the small spare bedroom that she

used as a home office, took the well-thumbed Taber's Cyclopedic Medical

Dictionary from the bookshelf, and opened it to the F listings.

Fugue.

She knew what the word meant, though she did not know why she had come

in here to consult the dictionary when it could tell her nothing new.

Maybe the dictionary was another talisman.  If she looked at the word in

cold print, it would cease to have any power over her.  Sure.  Voodoo

for the overeducated.  Nevertheless, she read the entry:

fugue (fyug) [L.  fuga, flight].  Serious personality dissociation.

Leaving home or surroundings on impulse.  Upon recovering from the fugue

state there usually is loss of memory for actions occurring while in the

state.

She closed the dictionary and returned it to the shelf.

She had other reference volumes that could provide more detailed

information about fugues, their causes and significance, but she decided

not to pursue the matter.  She simply could not believe her transient

attack had been a symptom of a serious medical problem.

Maybe she was under too much stress, working too hard, and maybe the

overload had led to that one, isolated, transient fugue.  A two- or

three-minute blank.  A little warning. So she would continue taking off

every Tuesday and would try to knock off work an hour earlier each day,

and she would have no more problems.

She had worked very hard to be the doctor that her mother had hoped she

would be, to make something special of herself and thereby honor her

sweet father and the long-dead but well-remembered and desperately

missed Swede.  She had made many sacrifices to come this far.  She had

worked more weekends than not, had forgone vacations and most other

pleasures.  Now, in only six months, she would finish her residency and

establish a practice of her own, and nothing would be allowed to

interfere with her plans.  Nothing was going to rob her of her dream.

Nothing.

It was November 12.

3.

Elko County, Nevada

Ernie Block was afraid of the dark.  Indoor darkness was bad, but the

darkness of the outdoors, the vast blackness of night here in northern

Nevada, was what most terrified Ernie.  During the day he favored rooms

with several lamps and lots of windows, but at night he preferred rooms

with few windows or even no windows at all because sometimes it seemed

to him that the night was pressing against the glass, as if it were a

living creature that wanted to get in at him and gobble him up.  He

obtained no relief from drawing the drapes, for he still knew the night

was out there, waiting for its chance.   He was deeply ashamed of

himself.  He did not know why he had recently become afraid of the dark.

He just was.

Millions of people shared his phobia, of course, but nearly all of them

were children.  Ernie was fifty-two.

On Friday afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving, he worked alone in the

motel office because Faye had flown to Wisconsin to visit Lucy, Frank,

and the grandkids.  She would not be back until Tuesday.  Come December,

they intended to close up for a week and both go to Milwaukee for

Christmas with the kids; but this time Faye had gone by herself.

Ernie missed her terribly.  He missed her because she was his wife of

thirty-one years and his best friend.  He missed her because he loved

her more now than he had on their wedding day.  And because ...  without

Faye, the nights alone seemed longer, deeper, darker than ever.

By two-thirty Friday afternoon he had cleaned all the rooms and changed

the linens, and the Tranquility Motel was ready for its next wave of

journeyers.  It was the only lodging within twelve miles, perched on a

knoll north of the superhighway, a neat little way station on a vast

expanse of sagebrush-strewn plains that sloped up into grassy meadows.

Elko lay over thirty miles to the east, Battle Mountain forty miles to

the west.  The town of Carlin and the tiny village of Beowawe were

closer, though from the Tranquility Motel Ernie had not a glimpse of

either settlement.  In fact, from the parking lot, no other building was

visible in any direction, and there was probably no motel in the world

more aptly named than this one.

Ernie was now in the office, working with a can of wood stain, touching

up a few scratches on the oak counter where guests signed in and checked

out.  The counter was not really in bad shape.  He was just keeping busy

until customers started pulling in from Interstate 80 in the late

afternoon.  If he did not keep his mind occupied, he would start

thinking about how early dusk arrived in November, and he would begin to

worry about nightfall, and then by the time darkness actually came, he

would be as jumpy as a cat with a can tied to its tail.

The motel office was a shrine to light.  From the moment he had opened

at six-thirty this morning, every lamp had been burning.  A squat

fluorescent lamp with a flexible neck stood on the oak desk in the work

area behind the check-in counter, casting a pale rectangle on the green

felt blotter.  A brass floor lamp glowed in the corner by the file

cabinets.  On the public side of the counter was a carousel of

postcards, a wall rack holding about forty paperbacks, another rack full

of free travel brochures, a single slot machine by the door, and a beige

sofa flanked by end tables and ginger-jar lamps equipped with three-way

bulbs-75, 100, and 150 watts-which were turned up all the way.  There

was a frosted-glass ceiling fixture, too,

with two bulbs, and of course most of the front wall of the office

featured a large window.  The motel faced south-southwest, so at this

time of day the declining sun's honey-colored beams angled through the

enormous pane, giving an amber tint to the white wall behind the sofa,

fracturing into hundreds of bright erratic lines in the crackled glaze

of the ginger-jar lamps, and leaving blazing reflections in the brass

medallions that ornamented the tables.

When Faye was here, Ernie left some of the lamps off because she was

sure to remark on the waste of electricity and extinguish a few of them.

Leaving a lamp unlit made him uneasy, but he endured the sight of dead

bulbs in order to keep his secret.  As far as he knew, Faye was not

aware of the phobia that had been creeping up on him during the past

four months, and he did not want her to know because he was ashamed of

this sudden strangeness in himself and because he did not want to worry

her.  He did not know the cause of his irrational fear, but he knew he

would conquer it, sooner or later, so there was no sense in humiliating

himself and causing Faye unnecessary anxiety over a temporary condition.

He refused to believe that it was serious.  He had been ill only rarely

in his fifty-two years.  He had only been laid up in the hospital once,

after taking a bullet in the butt and another one in the back during his

second tour of duty in Vietnam.  There had never been mental illness in

his family, and Ernest Eugene Block was absolutely

sure-as-hell-andwithout-a-doubt not going to be the first one of his

clan to go crawling and whimpering to a psychiatrist's couch.  You could

bet your ass on that and never have to worry what you would sit on.  He

would tough this out, weird as it was, unsettling as it was.

It had begun in September, a vague uneasiness that built in him as

nightfall approached and that remained until dawn. At first he was not

troubled every night, but it got steadily worse, and by the middle of

October, dusk always brought with it an inexplicable spiritual distress.

By early November the distress became fear, and during the past two

weeks his anxiety grew until now his days were measured-and almost

totally defined-by this perplexing fear of the darkness to come.  For

the past ten days, he'd avoided going out after nightfall, and thus far

Faye had not noticed, though she could not remain oblivious much longer.

Ernie Block was so big that it was ridiculous for him to be afraid of

anything.  He was six feet tall and so solidly and squarely built that

his surname was equally suitable as a oneword description of him.  His

wiry gray hair was brush-cut, revealing slabs of skullbone, and his

facial features were clean and appealing, though so squared-off that he

looked as if he had been carved out of granite.  His thick neck, massive

shoulders, and barrel chest gave him a top-heavy appearance.  When he

had been a high-school football star, the other players called him

"Bull," and during his twenty-eight-year career in the Marines, from

which he had been retired for six years, most people called him "sir,"

even some who were of equal rank.  They would be astonished to learn

that, lately, Ernie Block's palms got sweaty every day when sunset drew

near.

Now, intent upon keeping his thoughts far from sunset, he dawdled over

the repairs to the counter and finally finished at three-forty-five. The

quality of the daylight had changed. It was no longer honey-colored but

amber-orange, and the sun was drawing down toward the west.

At four o'clock he got his first check-in, a couple his own age, Mr. and

Mrs.  Gilney, who were heading home to Salt Lake City after spending a

week in Reno, visiting their son. He chatted with them and was

disappointed when they took their key and left.

The sunlight was completely orange now, burnt orange, no yellow in it at

all.  The high, scattered clouds had been transformed from white sailing

ships to gold and scarlet galleons gliding eastward above the Great

Basin in which almost the entire state of Nevada lay.

Ten minutes later a cadaverous man, visiting the area on special

assignment for the Bureau of Land Management, took a room for two days.

Alone again, Ernie tried not to look at his watch.

He tried not to look at the windows, either, for beyond the glass the

day was bleeding away.

I'm not going to panic, he told himself.  I've been to war, seen the

worst a man can see, and by God I'm still here, still as big and ugly as

ever, so I won't come unglued just because night is coming.

By four-fifty the sunlight was no longer orange but bloody red.

His heart was speeding up, and he began to feel as if his rib cage had

become a vise that was squeezing his vital organs between its jaws.

He went to the desk, sat down in the chair, closed his eyes, and did

some deep-breathing exercises to calm himself.

He turned on the radio.  Sometimes music helped.  Kenny Rogers was

singing about loneliness.

The sun touched the horizon and slowly sank out of sight. The crimson

afternoon faded to electric blue, then to a luminous purple that

reminded Ernie of day's end in Singapore, where he had been stationed

for two years as an embassy guard when he had been a young recruit.

It came.  The twilight.

Then worse.  Night.

The outside lights, including the blue and green neon sign that could be

seen clearly from the freeway, had blinked on automatically as dusk

crept in, but that had not made Ernie feel any better.  Dawn was an

eternity away.  Night ruled.

With the dying of the light, the outside temperature fell below

freezing.  To cut the chill in the office, the oil furnace kicked in

more frequently.  In spite of the chill, Ernie Block was sweating.

At six o'clock, Sandy Sarver dashed over from the Tranquility Grille,

which stood west of the motel.  It was a small sandwich shop with a

limited menu, serving only lunch and dinner to the guests and to hungry

truckers who swung in from the highway for a bite.  (Breakfast for

guests was complimentary sweet rolls and coffee delivered to their

rooms, if they asked for it the night before.)  Sandy, thirty-two, and

her husband, Ned, ran the restaurant for Ernie and Faye; Sandy waited

tables, and Ned cooked.  They lived in a trailer up near Beowawe and

drove in every day in their battered Ford pickup.

Ernie winced when Sandy entered, for when she opened the door he had the

irrational feeling that the darkness outside would spring, pantherlike,

into the office.

"Brought supper," Sandy said, shivering in the gust of cold air that

entered with her.  She set a small, lidless, cardboard box on the

counter.  It held a cheeseburger, French fries, a plastic container of

cole slaw, and a can of Coors.  "Figured you'd need a Coors to sluice

all this cholesterol out of your system."

"Thanks, Sandy."

Sandy Sarver was not much to look at, plain and washed out, even drab,

though she had more potential than she realized.  Her legs were too thin

but not unattractive.  She was underweight, but if she put on fifteen or

even twenty pounds, she would have a reasonably good shape.  She was

flat-chested, though an appealing suppleness compensated for her lack of

amplitude, and she had a charming feminine delicateness most apparent in

her small bones, slender arms, and swanlike neck. Also, she possessed an

infrequently seen but arresting gracefulness that was usually disguised

by her habit of shuffling when she walked and slumping round-shouldered

when she sat.  Her brown hair was lusterless and limp, probably because

she washed it with soap instead of shampoo.  She never wore makeup, not

even lipstick.  Her nails were bitten and time- glected.  However, she

was good-hearted, with a generous spirit, which was why Ernie and Faye

wished she could look better and get more out of life.

Sometimes Ernie worried about her, the same way he used to worry about

Lucy, his own daughter, before Lucy found and married Frank and became

so obviously, perfectly happy. He sensed that something bad had happened

to Sandy Sarver a long time ago, that she had taken a very hard blow

which had not broken her but had taught her to keep a low profile, to

keep her head tucked down, to harbor only meager expectations in order

to protect herself from disappointment, pain, and human cruelty.

Relishing the aroma of the food, popping the tab on the Coors, Ernie

said, "Ned makes the best darned cheeseburgers I've ever eaten."

Sandy smiled shyly.  "It's a blessing having a man who cooks."

Her voice was soft, meek.  "Especially in my case 'cause I'm no good at

it."

:'Oh, I'll bet you're a fine cook, too," Ernie said.

'No, no, not me, not even a little bit.  Never was, never will be."

He looked at her bare, goose-pimpled arms, exposed by her short-sleeved

uniform.  "You shouldn't come out on a night like this without a

sweater.  You'll catch your death."

"Not me," she said.  "I .  .  .  I got used to the cold a long time

ago."

That seemed an odd thing to say, and the tone of voice in which she said

it was even odder.  But before Ernie could think of a way to draw her

out and discover her meaning, she headed toward the door.

"See you later, Ernie."

"Uh ...  much business?"

"Some.  And the truckers'll be pulling in for supper soon."

She paused with the door open.  "You sure keep it bright in here."

A bite of cheeseburger stuck in his throat when she opened the door. She

was exposing him to the dangers of the darkness.

Cold air swept in.

"You could get a tan in here," she said.

" I .  .  .  I like it bright.  People come into a motel office that's

dimly lit ...  well, the impression is it's dirty."

"Oh!  I would've never thought of that.  Guess that's why you're the

boss.  I was in charge, I'd never think of little things like that.  I'm

no good at details.  Gotta scoot."

He held his breath while the door was open, sighed with relief when she

pulled it shut behind her.  He watched her scurry past the windows and

out of sight.  He could not remember ever hearing Sandy admit to a

virtue.  Likewise, she never hesitated to point out her faults and

shortcomings, both real and imagined.  The kid was sweet, but she was

sometimes dreary company.  Tonight, of course, even dreary company was

welcome.  He was sorry to see her go.

At the counter, eating while standing up, Ernie concentrated intently on

his food, not once lifting his eyes from it until he was done, using it

to take his mind off the irrational fear that made his scalp prickle and

kept the cold sweat trickling down from his armpits.

By six-fifty, eight of the motel's twenty rooms were occupied.  Because

it was the second night of a four-day holiday weekend, with more than

the usual number of travelers, he would rent out at least another eight

units if he stayed open until nine o'clock.

He could not do it.  He was a Marine-retired, but still a Marine-to whom

the words "duty" and "courage" were sacred, and he had never failed to

do his duty, not even in Vietnam, not even with bullets flying and bombs

bursting and people dying on all sides, but he was incapable of the

simple task of manning the motel desk until nine o'clock.  There were no

drapes at the big office windows, no blind over the glass door, no way

to escape the sight of darkness.  Each time the door opened, he was sick

with dread because no barrier lay between him and the night.

He looked at hisbig strong hands.  They were trembling. His sour stomach

churned.  He was so jumpy he could not keep still.  He paced the small

work area.  He fiddled with this and that.

Finally, at a quarter past seven, surrendering to his irrational

anxiety, he used a switch under the counter to turn on the NO VACANCY

sign outside, and he locked the front door. He clicked off the lamps,

one at a time, edging away from the shadows that rushed in where light

had ruled, and he quickly retreated to the rear of the room.  Steps led

up to the owner's apartment on the second floor.  He intended to climb

them at an ordinary pace, telling himself that it was silly and stupid

to be afraid, telling himself that nothing was coming after him from the

dark corners of the office behind, nothing- such a ridiculous

thought-nothing, absolutely nothing. But reassurances of that sort did

him no good whatsoever, for it was not something in the dark that scared

him; he was, instead, terrified by the darkness itself, by the mere

absence of light.  He started moving faster, grabbing at the handrail.

To his chagrin, he quickly panicked and bounded up the steps two at a

time.  At the top, heart pounding, Ernie stumbled into the living room,

fumbled for the wall switch, snapped off the last of the lights below,

slammed the door so hard that the whole wall seemed to shake, locked it,

and leaned with his broad back against it.

He could not stop gasping.  He could not stop shaking, either.  He could

smell his own rank sweat.

Several lights had been burning in the apartment during the day, but a

few were unlit.  He hurried from room to room, clicking on every lamp

and ceiling fixture.  The drapes and shades were all drawn tight from

his previous nocturnal ordeal, so he had not a single glimpse of the

blackness beyond the windows.

When he had regained control of himself, he phoned the Tranquility

Grille and told Sandy that he was not feeling well, that he had shut

down early.  He asked them to keep the day's receipts until tomorrow

morning rather than bother him tonight when they closed the restaurant.

Sickened by his pungent perspiration odor-not so much by the smell

itself as by the total loss of control that the smell represented-Ernie

showered.  After he had toweled himself dry, he put on fresh underwear,

belted himself into a thick warm robe, and stepped into slippers.

Heretofore, in spite of his bewilderingly unfocused apprehension, he had

been able to sleep in a dark room, though not without anxiety, and not

without the aid of a couple of beers.  Then, two nights ago, with Faye

in Wisconsin, when he was alone, he was able to nod off only with the

constant companionship of the nightstand lamp.  He knew he would need

that luminous comfort tonight, as well.

And when Faye returned on Tuesday?  Would he be able to go back to

sleeping without a light?

What if Faye turned off the lights ...  and he started screaming like a

badly frightened child?

The thought of that impending humiliation made him grind his teeth with

anger and drove him to the nearest window.

He put one beefy hand on the tightly drawn drapes.  Hesitated.  His

heart did an imitation of muffled machine-gun fire.

He had always been strong for Faye, a rock on which she could depend.

That was what a man was supposed to be: a rock.  He must not let Faye

down.  He had to overcome this bizarre affliction before she returned

from Wisconsin.

His mouth went dry and a chill returned when he thought about what lay

beyond the now-concealed glass, but he knew the only way to beat this

thing was to confront it.  That was the lesson life had taught him: be

bold, confront the enemy, engage in battle.  That philosophy of action

had always worked for him.  It would work again.  This window looked out

from the back of the motel, across the vast meadows and hills of the

uninhabited uplands, and the only light out there was what fell from the

stars.  He must pull the drapes aside, come face to face with that

tenebrous landscape, stand fast, endure it.  Confrontation would be a

purgative, flushing the poison from his system.

Ernie pulled open the drapes.  He peered out at the night and told

himself that this perfect blackness was not so bad deep and pure, vast

and cold, but not malevolent, and in no way a personal threat.

However, as he watched, unmoving and unmovable, portions of the darkness

seemed to ...  well, to shift, to coalesce, forming into not quite

visible but nonetheless solid shapes, lumps of pulsing and denser

blackness within the greater blackness, lurking phantoms that at any

moment might launch themselves toward the fragile window.

He clenched his jaws, put his forehead against the ice-cold glass.

The Nevada barrens, a huge emptiness to begin with, now seemed to expand

even farther.  He could not see the nightcloaked mountains, but he

sensed that they were magically receding, that the plains between him

and the mountains were growing larger, extending outward hundreds of

miles, thousands, expanding swiftly toward infinity, until suddenly he

was at the center of a void so immense that it defied description.  On

all sides of him, there was emptiness and lightlessness beyond man's

ability to measure, beyond the limits of his own feeble imagination, a

terrible emptiness, to the left and right, front and back, above and

below, and suddenly he could not breathe.

This was considerably worse than anything he had known before.  A

deeper-reaching fear.  Profound.  Shocking in its power.  And it was in

total control of him.

Abruptly he was aware of all the weight of that enormous darkness, and

it seemed to be sliding inexorably in upon him, sliding and sliding,

incalculably high walls of heavy darkness, collapsing, pressing down,

squeezing the breath out of himHe screamed and threw himself back from

the window.

He fell to his knees as the drapes dropped into place with a soft

rustle.  The window was hidden again.  The darkness was concealed.  All

around him was light, blessed light.  He hung his head, shuddered, and

took great gulps of air.

He crawled to the bed and hoisted himself onto the mattress, where he

lay for a long time, listening to his heartbeat, which was like

footfalls, sprinting then running then just walking fast inside him.

Instead of solving his problem, bold confrontation had made it worse.

"What's happening here?" he said aloud, staring at the ceiling.  "What's

wrong with me?  Dear God, what's wrong with me?"

It was November 22.

4.

Laguna Beach, California

Saturday, in desperate reaction to yet another troubling episode of

somnambulism, Dom Corvaisis thoroughly, methodically exhausted himself.

By nightfall, he intended to be so wrung out that he'd sleep as still as

a stone locked immemortally in the bosom of the earth.  At seven o'clock

in the morning, with the night's cool mist lingering in the canyons and

bearding the trees, he performed half an hour of vigorous calisthenics

on the patio overlooking the ocean, then put on his running shoes and

did seven arduous miles on Laguna's sloped streets.  He spent the next

five hours doing heavy gardening.  Then, because it was a warm day, he

put on his swimsuit, put towels in his Firebird, and went to the beach.

He sunbathed a little and swam a lot.  After dinner at Picasso's, he

walked for another hour along shop-lined streets sparsely populated by

off-season tourists.  At last he drove home.

Undressing in his bedroom, Dom felt as if he were in the land of

Lilliput, where a thousand tiny people were pulling him down with

grappling lines.  He rarely drank, but now he tossed back a shot of Rdmy

Martin.  In bed, he fell asleep even as he clicked off the lamp.

The incidents of somnambulism were growing more frequent, and the

problem was now the central issue of his life.  It was interfering with

his work.  The new book, which had been going well-it contained the best

writing he had ever done was stalled.  In the past two weeks, he had

awakened in a closet on nine occasions, four times in the last four

nights. The affliction had ceased to be amusing and intriguing.  He was

afraid to go to sleep because, asleep, he was not in control of himself.

Yesterday, Friday, he had finally gone to his physician, Dr. Paul

Cobletz, in Newport Beach.  Haltingly, he told Cobletz all about his

sleepwalking, but he found himself unwilling and unable to express the

true depth and seriousness of his concern.  Dom had always been a very

private person, made so by a childhood spent in a dozen foster homes and

under the care of surrogate parents, some of whom were indifferent or

even hostile, all of whom were dismayingly temporary presences in his

life.  He was reluctant to share his most important and personal

thoughts except through the mouths of imaginary characters in his

fiction.

As a result, Cobletz was not unduly worried.  After a full physical

examination, he pronounced Dom exceptionally fit. He attributed the

somnambulism to stress, to the upcoming publication of the novel.

"You don't think we should do any tests?" Dom asked.

Cobletz said, "You're a writer, so of course your imagination is running

away with you.  Brain tumor, you're thinking.  Am I right?"

"Well ...  yes."

"Any headaches?  Dizziness?  Blurred vision?"

"No."

"I've examined your eyes.  There's no change in your retinas, no

indication of intracrania) pressure.  Any inexplicable vomiting?"

"No.  Nothing like that."

"Giddy spells?  Giggling or periods of euphoria without apparent reason?

Anything of that nature?"

"No."

"Then I see no reason for tests at this stage."

"Do you think I need ...  psychotherapy?"

"Good heavens, no!  I'm sure this will pass soon."

Finished dressing, Dom watched Cobletz close the file.  He said, "I

thought perhaps sleeping pills-"

"No, no," Cobletz said.  "Not yet.  I don't believe in drugs as a

treatment of first resort.  Here's what you do, Dom.  Get away from the

writing for a few weeks.  Don't do anything cerebral.  Get plenty of

physical exercise.  Go to bed tired every night, so tired that you can't

even bother to think about the book you've been working on.  A few days

of that, and you'll be cured.  I'm convinced of it."

Saturday, Dom began the treatment Dr.  Cobletz prescribed, devoting

himself to physical activity, though with more singlemindedness and

flagdllant persistence than the doctor had suggested.  Consequently, he

plummeted into a deep sleep the moment he put his head upon the pillow,

and in the morning he did not wake in a closet.

He did not wake in bed, either.  This time, he was in the garage.

He regained consciousness in a breathless state of terror, gasping, his

heart hammering so hard it seemed capable of shattering his ribs with

its furious blows.  His mouth was dry, his hands curled into fists.  He

was cramped and sore, partly from Saturday's excess of exercise, but

partly from the unnatural and uncomfortable position in which he had

been sleeping.  During the night he evidently had taken two folded

canvas dropcloths from a shelf above the workbench, and had squirreled

into a narrow service space behind the furnace. That was where he lay

now, concealed beneath the tarps.

"Concealed" was the right word.  He had not dragged the tarpaulins over

himself merely for warmth.  He had taken refuge behind the furnace and

beneath the canvas because he had been hiding from something.

From what?

Even now, as Dominick pushed the tarps aside and struggled to sit up, as

sleep receded and as his bleary eyes adjusted to the shadow-filled

garage, the intense anxiety that had accompanied him up from sleep still

clung tenaciously.  His pulse pounded.

Fear of what?

Dreaming.  In his nightmare he must have been running and hiding from

some monster.  Yes.  Of course.  His peril in the nightmare caused him

to sleepwalk, and when, in the dream, he sought a place to hide, he also

hid in reality, creeping behind the furnace.

His white Firebird loomed ghostlike in the light from the wall vents and

the single window above the workbench. Shuffling across the garage, he

felt as if he were a revenant himself.

In the house, he went directly to his office.  Morning light filled the

room, making him squint.  He sat at the desk in his filthy pajama

bottoms, switched on the word processor, and studied the documents on

the diskette that he had left in the machine.  The diskette was as he

had left it on Thursday; it contained no new material.

Dom had hoped that, in his sleep, he might have left a message that

would help him understand the source of his anxiety.  That knowledge was

obviously held by his subconscious but thus far denied to his conscious

mind.  When sleepwalking, his subconscious was in control, and possibly

it would try to explain things to his conscious mind by way of the

Displaywriter.  But as yet, it had not.

He switched off the machine.  He sat for a long time, staring out the

window, toward the ocean.  Wondering ...

Later, in the bedroom, as he was on his way to the master bath, he found

something strange.  Nails were scattered across the carpet, and he had

to be careful where he walked.  He stooped, picked up several of them.

They were all alike: 1.5inch steel finishing nails.  At the far side of

the room, he saw two objects that drew him there.  Beneath the window,

from which the drapes had been drawn aside, a box of nails lay on the

floor by the baseboard; it was only half full because part of its

contents had spilled from it.  Beside the box was a hammer.

He lifted the hammer, hefted it, frowned.

What had he been doing in those lonely hours of the night?

He raised his eyes to the windowsill and saw three loose nails that he

had laid there.  They gleamed in the sunlight.

Judging from the evidence, he'd been preparing to nail the windows shut.

Jesus.  Something had so frightened him that he had intended to nail the

windows shut and make a fortress of his house, but before he could set

himself to the task, he had been suddenly overwhelmed by fear and had

fled to the garage, where he had hidden behind the furnace.

He dropped the hammer, stood, looked out the window. Beyond lay only

bloom-laden rose bushes, a small strip of lawn, and an ivy-covered slope

that led up to another house. A lovely landscape.  Peaceful.  He could

not believe that it had been any different last night, that something

more threatening had been crouching out there in the darkness.

And yet ...

For a while Dom Corvaisis watched the day grow brighter,

watched the bees visit the roses, then began to pick up the nails.

It was November 24.

5.

Boston, Massachusetts

After the incident of the black gloves, two weeks passed without another

attack.

For a few days following the embarrassing scene at Bernstein's

Delicatessen, Ginger Weiss remained on edge, expecting another seizure.

She was unusually self-aware, acutely conscious of her physiological and

psychological conditions, searching for subtle symptoms of serious

disorder, alert for the slightest sign of another impending fugue, but

she noticed nothing worrisome.  She had no headaches, no attacks of

nausea, no joint or muscle pain.  Gradually, her confidence rose to its

usual high level.  She became convinced that her wild flight had been

entirely stress-related, a never-to-be-repeated aberration.

Her days at Memorial were busier than ever.  George Hannaby, chief of

surgery-a tall burly bear of a man who talked slow, walked slow, and

looked deceptively lazy-maintained a heavy schedule, and though Ginger

was not the only resident working under him, she was the only one who

currently worked exclusively with him.  She assisted in many-perhaps in

a majority-of his procedures: aortal grafts, amputations, popliteal

bypasses, embolectomies, portocaval shunts, thoracotomies, arteriograms,

the installation of temporary and permanent pacemakers, and more.

George observed her every move, was quick to note the slightest flaw in

her skill and techniques.  Although he looked like a friendly bear, he

was a tough taskmaster and had no patience for laziness, inaptitude, or

carelessness.  He could be scathing in his critiques, and he made all

the young doctors sweat.  His scorn was not merely withering; it was

dehydrating, scaring, a nuclear heat.

Some residents considered George tyrannical, but Ginger enjoyed

assisting him precisely because his standards were so high.  She knew

that his criticisms, though sometimes blister ingly delivered, were

motivated solely by his concern for the patient, and she never took them

personally.  When she finally earned Hannaby's unqualified blessing .  .

.  well, that would be almost as good as God's own seal of approval.

On the last Monday in November, thirteen days after her strange seizure,

Ginger assisted in a triple-bypass heart operation on Johnny O'Day, a

fifty-three-year-old Boston police officer who had been forced into

early retirement by cardiovascular disease.  Johnny was stocky,

rubber-faced, touslehaired, with merry blue eyes, unassuming, quick to

laugh in spite of his troubles.  Ginger was especially drawn to him

because, although he looked nothing whatsoever like the late Jacob

Weiss, he nevertheless reminded her of her father.

She was afraid Johnny O'Day was going to die-and that it was going to

be, in part, her fault.

She had no reason to believe that he was more vulnerable than other

cardiac patients.  In fact, Johnny was in comparatively little danger.

He was ten years younger than the average recipient of bypass surgery,

with greater resources for recuperation.  His cardiac ailment was not

complicated by any other debilitating condition, such as phlebitis or

excessively high blood pressure.  His prospects were encouraging.

But Ginger could not twist free of the dread in which she found herself

increasingly tangled.  On Monday afternoon, as the hour of surgery drew

near, she grew tense, and her stomach turned sour.  For the first time

since she had sat a lonely vigil beside her father's hospital bed and

had helplessly watched him die, Ginger was filled with doubt.

Perhaps her apprehension grew from the unjustified but inescapable

notion that if she somehow failed this patient she would in a sense be

failing Jacob yet again.  Or perhaps her fear was utterly unwarranted

and would seem foolish and laughable in hindsight.  Perhaps.

Nevertheless, entering the operating theater at George's side, she

wondered if her hands would shake.  A surgeon's hands must never shake.

The operating room was all white and aqua tile, filled with gleaming

chrome-plated and stainless-steel equipment.  Nurses and an

anesthesiologist were preparing the patient.

Johnny O'Day lay on the cruciform operating table, arms extended, palms

up and wrists exposed for the intravenous spikes.

Agatha Tandy, a private surgical technician who was employed by George

rather than by the hospital, stretched thin latex gloves over her boss's

freshly scrubbed hands, then over Ginger's hands as well.

The patient had been anesthetized.  He was orange with iodine from the

neck to the wrist, swathed in neatly tucked and folded layers of green

cloth from the hips down.  His eyes were taped shut to keep them from

drying out.  His breathing was slow but regular.

A portable tape deck with stereo speakers was on a stool in one corner.

George preferred to cut to the accompaniment of Bach, and that calming

music now filled the room.

It may have calmed the others, but today it did not calm Ginger.  A

secret scurrying something spun a web of ice in her stomach.

Hannaby positioned himself at the table.  Agatha stood at his right side

with an elaborately ordered tray of instruments. The circulating nurse

waited to fetch whatever might be required from the cabinets along one

wall.  An assisting nurse with large gray eyes noticed an errant flap of

green sheeting and quickly tucked it into place around the patient's

body. The anesthesiologist and his nurse were at the head of the table,

monitoring the IV and the EKG.  Ginger moved into position.  The team

was ready.

Ginger looked at her hands.  They were not shaking.

Inside, though, she was all aquiver.

In spite of her sense of impending disaster, the surgery went smoothly.

George Hannaby operated with quickness, sureness, dexterity, and skill

that were even more impressive than usual.  Twice, he stepped aside and

requested that Ginger complete a part of the procedure.

Ginger surprised herself by functioning with her customary sureness and

speed, her fear and tension revealed only by a tendency to perspire more

than usual.  However, the nurse was always there to blot her brow.

Afterward, at the scrub sink, George said, "Like clockwork."

Soaping her hands under the hot water, she said, "You always seem so

relaxed, as if .  .  .  as if you weren't a surgeon at all .  .  .  as

if you were just a tailor altering a suit of clothes."

"I may seem that way," he said, "but I'm always tense.

That's why I play Bach." He finished washing up.  "You were very tense

today."

"Yes," she admitted.

"Exceptionally tense.  It happens." Big as he was, he sometimes seemed

to have the eyes of a sweet, gentle child.  "The important thing is that

it didn't affect your skill.  You were as smooth as ever.  First ' rate.

That's the key.  You've got to use tension to your advantage."

"I guess I'm learning."

He grinned.  "As usual, you're being too hard on yourself. I'm proud of

you, kid.  For a while there, I thought maybe you'd have to give up

medicine and earn your living as a meat cutter in a supermarket, but now

I know you'll make it."

She grinned back at him, but the grin was counterfeit.  She had been

more than tense.  She had been seized by a cold, black fear that might

easily have overwhelmed her, and that was much different from a healthy

tension.  That fear was something she had never felt before, something

that she knew George Hannaby had never felt in his life, not in an

operating room.  If it continued, if the fear became a constant

companion during surgery and would not be dispelled ...  what then?

At ten-thirty that evening, when she was reading in bed, the phone rang.

It was George Hannaby.  If the call had come earlier, she'd have

panicked and assumed that Johnny O'Day had taken a serious turn for the

worse, but now she had regained her perspective.  "So sorry.  Missy

Weiss not home. I no speak the English.  Call back next April, please."

"If that's supposed to be a Spanish accent," George said, "it's

atrocious.  If it's supposed to be Oriental, it's merely terrible.  Be

thankful you chose medicine as a career instead of acting."

"You, on the other hand, would've done well as a drama critic."

"I do have the refined and sensitive perspective, the cool judgment and

unerring insight of a first-rate critic, don't I?

Now shut up and listen: I've got good news.  I think you're ready,

smart-ass."

"Ready?  For what?"

"The big time.  An aortal graft," he said.

"You mean .  .  .  I wouldn't just assist you?  Do it entirely myself?"

"Chief surgeon for the entire procedure."

"Aortal graft?"

"Sure.  You didn't specialize in cardiovascular surgery just to perform

appendectomies for the rest of your life."

She was sitting straight up in bed now.  Her heart was beating faster,

and she was flushed with excitement.  "When?"

"Next week.  There's a patient checking in this Thursday or Friday.

Name's Fletcher.  We'll go over her file together on Wednesday.  If

things proceed according to schedule, I would think we'd be ready to

cut'on Monday morning.  Of course, you'll be responsible for scheduling

all the final tests and making the decision to go ahead."

"Oh, God."

"You'll do fine."

:'You'll be with me."

'I'll assist you .  .  .  if you feel you need me for anything."

"And you'll take over if I start to screw up." "Don't be silly.  You

won't screw up- "

She thought about it a moment, then said, "No.  I won't screw up."

"That's my Ginger.  You can do whatever you set your mind to."

"Even ride a giraffe to the moon."

"What?"

"Private joke."

"Listen, I know you came close to panic this afternoon, but don't worry.

All residents experience that.  Most have to deal with it early, when

they begin to assist in the surgery. They call it The Clutch.  But

you've been cool and collected from the start, and I'd finally decided

you'd never clutch up like the rest of them.  Today, at last you did.

The Clutch just came later for you than for most.  And though I imagine

you're still worried about it, I think you should be glad it happened.

The Clutch is a seasoning experience.  The important thing is that you

dealt with it superbly."

"Thanks, George.  Even better than a drama critic, you'd have made a

good baseball coach."

Minutes later, when they concluded their conversation and hung up, she

fell back against the pillows again and hugged herself and felt so fine

that she actually giggled.  After a while she went to the closet and dug

around in there until she located the Weiss family photograph album. She

brought it back to bed and sat for a time, paging through the pictures

of Jacob and Anna, for although she could not share her triumphs with

them any more, she needed to feel that they were close.

Later still, in the dark bedroom, as she lay balanced on the thin edge

of wakefulness, she finally understood why she had been frightened this

afternoon.  She had not been seized by The Clutch.  Although she had not

been able to admit it until now, she had been afraid that, in the midst

of surgery, she would black out, plummet into a state of fugue, as she

had done that Tuesday, two weeks ago.  If an attack came while she held

a scalpel, while she was doing delicate cutting, or while stitching in a

vascular graft ...

That thought brought her eyes wide open.  The creeping form of sleep

retreated like a thief caught in the middle of a burglary.  For a long

time she lay there, stiff, staring at the dark and newly ominous shapes

of the bedroom furniture and at the window, where incompletely drawn

draperies revealed a band of glass silvered by a fall of moonlight and

by the rising beams of streetlamps below.

Could she accept the responsibility of chief surgeon on an aortal graft?

Her seizure had surely been a one-time occurrence.  It would never

happen again.  Surely not.  But did she dare test that theory?

Sleep crept back again and claimed her, though not for hours.

Tuesday, after a successful trip to Bernstein's Delicatessen, much food,

and several lazy hours in an easy chair with a good book, her

self-confidence was knit up again, and she began to look forward to the

challenge ahead, with only an ordinary degree and kind of apprehension.

On Wednesday, Johnny O'Day continued to recover from his triple bypass

and was in high spirits.  This was what made the years of study and hard

work worthwhile: preserving life, relieving suffering, bringing hope and

happiness to those who had known despair.

She assisted in a pacemaker implantation that went without a hitch, and

she performed an aortagram, a dye test on a patient's circulation.  She

also sat in with George while he examined seven people who had been

referred to him by other physicians.

When all the new patients had been seen, George and Ginger huddled for

half an hour over the file of the candidate for the aortal graft-a

fifty-eight-year-old woman, Viola Fletcher.  After studying the file,

Ginger decided she wanted Mrs.  Fletcher admitted to Memorial on

Thursday for testing and preparation.  If there were no

counterindications, surgery could take place first thing Monday morning.

George agreed, and all the necessary arrangements were made.

Thus Wednesday progressed, always busy, never dull.  By six-thirty she

had put in a twelve-hour day, but she was not tired.  In fact, although

she had nothing to keep her at the hospital, she was reluctant to leave.

George Hannaby was home already.  But Ginger hung around, chatting with

patients, double-checking charts, until at last she went to George's

office, where she intended to look again at Viola Fletcher's file.

The professional offices were in the back wing of the building, separate

from the hospital itself.  At that hour the corridors were virtually

deserted.  Ginger's rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the highly polished

tile floors.  The air smelled of pine-scented disinfectant.

George Hannaby's waiting room, examining rooms, and private office were

dark and quiet, and Ginger did not switch on all the lights as she moved

through the outer rooms into the inner sanctum.  There, she snapped on

only the desk lamp as she passed it on her way to the file-room door,

which was locked.  George had given her keys to everything, and in a

minute she had withdrawn Viola Fletcher's records from the cabinet and

returned with them to George's desk.

She sat down in the big leather chair, opened the folder in the pool of

light from the desk lamp-and only then noticed an object that riveted

her attention and caused her breath to catch in her throat.  It lay on

the green blotter, along the curvature of light: a hand-held

ophthalmoscope, an instrument used to examine the interior of the eye.

There was nothing unusual-certainly nothing ominous-about the

ophthalmoscope.  Every doctor used such an instrument during a routine

physical examination.  Yet the sight of this one not only inhibited her

breathing but filled her with a sudden sense of terrible danger.

She had broken out in a cold sweat.

Her heart was hammering so hard, so loud, that the sound of it seemed to

come not from within but without, as if a parade drum was thumping in

the street beyond the window.

She could not take her eyes off the ophthalmoscope.  As with the black

gloves in Bernstein's Delicatessen more than two weeks ago, all other

objects in George's office began to fade, until the shining instrument

was the only thing that she could see in any detail.  She was aware of

every tiny scratch and minute nick on its handle.  Every humble feature

of its design seemed abruptly and enormously important, as if this Were

not a doctor's ordinary tool but the linchpin of the universe, an arcane

instrument with the potential for catastrophic destruction.

Disoriented, suddenly made claustrophobic by a heavy, insistent,

pressing mantle of irrational fear that had descended over her like a

great sodden cloak, she pushed the chair away from the desk and stood

up.  Gasping, whimpering, she felt suffocated yet chilled to the bone at

the same time.

The shank of the ophthalmoscope glistened as if made of ice.

The lens shone like an iridescent and chillingly alien eye. Her resolve

to stand fast now swiftly melted, even as her heart seemed to freeze

under the cold breath of terror. Run or die, a voice said Within her.

Run or die. A cry escaped her, and it sounded like the tortured appeal

of a lost and frightened child.

She turned from the desk, stumbled around it, almost fell over a chair.

She crossed the room, burst into the outer office, fled into the

deserted corridor, keening shrilly, seeking safety, finding none.  She

wanted help, a friendly face, but she was the only person on the floor,

and the danger was closing in. The unknown threat that was somehow

embodied in the harmless ophthalmoscope was drawing nearer, so she ran

as fast as she could, her footsteps booming along the hallway.

Run or die.

The mist descended.

Minutes later, when the mist cleared, when she was again aware of her

surroundings, she found herself in the emergency stairwell at the end of

the office wing, on a concrete landing between floors.  She could not

remember leaving the office corridor and taking to the stairs.  She was

sitting on the landing.  squeezed into the corner, her back pressed to

the cinderblock wall, staring out at the railing along the far side of

the steps.  A single bare bulb burned behind a wire basket overhead.  To

her left and right, flights of stairs led up and down into shadow before

coming to other lighted landings. The air was musty and cool.  If not

for her ragged breathing, silence would have ruled.

It was a lonely place, especially when your life was coming apart at the

seams and you needed the reassurance of bright lights and people.  The

gray walls, stark light, looming shadows, the metal railing .  The place

seemed like a reflection of her own despair.

Her wild flight and whatever other bizarre behavior she exhibited in her

inexplicable fugue had evidently not been seen, or she would not now be

alone.  At least that was a blessing.  At least no one knew.

She knew, however, and that was bad enough.

She shivered, not entirely from fear, for the mindless terror that had

gripped her was gone.  She shivered because she was cold, and she was

cold because her clothes clung to her, damp, soaked with sweat.

She raised one hand, wiped her face.

She rose, looked up the stairwell, then down.  She did not know whether

she was above or below the floor on which George Hannaby had his office.

After a moment she decided to go up.

Her footsteps echoed eerily.

For some reason, she thought of tombs.

"Meshuggene, " she said shakily.

It was November 27.

6.

Chicago, Illinois

The first Sunday morning in December was cold, under a low gray sky that

promised snow.  By afternoon the first scattered flakes would begin to

fall, and by early evening the city's grimy face and soiled skirts would

be temporarily concealed

beneath the white pancake makeup and pristine cloak of snow. This night,

from the Gold Coast to the slum tenements, everywhere in the city, the

number-one topic of conversation would be the storm.  Everywhere, that

is, but in the Roman Catholic homes throughout the parish of St.

Bernadette's, where they would still be talking about the shocking thing

Father Brendan Cronin had done during the early Mass that morning.

Father Cronin rose at five-thirty a.m., said prayers, showered, shaved,

dressed in cassock and biretta, picked up his breviary, and left the

parish house without bothering to put on a coat.  He stood for a moment

on the rear porch, breathing deeply of the crisp December air.

He was thirty years old, but with his direct green eyes and unruly

auburn hair and freckled face, he looked younger than he was.  He was

fifty or sixty pounds overweight, though not particularly thick in the

middle.  On him, fat distributed evenly, filling him out equally in

face, arms, torso, and legs.  From childhood through college, until his

second year at the seminary, his nickname had been "Pudge."

Regardless of his emotional state, Father Cronin nearly always looked

happy.  His face had a natural cherubic aspect, and the round lines of

it were not designed for the clear and easy expression of anger,

melancholy, or grief.  This morning he looked mildly pleased with

himself and with the world, though he was deeply troubled.

He followed a flagstone path across the yard, past denuded flower beds

where the bare earth lay in frozen clumps.  He unlocked the door of the

sacristy and let himself in.  Myrrh and spikenard blended with the scent

of the lemon-oil furniture polish with which the old church's oak

paneling, pews, and other wooden objects were anointed.

Without switching on the lights, with only the flickering ruby glow of

the sacristy lamp to guide him, Father Cronin knelt at the prie-dieu and

bowed his head.  In silence, he petitioned the Divine Father to make him

a worthy priest. In the past, this private devotion, before the arrival

of the sexton and the altar boy, had sent his spirits soaring and had

filled him with exultation at the prospect of celebrating Mass. But now,

as on most other mornings during the last four months, joy eluded him.

He felt only a leaden bleakness, an emptiness that made his heart ache

dully and that induced a cold, sick trembling in his belly.

Clenching his jaws, gritting his teeth, as if he could will himself into

a state of spiritual ecstasy, he repeated his petition, elaborated upon

his initial prayers, but still he felt unmoved, hollow.

After washing his hands and murmuring, "Da Domine, Father Cronin laid

his biretta on the prie-dieu and went to the vesting bench to attire

himself for the sacred celebration ahead.  He was a sensitive man with

an artist's soul, and in the great beauty of the ceremony he perceived a

pleasing pattern of divine order, a subtle echo of God's grace. Usually,

when placing the linen amice over his shoulders, when arranging the

white alb so that it fell evenly to his ankles, a shiver of awe passed

through him, awe that he, Brendan Cronin, should have achieved this

sacred office.

Usually.  But not today.  And not for weeks of days before this.

Father Cronin put on his amice, passed the strings around his back, then

tied them against his breast.  He pulled on the alb with no more emotion

than a welder getting dressed for work in a factory.

Four months ago, in early August, Father Brendan Cronin had begun to

lose his faith.  A small but relentless fire of doubt burned within him,

unquenchable, gradually consuming all of his long-held beliefs.

For any priest, the loss of faith is a devastating process. But it was

worse for Brendan Cronin than it would have been for most others.  He

had never even briefly entertained the thought of being anything but a

priest.  His parents were devout, and they fostered in him a devotion to

the Church. However, he had not become a priest to please them.  Simply,

as trite as it might sound to others in this age of agnosticism, he had

been called to the priesthood at a very young age. Now, though faith was

gone, his holy office continued to be the essential part of his

self-image; yet he knew he could not go on saying Mass and praying and

comforting the afflicted when it was nothing but a charade to him.

Brendan Cronin placed the stole around his neck.  As he pulled on the

chasuble, the courtyard door to the sacristy was flung open, and a young

boy burst into the room, switching on the electric lights that the

priest had preferred to do without.

"Morning, Father!"

"Good morning, Kerry.  How're you this fine morning?"

Except that his hair was much redder than Father Cronin's, Kerry McDevit

might have been the priest's blood relative. He was slightly plump,

freckled, with green eyes full of mischief.  "I'm fine, Father.  But

it's sure cold out there this morning.  Cold as a witch's-"

"Oh, yes?  Cold as a ' witch's what?"

"Refrigerator," the boy said, embarrassed.  "Cold as a witch's

refrigerator, Father.  And that's cold."

If his mood had not been so bleak, Brendan would have been amused by the

boy's narrow avoidance of an innocent obscenity, but in his current

state of mind he could not summon even a shadow of a smile. Undoubtedly,

his silence was interpreted as stern disapproval, for Kerry averted his

eyes and went quickly to the closet, where he stowed his coat, scarf,

and gloves, and took his cassock and surplice from a hanger.

Even as Brendan lifted the maniple, kissed the cross in its center, and

placed it on his left forearm, he felt nothing. There was just that

cold, throbbing, hollow ache where belief and joy had once existed.  As

his hands were occupied with that task, his mind drifted back to a

melancholy recollection of the exuberance with which he had once

approached every priestly duty.

Until last August, he never doubted the wisdom of his commitment to the

Church.  He had been such a bright and hard-working student of both

mundane subjects and religion that he had been chosen to complete his

Catholic education at the North American College in Rome.  He loved the

Holy City-the architecture, the history, and the friendly people. Upon

ordination and acceptance into the Society of Jesus, he had spent two

years at the Vatican, as an assistant to Monsignor Giuseppe Orbella,

chief speechwriter and doctrinal adviser to His Holiness, the Pope. That

honor could have been followed by a prized assignment to the staff of

the Cardinal of the Chicago Archdiocese, but Father Cronin had

requested, instead, a curacy at a small or medium-sized parish, like any

young priest.  Thus, after a visit to Bishop Santefiore in San Francisco

(an old friend of Monsignor Orbella's), and after a vacation during

which he drove from San Francisco to Chicago, he had come to St.

Bernadette's, where he'd taken great pleasure in even the most ordinary

day-today chores of a curate's life.  And with never a regret or doubt.

Now, as he watched his altar boy slip into a surplice, Father Cronin

longed for the simple faith that had for so long comforted and sustained

him.  Was it gone only temporarily, or had he lost it forever?

When Kerry was dressed, he led the way through the inner sacristy door,

into the sanctuary of the church.  Several steps beyond the door, he

evidently sensed that Father Cronin was not coming after him, for he

glanced back, a puzzled look upon his face.

Brendan Cronin hesitated.  Through the door he had a sideview of the

towering crucifix on the back wall and the altar platform straight

ahead.  This holiest part of the church was dismayingly strange, as if

he were seeing it objectively for the first time.  And he could not

imagine why he had ever thought of it as sacred territory.  It was just

a place.  A place like any other.  If he walked out there now, if he

went through the familiar rituals and litanies, he would be a hypocrite.

He would be defrauding everyone in the congregation.

The puzzlement on Kerry McDevit's face had turned to worry.  The boy

glanced out toward the pews that Brendan Cronin could not see, then

looked again at his priest.

How can I say Mass when I no longer believe?  Brendan wondered.

But there was nothing else to be done.

Holding the chalice in his left hand, with his right hand over the burse

and veil, he kept the sacred vessel close to his breast and followed

Kerry, at last, into the sanctuary, where the face of Christ upon the

cross seemed, for a moment, to gaze at him accusingly.

As usual, less than a hundred people were in attendance for the early

service.  Their faces were unusually pale and radiant, as if God had not

allowed real worshipers to attend this morning but had sent a deputation

of judgmental angels to witness the sacrilege of a doubting priest who

dared to offer Mass in spite of his fallen condition.

As the Mass progressed, Father Cronin's despair deepened. From the

moment he spoke the Introibo ad altars Dei, each step of the ceremony

compounded the priest's misery.  By the time Kerry McDevit transferred

the missal from the Epistle to the Gospel side of the altar, Father

Cronin's despondency was so heavy that he felt crushed beneath it.  His

spiritual and emotional exhaustion were so profound that he could barely

lift his arms, could hardly find strength to focus on the Gospel

and mutter the lines from the sacred text.  The faces of the worshipers

blurred into featureless blobs.  By the time he reached the Canon of the

Mass, Father Cronin could barely whisper.  He knew that Kerry was gaping

at him openly now, and he was sure that the congregation was aware that

something was wrong.  He was sweating and shaking.  The awful grayness

in him grew darker now, swiftly turning to black, and he felt as if he

were spiraling down into a frighteningly dark void.

Then, as he held the Host in his hands and elevated it, speaking the

five words that signified the mystery of transubstantiation, he was

suddenly angry with himself for being unable to believe, angry with the

Church for failing to provide him with better armor against doubt, angry

that his entire life seemed misdirected, wasted, expended in pursuit of

idiotic myths.  His anger churned, heated up, reached the boiling point,

was transformed into a steam of fury, a blistering vapor of rage.

To his astonishment, a wretched cry burst from him, and he pitched the

chalice across the sanctuary.  With a loud clank, it struck the

sanctuary wall, spraying wine, rebounded, bounced off a statue of the

Blessed Virgin, and clattered to a stop against the foot of the podium

at which he had not long ago read from the Gospels.

Kerry McDevit stumbled back in shock, and in the nave a hundred people

gasped as one, but that response had no effect on Brendan Cronin.  In a

rage that was his only protection against suicidal despair, he flung one

arm wide and swept a paten of communion wafers to the floor.  With

another wild cry, half anger and half grief, he thrust his hand under

his chasuble, tore off the stole that lay around his neck and threw it

down, turned from the altar, and raced into the sacristy. There, the

anger departed as suddenly as it had come, and he stopped and stood

there, swaying in confusion.

It was December 1.

7.

Laguna Beach, California

That first Sunday in December, Dom Corvaisis had lunch with Parker Faine

on the terrace at Las Brisas, in the shade of an umbrella-table

overlooking the sun-dappled sea.  The good weather was holding well this

year.  While the breeze brought them the cries of gulls, the tang of the

sea, and the sweet scent of star jasmine that was growing nearby,

Dominick told Parker every embarrassing and distressing detail of his

escalating battle with somnambulism.

Parker Faine was his best friend, perhaps the only person in the world

with whom he could open up like this, though on the surface they seemed

to have little in common.  Dom was a slender, lean-muscled man, but

Parker Faine was squat, burly, beefy.  Beardless, Dom went to the barber

for a haircut every three weeks; but Parker's hair was shaggy, and his

beard was shaggy, and his eyebrows bristled.  He looked like a cross

between a professional wrestler and a beatnik from the 1950s. Dom drank

little and was easily intoxicated, while Parker's thirst was legendary

and his capacity prodigious.  Although Dom was solitary by nature and

slow to make friends, Parker had the gift of seeming like an old

acquaintance just an hour after you first met him.  At fifty, Parker

Faine was fifteen years older than Dom.  He had been rich and famous for

almost a quarter of a century, and he was comfortable with both his

wealth and fame, utterly unable to understand Dom's uneasiness over the

money and notoriety that was beginning to come his way because of

Twilight in Babylon.  Dom had come to lunch at Las Brisas in Bally

loafers, dark brown slacks, and a lighter brown-checkered shirt with a

buttondown collar, but Parker had arrived in blue tennis shoes, heavily

crinkled white cotton pants, and a white-and-blue flowered shirt worn

over his belt, which made it seem as if they had dressed for entirely

different engagements, had met outside the restaurant sheerly by chance,

and had decided to have lunch together on a whim.

In spite of all the ways they differed from each other, they had become

fast friends, because in several important ways they were alike.  Both

were artists, not by choice or inclination but by compulsion.  Dom

painted with words; Parker painted with paint; and they approached their

different arts with identical high standards, commitment, craftsmanship.

Furthermore, though Parker made friends more easily than Dom did, each

placed enormous value on friendship and nurtured it.

They had met six years ago, when Parker had moved to Oregon for eighteen

months, in search of new subject matter for a series of landscapes done

in his unique style, which successfully married suprarealism with a

surreal imagination. While there, he had signed to give one lecture a

month at the University of Portland, where Dom held a position in the

Department of English.

Now, while Parker hunched over the table, munching on nachos that were

dripping with cheese ared guacamole and sour cream, Dom sipped slowly at

a bottle of Negra Modelo and recounted his unconscious nocturnal

adventures.  He spoke softly, though discretion was probably

unnecessary; the other diners on the terrace were noisily involved in

their own conversations.  He did not touch the nachos.  This morning,

for the fourth time, he had awakened behind the furnace in the garage,

in a state of undiluted terror, and his continued inability to get

control of himself had left him dispirited and without an appetite.  By

the time he finished his tale, he had drunk only half the beer, for even

that rich, dark Mexican brew tasted flat and stale today.

Parker, on the other hand, had poured down three doubleshot margaritas

and already ordered a fourth.  However, the painter's attention was not

dulled by the alcohol he consumed.  "Jesus, buddy, why didn't you tell

me about this sooner, weeks ago?"

"I felt sort of .  .  .  foolish.

"Nonsense.  Bullshit," the painter insisted, gesturing expansively with

one huge hand, but keeping his voice low.

The Mexican waiter, a diminutive Wayne Newton lookalike, arrived with

Parker's margarita and inquired if they wished to order lunch.

"No, no.  Sunday lunch is an excuse to have too many margaritas, and I'm

a long way from having too many.  What a sad waste to order lunch after

only four margaritas!  That'd leave most of the afternoon unfilled, and

we'd find ourselves on the street with nothing to occupy us, and then

without doubt we'd get into trouble, attract the attention of the

police. God knows what might happen.  No, no.  To avoid jail and protect

our reputations, we must not order lunch sooner than three o'clock.  In

fact, bring me another margarita.  And another order of these

magnificent nachos, please.  More salsahotter if you've got it.  A dish

of chopped onions, too, please. And another beer for my dismayingly

restrained friend."

"No," Dom said.  "I'm only half-finished with this one."

"That's what I meant by 'dismayingly restrained,' you hopeless Puritan.

You've sucked at that one so long it must be warm."

Ordinarily, Dominick would have leaned back and enjoyed Parker Faine's

energetic performance.  The painter's ebullience, his unfailing

enthusiasm for life, was invigorating and amusing.  Today, however, Dom

was so troubled that he was not amused.

As the waiter turned away, a small cloud passed over the sun, and Parker

leaned in farther under the suddenly deeper shadow beneath the umbrella,

returning his attention to Dominick, as if he had read his companion's

mind.  "All right, let's brainstorm.  Let's find some sort of

explanation and figure out what to do.  You don't think the problem's

just related to stress ...  the upcoming publication of your book?"

"I did.  But not any more.  I mean, if the problem was just a mild one,

I might be able to accept that career worries lay behind it.  But,

Jesus, my concerns about Twilight just aren't great enough to generate

behavior this unusual, this obsessive .  .  .  this crazy.  I go walking

almost every night now, and it's not just the walking that's weird.  The

depth of my trance is incredible.  Few sleepwalkers are as utterly

comatose as I am, and few of them engage in such elaborate tasks as I

do. I mean, I was attempting to nail the windows shut!  And you don't

attempt to nail your windows shut just to keep out your worries about

your career."

"You may be more deeply worried about Twilight than you realize."

"No.  It doesn't make sense.  In fact, when the new book continued to go

well, my anxiety about Twilight started fading.  You can't sit there and

honestly tell me you think all this middle-of-the-night lunacy springs

just from a few career worries."

"No, I can't," Parker agreed.

"I crawl into the backs of those closets to hide.  And when I wake up

behind the furnace, when I'm still half-asleep, I have the feeling that

something's stalking me, searching for me, something that'll kill me if

it finds my hidey-hole.  A couple of mornings I woke up trying to scream

but unable to get it out.  Yesterday, I woke up shouting, 'Stay away,

stay away, stay away!" And this morning, the knife .  .  ."

"Knife?" Parker said.  "You didn't tell me about a knife."

"Woke up behind the furnace, hiding again.  Had a butcher's knife.  I'd

removed it from the rack in the kitchen while I was sleeping."

"For protection?  From what?"

"From whatever .  .  .  from whoever's stalking me."

"And who is stalking you?"

Dom shrugged.  "Nobody that I'm aware of."

"I don't like this.  You could've cut yourself, maybe badly."

"That's not what scares me the most."

"So what scares you the most?"

Dom looked around at the other people on the terrace. Though some had

followed Parker Faine's bit of theater with the waiter, no one was now

paying the least attention to him or Dominick.

"What scares you the most?" Parker repeated.

"That I might .  .  .  might cut someone else."

Incredulous, Faine said, "You mean take a butcher's knife and ...  go on

a murdering rampage in your sleep?  No chance."

He gulped his margarita.  "Good heavens, what a melodramatic notion!

Thankfully, your fiction is not quite so sloppily imagined.  Relax, my

friend.  You're not the homicidal type."

"I didn't think I was the sleepwalking type, either."

"Oh, bullshit.  There's an explanation for this.  You're not mad. Madmen

never doubt their sanity."

"I think I'm going to have to see a psychiatrist, a counselor of some

kind.  And have a few medical tests."

"The medical tests, yes.  But put a hold on the psychiatrist. That's a

waste of time.  You're no more neurotic than psychotic."

The waiter returned with more nachos, salsa, a dish of chopped onions, a

beer, and a fifth margarita.

Parker surrendered his empty glass, took the full one.  He scooped up

some of the corn chips with generous globs of guacamole and sour cream,

spooned some onions on top, and ate with an appreciation only one step

removed from manic glee.

"I wonder if this problem of yours is somehow related to the changes you

underwent two summers ago."

Puzzled, Dom said, "What changes?"

"You know what I'm talking about.  When I first met you in Portland six

years ago, you were a pale, retiring, unadventurous slug."

"Slug?"

"It's true, and you know it.  You were bright, talented, but a slug

nonetheless.  You know why you were a slug?  I'll tell you why.  You had

all those brains and all that talent, but you were afraid to use them.

You were afraid of competition, failure, success, life.  You just wanted

to plod along, unnoticed.  You dressed drably, spoke almost inaudibly,

dreaded calling attention to yourself.  You took refuge in the academic

world because there was less competition there.  God, man, you were a

timid rabbit burrowing in the earth and curling up in its den."

"Oh, yeah?  If I was all that disgusting, why on earth did you ever go

out of your way to strike up a friendship with me?"

"Because, you thick-headed booby, I saw through your masquerade.  I saw

beyond the timidity, saw through the practiced dullness and the mask of

insipidness.  I sensed something special in you, saw glimpses and

glimmers of it.  That's what I do, you know.  I see what other people

can't.  That's what any good artist does.  He sees what most cannot."

"And you called me insipid?"

"It's true-about what an artist does and about you being a rabbit.

Remember how long you knew me before you found enough confidence to

admit being a writer?  Three months!"

"Well, in those days, I wasn't really a writer."

"You had drawers full of stories!  More than a hundred short stories,

not one of which had ever been submitted to any publication anywhere!

Not just because you were afraid of rejection.  You were afraid of

acceptance, too.  Afraid of success.  How many months did I have to

hammer at you till you finally sent a couple to market?"

"I don't remember."

"I do.  Six months!  I wheedled and cajoled and demanded and pushed and

nagged until you broke down and started submitting stories.  I'm a

persuasive character, but prying you out of your rabbit hole was almost

beyond even my formidable talent for persuasion."

With an almost obscene enthusiasm, Parker scooped up dripping masses of

nachos and stuffed himself.  After slurping his margarita, he said,

"Even when your short stories started selling, you wanted to stop.  I

had to push you constantly. And after I left Oregon and came back here,

when I left you on your own again, you only continued to submit stories

for a few months.  Then you crawled back into your rabbit hole."

Dom did not argue because everything the painter said was true.  After

leaving Oregon and returning to his home in Laguna, Parker continued to

encourage Dom through letters and phone calls, but long-distance

encouragement was insufficient to motivate him.  He'd convinced himself

that, after all, he was not a writer worthy of publication, in spite of

more than a score of sales he'd racked up in less than a year.  He

stopped sending his stories to magazines and quickly fabricated another

shell to replace the one Parker had helped him break out of.  Though he

was still compelled to produce stories, he reverted to his previous

habit of consigning them to his deepest desk drawer, with no thought of

marketing them. Parker had continued to urge him to write a novel, but

Dom had been certain that his talent was too humble and that he was too

lacking in self-discipline to tackle such a large and complex project.

He tucked his head down once more, spoke softly, walked softly, and

tried to live a life that was largely beneath notice.

"But the summer before last, all of that changed," Parker said.

"Suddenly you throw away your teaching career.  You take the plunge and

become a full-time writer.  Almost overnight, you change from an

accountant type to a risk-taker, a Bohemian.  Why?  You've never been

clear about that.  Why?"

Dominick frowned, considered the question for a moment, and was

surprised that he had not thought about it much before this.  "I don't

know why.  I really don't know."

At the University of Portland, he had been up for tenure, had felt that

he would not be given it, and had grown panicky at the prospect of being

cast loose from his sheltered moorings.  Obsessed with keeping a low

profile, he had faded too completely from the notice of the campus

movers-and-shakers, and when the time arrived for the tenure board to

consider him, they had begun to question whether he had embraced the

University with sufficient enthusiasm to warrant a grant of lifetime

employment.  Dom was enough of a realist to see that, if the board

refused tenure, he would find it difficult to obtain a position at

another university, for the hiring committee would want to know why he

had been turned down at Portland.  In an uncharacteristic burst of

self-promotion, hoping to slip out from under the university's ax before

it fell, he applied for positions at institutions in several Western

states, emphasizing his published stories because that was the only

thing worth emphasizing.

Mountainview College in Utah, with a student body of only four thousand,

had been so impressed by the list of magazines in which he had published

that they flew him from Portland for an interview.  Dom made a

considerable effort to be more outgoing than he had ever been before. He

was offered a contract to teach English and creative writing with

guaranteed tenure.  He had accepted, if not with enormous delight then

at least with enormous relief.

Now, on the terrace of Las Brisas, as the California sun slid out from

behind a band of white jeweled clouds, he took a sip of his beer,

sighed, and said, "I left Portland late in June that year.  I had a

U-Haul trailer hooked to the car, just a small one, filled mostly with

books and clothes.  I was in a good mood.  Didn't feel as if I'd failed

at Portland.  Not at all.  I just felt .  .  .  well, that I was getting

a fresh start.  I was really looking forward to life at Mountainview. In

fact, I don't remember ever being happier than the day I hit the road."

Parker Faine nodded knowingly.  "Of course you were happy!

You had tenure in a hick school, where not much would be expected of

you, where your introversion would be excused as an artist's

temperament."

"A perfect rabbit hole, huh?"

"Exactly.  So why didn't you wind up teaching in Mountainview?"

"I told you before .  .  .  at the last minute, when I got there the

second week in July, I just couldn't bear the idea of going on with the

kind of life I'd had before.  I was tired of being a mouse, a rabbit."

"Just like that, you were repelled by the low-key life.  Why?"

"It wasn't very fulfilling."

"But why were you tired of it all of a sudden?"

"I don't know."

"You must have some idea.  Haven't you thought about it a lot?"

"Surprisingly, I haven't," Dom said.  He stared out to sea for a long

moment, watching a dozen sailboats and a large yacht as they moved

majestically along the coast.  "I just now realized how amazingly little

I've thought about it.  Strange I'm usually too self-analytical for my

own good, but in this case I've never probed very deeply."

"Ah ha!" Parker exclaimed.  "I knew I was on the right trail!  The

changes you went through then are somehow related to the problems you're

having now.  So go on.  So you told the people at Mountainview that you

didn't want their job any more?"

"They weren't happy."

"And you took a tiny apartment in town."

"One room, plus kitchen and bath.  Not much of a place. Nice view of the

mountains, though."

"Decided to live on your savings while you wrote a novel?"

"There wasn't a lot in the bank, but I'd always been frugal."

"Impulsive behavior.  Risky.  And not a damn bit like you," Parker said.

"So why did you do it?  What changed you?"

"I guess it was building for a long time.  By the time I got to

Mountainview, my dissatisfaction was so great that I had to change."

Parker leaned back in his chair.  "No good, my friend. There must be

more to it than that.  Listen, by your own admission, you were as happy

as a pig in shit when you left Portland with your U-Haul.  You had a job

with a livable salary, guaranteed tenure, in a place where no one was

ever going to demand too much of you.  All you had to do was settle down

in Mountainview and disappear.  But by the time you got there, you

couldn't wait to throw it all over, move into a garret, and risk

eventual starvation, all for your art. What the hell happened to you

during that long drive to Utah?

Something must've given you a real jolt, something big enough to knock

you out of your complacency."

"Nope.  It was an uneventful trip."

"Not inside your head, it wasn't."

Dominick shrugged.  "As far as I remember, I just relaxed, enjoyed the

drive, took my time, looked at the scenery.  .  .  ."

"Amigo!" Parker roared, startling their waiter, who was passing by. "Uno

margarita!  And another cerveza for my friend."

"No, no," Dom said.  "- I"

"You haven't finished that beer," Parker said.  "I know, I know.  But

you are going to finish it and drink another, and gradually you're going

to loosen up, and we're going to get to the bottom of this sleepwalking.

I'm sure it's related to the changes you underwent the summer before

last.  You know why I'm so sure?  I'll tell you why I'm so sure.  Nobody

under goes two personality crises in two years for utterly unrelated

reasons.  The two have to be tied together somehow."

Dom grimaced.  "I wouldn't exactly call this a personality crisis."

"Oh, wouldn't you?" Leaning forward, lowering his shaggy head, putting

all the force of his powerful personality behind the question, Parker

said, "Wouldn't you really call it a crisis, my friend?"

Dom sighed.  "Well .  .  .  yeah.  I guess maybe I would.  A crisis."

They left Las Brisas late that afternoon, without arriving at any

answers.  That night, when he went to bed, he was filled with dread,

wondering where he would find himself in the morning.

And in the morning, he virtually exploded out of sleep with a shrill

scream and found himself in total, claustrophobic darkness.  Something

had hold of him, something cold and clammy and strange and alive.  He

struck out blindly, flailed and clawed, twisted and kicked, freed

himself, scrambled away in panic, through the cloying blackness, on his

hands and knees, until he collided with a wall.  The lightless room

reverberated with thunderous pounding and shouting, an unnerving

cacophony, the source of which he could not identify. He scrambled along

the baseboard until he came to a junction of walls, where he put his

back into the corner and faced out upon the lightless chamber, certain

that the clammy creature would leap on him from the gloom.

What was in the room with him?

The noise grew louder: shouting, hammering, a crash followed by a

clatter-rattle of wood, more shouting, and another crash.

Still groggy from sleep, his senses distorted by hysteria and excess

adrenaline, Dom was convinced that the thing from which he had been

hiding had at last come for him.  He had tried to fool it by sleeping in

closets and behind the furnace. But tonight it would not be deceived: it

meant to have him; he could hide no longer; the end had come.

From the darkness, someone or something shouted his name-"Dom!"-and he

realized that someone had been calling to him for the last minute or

two, maybe longer.

"Dominick, answer me!"

Another'shuddering crash.  The brittle crack of splintering wood.

Huddling in the corner, Dom finally woke completely.  The clammy

creature had not been real.  A figment of a dream. He recognized the

voice calling to him as that of Parker Faine. Even as the residual

hysteria of his nightmare subsided, another crash, the loudest of all,

generated a chain-reaction of destruction, a

crackling-sliding-scraping-toppling-crashingbooming-clattering-rattling

that culminated with the opening of a door and the intrusion of light

into the darkness.

Dom squinted against the glare and saw Parker silhouetted like some

hulking troll in the bedroom door, the hall light behind him.  The door

had been locked, and Parker had forced it, had thrown himself against it

until the lock disintegrated.

"Dominick, buddy, are you okay?"

The door had been barricaded as well, which had made entrance even more

difficult.  Dom saw that, in his sleep, he had evidently moved the

dresser in front of the door, had stacked the two nightstands atop the

dresser, and had put the bedroom armchair in front of it.  Those

overturned pieces of furniture now lay on the floor in a jumbled heap.

Parker stepped into the room.  "Buddy?  Are you all right?

You were screaming.  I could hear you clear out in the driveway."

"A dream."

"Must've been a lulu."

"I can't remember what it was," Dom said, remaining on the floor, in the

corner, too exhausted and weak-kneed to get up.  "You're a sight for

sore eyes, Parker.  But ...  what on earth are you doing here?"

Parker blinked.  "Don't you know?  You phoned me.  Not more than ten

minutes ago.  You were shouting for help.  You said they were here and

were going to get you.  Then you hung up."

Dom felt humiliation settle over him as if it were a painful burn.

"Ah, so you did make the call in your sleep," the painter said. "Thought

as much.  You sounded ...  not yourself.  Maybe I should've called the

police, but I suspected this sleepwalking thing.  Knew you wouldn't want

it brought into the open in front of strangers, a bunch of cops."

"I'm out of control, Parker.  Something's .  .  .  snapping inside me."

"That's enough of that crap.  I won't listen to any more of it."

Dom felt like a helpless child.  He was afraid he was going to cry.  He

bit his tongue, squeezed back the tears, cleared his throat, and said,

"What time is it?"

"A few minutes after four.  Middle of the night." Parker looked toward

the window and frowned.

Following the other man's gaze, Dom saw that the draperies were drawn

tight shut and that the highboy had been moved in front of the window,

barring entrance by that route.  He had been busy in his sleep.

"Oh, Christ," Parker said, moving to the bed, where he stopped, a vivid

expression of shock on his broad face.  "This is no good, my friend.

This is no good at all."

Holding on to the wall, Dom rose shakily to his feet to see what Parker

was talking about, but when he saw it, he wished he had remained on the

floor.  An arsenal was laid out on the bed: the .22 automatic that he

usually kept in his nightstand; a butcher's knife; two other meat

knives; a cleaver; a hammer; the ax he used for splitting firewood and

which, the last he remembered, had been in the garage.

Parker said, "What were you expecting-a Soviet invasion?  What frightens

you so?"

"I don't know.  Something in my nightmares."

"So what do you dream about?"

"I don't know."

"You can't remember any of it?"

"No." He shivered again, violently.

Parker came to him, put a hand on his shoulder.  "You better take a

shower, get dressed.  I'll start rustling up some breakfast.  Okay? Then

I .  .  .  I think we'd better pay a visit to that doctor of yours as

soon as his office opens.  I think he's got to take a second look at

you."

Dominick nodded.

It was December 2.

December 2-December 16

Boston, Massachusetts

Viola Fletcher, a fifty-eight-year-old elementary-school teacher, mother

of two daughters, wife of a devoted husband, a wry and witty woman with

an infectious laugh, was silent now and still, lying on the operating

table, unconscious, her life in Dr.  Ginger Weiss's hands.

Ginger's entire life had been a funnel, focusing on this moment: for the

first time, she was assuming the senior surgeon's role in a major and

complicated procedure .  Years of arduous education, an immeasurable

weight of hopes and dreams, lay behind her ascension to this moment. She

had a prideful yet humbling sense of just how great a distance her

journey had covered.

And she was half sick with dread.

Mrs.  Fletcher had been anesthetized and draped in cool green sheets.

None of the patient's body was visible except that portion of her torso

on which surgery would be performed, a neat square of flesh painted with

iodine and framed by lime-colored cloth.  Even her face was out of sight

beneath tented sheeting, as an added precaution against airborne

contamination of the wound that would shortly be made in her abdomen.

The effect was to depersonalize the patient, and perhaps that was in

part the intent of the draping, as well, thereby sparing the surgeon the

need to look upon the human face of agony and death if, God forbid,-his

skill and education should fail him.

On Ginger's right, Agatha Tandy, the surgical technician, stood ready

with spreaders, rakes, hemostats, scalpels, and other instruments.  On

her left, a scrub nurse was prepared to assist.  Another scrub nurse,

the circulating nurse, the anesthesiologist, and his nurse also waited

for the procedure to begin.

George Hannaby stood on the other side of the table, looking less like a

doctor than like the former star fullback on a pro football team.  His

wife, Rita, had once talked him into playing Paul Bunyan in a comedy

sketch for a hospital charity show, and he had appeared at home in

woodsman's boots, jeans, and a red plaid shirt.  He brought with him an

aura of strength, calmness, and competency that was most reassuring.

Ginger held out her right hand.

Agatha put a scalpel in it.

A keen, thin, bright curve of light outlined the razor-sharp edge of the

instrument.

Hand poised over the score lines on the patient's torso, Ginger

hesitated and took a deep breath.

George's stereo tape deck stood on a small table in the corner, and

familiar strains of Bach issued from the speakers.

She was remembering the ophthalmoscope, the shiny black gloves.  .  .  .

However, as frightening as those incidents had been, they had not

utterly destroyed her self-confidence.  She had felt fine ever since the

most recent attack: strong, alert, energetic. If she had noticed the

slightest weariness or fuzzy-mindedness, she would have canceled this

procedure.  On the other hand, she had not acquired her education, had

not worked seven days a week all these years, only to throw away her

future because of two aberrant moments of stress-related hysteria.

Everything was going to be fine, just fine.

The wall clock said seven-forty-two.  Time to get on with it.

She made the-first cut.  With hemostats and clamps and a faultless skill

that always surprised her, she moved deeper, constructing a shaft

through skin, fat, and muscle, into the center of the patient's belly.

Soon the incision was large enough to accommodate both her hands and

those of her assisting physician, George Hannaby, if his help should be

required. The scrub nurses moved close to the table, one on each side,

grasped the sculpted handles of the retractors, and pulled back gently

on them, drawing apart the walls of the wound.

Agatha Tandy picked up a fluffy, absorbent cloth and quickly blotted

Ginger's forehead, careful to avoid the jeweler's lenses that protruded

from her operating glasses.

Above his mask, George's eyes squinted in a smile.  He was not sweating.

He seldom did.

Ginger swiftly tied off bleeders and removed clamps, and Agatha ordered

new supplies from the circulating nurse.

In the brief blank spaces between Bach's concertos and in the silence at

the end of the tape before it was turned over, the loudest sounds in the

tile-walled room were the sibilant exhalations and groaning inhalations

of the artificial lung machine that breathed for Viola Fletcher.  The

patient could not breathe for herself because she was paralyzed by a

curarederived muscle relaxant.  Though entirely mechanical, those sounds

possessed a haunting quality that made it impossible for Ginger to

overcome her apprehension.

On other days, when George cut, there was more talk.  He traded quips

with the nurses and the assisting resident, using light banter to reduce

the tension without also reducing concentration on the vital task at

hand.  Ginger was simply not up to that sort of dazzling performance,

which seemed akin to playing basketball, chewing gum, and solving

difficult mathematical problems at the same time.

Having completed the excursion into the belly, she ran the colon with

both hands and determined that it was healthy. With damp gauze pads

provided by Agatha, Ginger cradled the intestines, placed the hoe-like

blades of the retractors against them, and turned them over to the scrub

nurses, who held them out of the way, thus exposing the aorta, the main

trunkline of the body's arterial system.

From the chest, the aorta entered the belly through the diaphragm,

running parallel to the spine.  Immediately above the groin, it split

into two iliac arteries leading to the femoral arteries in the legs.

"There it is," Ginger said.  "An aneurysm.  Just like in the X rays." As

if to confirm it, she glanced at the patient's X ray that was fixed on

the light screen,'on the wall at the foot of the operating table.  "A

dissecting aneurysm, just above the aortic saddle."

Agatha blotted Ginger's forehead.

The aneurysm, a weakness in the wall of the aorta, had permitted the

artery to bulge outward on both sides, forming a dumbbell-shaped

extrusion full of blood, which beat like a second heart.  This condition

caused difficulty in swallowing, extreme shortness of breath, severe

coughing, and chest pains; and if the bulging vessel burst, death

followed swiftly.

As Ginger stared at the pulsing aneurysm, an almost religious sense of

mystery overcame her, a profound awe, as if she had stepped out of the

real world into a mystic sphere, where the very meaning of life was soon

to be revealed to her.  Her feeling of power, of transcendence, rose

from the realization that she could do battle with death-and win. Death

was lurking there in the body of her patient right now, in the form of

the throbbing aneurysm, a dark bud waiting to flower, but she had the

skill and training to banish it.

From a sterile package, Agatha Tandy had taken a section of artificial

aorta-a thick, ribbed tube that split into two smaller tubes, the iliac

arteries.  It was woven entirely of Dacrol.  Ginger positioned it over

the wound, trimmed it to fit with a pair of small sharp scissors, and

returned it to the technician.  Agatha put the white graft in a shallow

stainlesssteel tray that already contained some of the patient's blood,

and swished it back and forth to wet it thoroughly.

The graft would be allowed to soak until it had clotted a bit.  Once it

was installed in the patient, Ginger would run some blood through it,

clamp it, allow that blood to clot a bit more, then flush it out before

actually sewing it in place. The thin layer of clotted blood would help

prevent seepage, and in time the steady flow of blood would form a

neointima, a leak-proof new lining virtually indistinguishable from that

in a real artery.  The amazing thing was that the Dacron vessel was not

merely an adequate substitute for the damaged section of aorta but was,

in fact, actually superior to what nature had provided; five hundred

years from now, when nothing remained of Viola Fletcher but dust and

time-worn bones, the Dacron graft would still be intact, still flexible

and strong.

Agatha blotted Ginger's forehead.

"How do you feel?" George asked.

"Fine," Ginger said.

"Tense?"

"Not really," she lied.

He said, "It's a genuine pleasure watching you work, Doctor."

"I'll second that," said one of the scrub nurses.

"Me, too," the other said.

"Thanks," Ginger said, surprised and pleased.

George said, "You have a certain grace in surgery, a lightness of touch,

a splendid sensitivity of hand and eye that is, I'm sorry to say, not at

all common in the profession."

Ginger knew that he never gave voice to an insincere compliment, but

coming from such a stern taskmaster, this bordered on excessive

flattery.  By God, George Hannaby was proud of her!  That realization

flooded her with warm emotion.  If she had been anywhere but in an

operating room, tears would have come to her eyes, but here she kept a

tighter rein on her feelings.  However, the intensity of her reaction to

his words made her aware of how completely he had filled the role of

father-figure in her life; she took nearly as much satisfaction from his

praise as she would have taken if it had come from Jacob Weiss himself.

Ginger proceeded with the operation in better spirits.  The disturbing

possibility of a seizure slowly receded from her thoughts, and greater

confidence allowed her to work with even more grace than before. Nothing

could go wrong now.

She set about methodically controlling the flow of blood through the

aorta, carefully exposing and temporarily clamping all branching

vessels, using thin elastic loops of extremely pliable plastic tubing to

valve off the smaller vessels, placing mosquito clamps and bulldog

clamps on the larger arteries, including the iliacs and the aorta

itself.  In little less than an hour, she had stopped all blood flow

through the aorta to the patient's legs, and the throbbing aneurysm had

ceased its mocking imitation of the heart.

With a small scalpel, she punctured the aneurysm, releasing a pool of

blood; the aorta deflated.  She sliced it open along its anterior wall.

At that moment, the patient was without an aorta, more helpless and more

dependent upon the surgeon than at any other time.  There was no going

back now.  From this point on, the operation must be conducted not only

with the greatest care but with the most prudent speed.

A hush had fallen on the surgical team.  What little conversation there

had been now ceased.  The Bach tape had reached the end again, and no

one moved to turn it over. Time was measured by the wheezing and sucking

of the artificial lung machine and by the beeping of the EKG.

Ginger removed the Dacron graft from the steel tray, where it had been

soaking up blood and clotting precisely as desired.

She sewed the top of it into the aortal trunk, using an extremely fine

thread.  Then, with the top of the graft sewn in place and the

unattached bottom clamped off, Ginger filled it with blood to let it

clot again.

Throughout these steps of the operation, it had not been necessary for

Ginger to have the sweat blotted from her forehead.  She hoped that

George noticed her new dryness-she was sure he did.

Without needing to be told that it was once again time for music, the

circulating nurse reset the Bach tape.

Hours of work lay ahead of Ginger, but she pressed on without the least

weariness.  She moved down the draped body, folding back the green

sheets,,revealing both of the patient's thighs.  With the help of the

circulating nurse, Agatha had replenished the instrument tray and was

ready now with everything that Ginger needed to make two more incisions,

one in each of the patient's legs, below the inguineal creases, where

the legs attached to the body trunk.  Clamping and tying off vessels,

Ginger eventually exposed and separated the remoral arteries.  As with

the aorta before, she used thin elastic tubing and a variety of clamps

to valve off the blood flow through these vascular fields, then opened

both arteries where the bifurcated legs of the graft would attach to

them.  A couple of times she caught herself humming along happily with

the music, and the ease with which she worked made it seem almost as if

she had been a surgeon in an earlier life, now reincarnated into the

elite brotherhood of the caduceus, predestined for this labor.

But she should have remembered her father and his aphorisms, the bits of

wisdom that he had collected and with which he had gently lectured or

patiently admonished her on those rare occasions when she had been less

than well behaved Or when she had failed to do her very best in school.

Time waits for no man; God helps those who help themselves; a penny

saved is a penny earned; resentment hurts only those who harbor it,-

judge not that ye be not judged....  He had a thousand of them, but

there was none he liked better and none he repeated more often than this

one: Pride goeth before a great fall.

She should have remembered those six words.  The operation was going so

well, and she was so happy with her work,

so proud of her performance in this first major solo flight, that she

forgot about the inevitable great fall.

Returning to the opened abdomen, she unclamped the bottom of the Dacron

graft, flushed it out, then tunneled the twin legs of it beneath the

untouched flesh of the groin, beneath the inguineal creases, and into

the incisions she had made in the femoral arteries.  She stitched in

both terminuses of the bifurcated graft, unclamped the restricted

vascular network, and watched with delight as the pulse returned to the

patched aorta.  For twenty minutes, she searched for leaks and knitted

them up with fine, strong thread.  For another five minutes, she watched

closely, in silence, as the graft throbbed like any normal, healthy

arterial vessel, without any sign of chronic seepage.

At last she said, "Time to close up."

"Beautifully done," George said.

Ginger was glad she was wearing a surgical mask, for beneath it her face

was stretched by a smile so broad that she must have looked like the

proverbial grinning idiot.

She closed the incisions in the patient's legs.  She took the intestines

from the nurses, who were clearly exhausted and eager to relinquish the

retractors.  She replaced the guts in the body and gently ran them once

again, searching for irregularities but finding none.  The rest was

easy: laying fat and muscle back in place, closing up, layer by layer,

until the original incision was drawn shut with heavy black cord.

The anesthesiologist's nurse undraped Viola Fletcher's head.

The anesthesiologist untaped her eyes, turned off the anesthesia.

The circulating nurse cut Bach off in mid-passage.

Ginger looked at Mrs.  Fletcher's face, pale now but not unusually

drawn.  The mask of the respirator was still on her face, but she was

getting only an oxygen mixture.

The nurses backed away and skinned off their rubber gloves.

Viola Fletcher's eyelids fluttered, and she groaned.

"Mrs.  Fletcher?" the anesthesiologist said loudly.

The patient did not respond.

"Viola?" Ginger said.  "Can you hear me, Viola?"

The woman's eyes did not open, but though she was more asleep than

awake, her lips moved, and in a fuzzy voice she said, "Yes, Doctor."

Ginger accepted congratulations from the team and left the room with

George.  As they stripped off their gloves, pulled off their masks, and

removed their caps, she felt as if she were filled with helium, in

danger of breaking loose of the bonds of gravity.  But with each step

toward the scrub sinks in the surgical hall, she became less buoyant.  A

tremendous exhaustion settled over her.  Her neck and shoulders ached.

Her back was sore.  Her legs were stiff, and her feet were tired.

"My God," she said, "I'm pooped!"

"You should be," George said.  "You started at seventhirty, and it's

past the lunch hour.  An aortal graft is damned debilitating."

"You feel this way when you've done one?"

"Of course."

"But it hit me so suddenly.  In there, I felt great.  I felt I could go

on for hours yet."

"In there," George said with evident affection and amusement, "you were

godlike, dueling with death and winning, and no god ever grows weary.

Godwork is too much fun to ever get weary of it."

At the sinks, they turned on the water, took off the surgical gowns

they'd worn over their hospital greens, and broke open packets of soap.

As Ginger began to wash her hands, she leaned wearily against the sink

and bent forward a bit, so she was looking straight down at the drain,

at the water swirling around the stainless-steel basin, at the bubbles

of soap whirling with the water, all of it funneling into the drain,

around and around and down into the drain, around and down, down and

down.  .  .  .  This time, the irrational fear struck and overwhelmed

her with even less warning than at Bernstein's Deli or in George's

office last Wednesday.  In an instant her at-' tention had become

entirely focused upon the drain.  which appeared to throb and grow wider

as if it were suddenly possessed of malignant life.

She dropped the soap and, with a bleat of terror, jumped back from the

sink, collided with Agatha Tandy, cried out again.  She vaguely heard

George calling her name.  But he was fading away in the manner of an

image on a motion picture screen, retreating into a mist, as if he were

part of a scene that was dissolving to a full-lens shot of steam or

clouds or fog, and he no longer seemed real.  Agatha Tandy and the

hallway and the doors to the surgery were fading, too.  Everything was

fading but the sink, which appeared to grow larger and more solid,

super-real.  A sense of mortal danger settled over her.  But it was just

an ordinary scrub sink, for God's sake, and she had to hold on to that

truth, clutch at the cliff of reality and resist the forces pulling her

over the edge.  Just a sink.  Just an ordinary drain.  Just She ran.

From every side, the mist closed around her, and she lost all conscious

awareness of her actions.

The first thing she became aware of was the snow.  Large white flakes

sifted past her face, gently turning, lazily eddying toward the ground

in the manner of fluffy airborne dandelion seeds, for there was no wind

to drive them.  She raised her head, looked up beyond the towering walls

of the old highrise buildings that shouldered in around her, and saw a

rectangular patch of low gray sky, from which the snow descended.  As

she stared into the winter heavens, momentarily confused as to her

whereabouts and condition, her hair and eyebrows grew white.  Flakes

melted on her face, but she slowly realized that her cheeks were already

wet with tears and that she was still weeping quietly.

Gradually, the cold impinged upon her.  In spite of the absence of wind,

the air was sharp-toothed; it bit her cheeks, nipped her chin, and her

hands were numb from the cold venom of countless bites.  The chill

penetrated her hospital greens, and she was shivering uncontrollably.

Next she became aware of the freezing concrete beneath her and the

ice-cold brick wall against her back.  She was squeezed into a corner,

facing out, knees drawn up to her chin, arms locked around her legs-a

posture of defense and terror.  Her body heat was being leeched away

through every contact point with pavement and masonry, but she did not

have the strength or will to get to her feet and go inside.

She remembered fixating upon the drain of the scrub sink. With

unmitigated despair, she recalled the mindless panic, her collision with

Agatha Tandy, the startled look on George Hannaby's face as he had

reacted to her screams.  Although the rest was a blank, she supposed she

had then taken flight from imaginary dangers, like some madwoman, to the

shock of her colleagues-and to the certain destruction of her career.

She pressed harder against the brick wall, wishing that it would suck

away her body heat even faster.

She was sitting at the end of a wide alley, a blind serviceway that led

into the core of the hospital complex.  To her left, double metal doors

led into the furnace room, and beyond those was the exit from the

emergency stairs.

Inevitably, she was reminded of her encounter with a mugger during her

internship at Columbia Presbyterian in New York.  That night, he had

dragged her into an alleyway much like this.  However, in the New York

alleyway, she had been in command, victorious-while here she was a

loser, descendant rather than ascendant, weak and lost.  She perceived a

bleak irony and a frightening symmetry in having been brought to the

lowest point of her life in such a place as this.

Premed, medical school, the long hours and hardships of her intern year,

all the work and sacrifices, all the hopes and dreams had been for

nothing.  At the last minute, with a surgical career almost within her

grasp, she had failed George, Anna, Jacob, and herself.  She could no

longer deny the truth or ignore the obvious: Something was wrong with

her, something so desperately wrong that it would surely preclude the

resumption of a life in medicine.  Psychosis?  A brain tumor?

Perhaps an aneurysm in the brain?

The door to the emergency stairs was flung open with a rattle and a

screech of unoiled hinges, and George Hannaby came out into the snow,

breathing hard.  He took several quick steps into the alley, heedless of

the risk posed by the quarterinch skin of slippery new snow.  The sight

of her was sufficiently shocking to bring him to a lurching halt.  A

ghastly expression lined his face, and Ginger supposed he was regretting

the extra time and attention and special guidance that he had given her.

He had thought she was especially bright and good and worthy, but now

she had proved him wrong.  He had been so kind to her and so supportive

that her betrayal of his trust, although beyond her control, filled her

with self-loathing and brought more hot tears to her eyes.

"Ginger?" he said shakily.  "Ginger, what's wrong?"

She was able to respond only with a wretched, involuntary sob.

Seen through her tears, he shimmered, blurred.  She wished he'd go away

and leave her to stew in humiliation.  Didn't he know how much worse it

was to have him staring at her while she was in this condition?

The snow was falling harder.  Other people appeared in the doorway

through which he had come, but she could not identify them.

"Ginger, please talk to me," George said as he drew near. "What's wrong?

Tell me what's wrong.  Tell me what I can do."

She bit her lip, tried to repress her tears, but instead she began to

sob harder than ever.  In a thin, blubbery voice that sickened her with

proof of her own weakness, she said, "SSomething's wrong with me."

George stooped down in front of her.  "What?  What's wrong?"

"don't know."

She had always been able to handle any trouble that came her way,

unassisted.  She was Ginger Weiss.  She was different. She was a golden

girl.  She didn't know how to ask for help of this kind, of this degree.

Still stooping in front of her, George said, "Whatever it is, we can

work it out.  I know you're fiercely proud of your selfreliance.  You

listening, kid?  I've always stepped carefully when I'm with you because

I know you resent being helped along too much.  You want to do it all

yourself.  But this time you simply can't handle it alone, and you don't

have to.  I'm here, and by God you're going to lean on me whether you

like it or not.  You hear?"

"I ...  I've ruined everything.  I've (I-disappointed you."

He found a small smile.  "Not you, dear girl.  Not ever.  Rita and I

have had all sons, but if we could've had a daughter, we would've hoped

for one like you.  Exactly like you.  You're a special woman, Dr. Weiss,

a dear and special woman.  Disappoint me?  Impossible.  I would consider

it an honor and a pleasure if you would lean on me now, just as if you

were my daughter, and let me help you through this as if I were the

father you've lost."

He held out a hand to her.

She grasped it and held on tightly.

It was Monday, December 2.

Many weeks would pass before she learned that other people in other

places-all strangers to her-were living through eerie variations of her

own nightmare.

2.

Trenton, New Jersey

A few minutes before midnight, Jack Twist opened the door and left the

warehouse, stepping into the wind and sleet, and some guy was just

getting out of a gray Ford van at the foot of the nearest loading ramp.

The van's arrival had been masked by the rumble of a passing freight

train.  The night was deep around the warehouse, except for four meager

patches of murky yellow light from poorly maintained, grime-dimmed

security lamps.  Unfortunately, one of those lights was directly over

the door through which Jack had exited, and its sickly glow reached

precisely far enough to include the passenger's door of the van, out of

which the unexpected visitor had appeared.

The guy had a face made for police mug books: heavy jaw, a mouth that

was hardly more than a slash, a nose that had been broken a couple of

times, and hard little pig eyes.  He was one of those obedient but

pitiless sadists that the mob employed as enforcers, a man who, in other

times, might have been a rape and pillage specialist in the armies of

Genghis Khan, a grinning Nazi thug, a torture master in one of Stalin's

death camps, or a Morlock from the future as imagined by H.  G.  Wells

in The Time Machine.  To Jack, the guy looked like serious trouble.

They startled each other, and Jack did not immediately raise his .38 and

put a bullet in the bastard, which is what he should have done.

"Who the hell are you?" the Morlock asked.  Then he saw the canvas bag

that Jack was dragging with his left hand and the lowered pistol in

Jack's right hand.  His eyebrows shot up, and he shouted, "Max!,,

Max was probably the driver of the van, but Jack did not wait around for

formal introductions.  He did a quick reverse into the warehouse,

slammed the door shut, and stepped to the side of it in case someone out

there started using it for target practice.

The only light inside the warehouse came from the brightly lit office

far at the back of the building and from an overhead bank of widely

spaced, low-wattage bulbs set in tin shades, which were allowed to burn

all night.  But there was sufficient illumination for Jack to see the

faces of his two companionsMort Gersh and Tommy Sung-who had been

following him. They did not look as happy as they had been only a couple

of minutes ago.

They had been happy because they had successfully hit a major way

station on the route of the mafia cash train, a collection point for

narcotics money from half the state of New Jersey.  Suitcases and flight

bags and cardboard boxes and Styrofoam coolers full of cash arrived at

the warehouse from a score of couriers, most of it on Sunday and Monday.

Tuesdays, mob accountants in Pierre Cardin suits arrived to calculate

the week's profits from the pharmaceutical division. Every Wednesday,

suitcases full of tightly banded sacks of greenbacks went out to Miami,

Vegas, Los Angeles, New York, and other centers of high finance, where

investment advisers with Harvard or Columbia MBAS, on retainer to the

mafia-or fratellanza, as the underworld referred to itselfwisely put it

to work.  Jack, Mort, and Tommy had simply stepped in between the

accountants and the investment advisers, and had taken four heavy bags

full of cash for themselves.  "Just think of us as one more layer of

middlemen," Jack had told the three glowering thugs who were, even now,

tied up in the warehouse office, and Mort and Tommy had laughed.

Mort was not laughing now.  He was fifty years old, potbellied,

slump-shouldered, baking.  He wore a dark suit, pork-pie hat, and gray

overcoat.  He always wore a dark suit and pork-pie hat, though not

always the overcoat.  Jack had never seen him in anything else. Tonight,

Jack and Tommy were wearing jeans and quilted vinyl jackets, but there

was Mort looking like one of the guys in the background of an old Edward

G. Robinson movie.  The snapbrim of his hat had lost its sharp edge and

gone slightly soft, rather like Mort himself, and the suit was rumpled.

His voice was weary and dour.  He said, "Who's out there?" as Jack

slammed the door and stepped hastily away from it.

"At least two guys in a Ford van Jack said.

"Mob?"

"I only saw one of them," Jack said, "but he looked like one of Dr.

Frankenstein's experiments that didn't work out."

"At least all the doors are locked."

"They'll have keys."

The three of them moved quickly away from the exit, back into the deep

shadows in an aisle between piles of wooden crates and cardboard cartons

that were stacked on pallets. The merchandise formed twenty-foot-high

walls.  The warehouse was immense, with a wide array of goods stored

under its vaulted ceiling: hundreds of TV sets, microwave ovens,

blenders, and toasters by the thousands, tractor parts, plumbing

supplies, Cuisinarts, and more.  It was a clean, well-run establishment,

but as with any giant industrial building at night, the place was eerie

when all the workers were gone. Strange, whispery echoes floated along

the maze of aisles. Outside, the sleet fell harder than before, rustling

and ticking and tapping and hissing on the slate roof, as if a multitude

of unknown creatures moved through the rafters and inside the walls.

"I told you it was a mistake to hit the mob," Tommy Sung said.  He was a

Chinese-American, about thirty, which made him seven years younger than

Jack.  "Jewelry stores, armored cars, even banks, okay, but not the mob,

for God's sake.  It's stupid to hit the mob.  Might as well walk into a

bar full of Marines and spit on the flag."

"You're here," Jack said.

"Yeah, well," Tommy said, "I don't always show good judgment."

In a voice of doom and despair, Mort said, "A van shows up at this hour,

it means one thing.  They're delivering one kind of shit or another,

probably coke or horse.  Which means there won't be just the driver and

the ape you saw.  There'll be two other guys in the back of the van with

the merchandise, carrying converted Uzis or worse."

Tommy said, "Why aren't they already shooting their way in?"

"As far as they know," Jack said, "there's ten of us, and we have

bazookas.  They'll move cautiously."

"A truck used on dope runs is sure to have radio communications," Mort

said.  "They'll have already called for backup."

Tommy said, "You telling me the mafia has a fleet of radio vans like the

goddamned phone company or something?"

"These days, they're as organized as any business," Mort said.

They listened for sounds of purposeful human movement in farther reaches

of the building, but all they heard was sleet hitting the roof.

The .38 in Jack's hand suddenly felt like a toy.  Mort was carrying a

Smith & Wesson M39 9mm pistol, and Tommy had a Smith & Wesson Model 19

Combat Magnum that he had tucked inside his insulated jacket after the

men in the office had been securely tied up, when it had seemed that the

dangerous part of the job had been completed.  They were well armed, but

they were not ready to face down Uzis.  Jack remembered old

documentaries of hopelessly outclassed Hungarians trying to turn back

invading Russian tanks with rocks and sticks.  In times of trouble, Jack

Twist had a tendency to melodramatize his plight and, regardless of the

situation, to cast himself in the role of the noble underdog battling

the forces of evil.  He was aware of this tendency, and he thought it

was one of his most endearing qualities.  At the moment, however, their

position was so tenuous that there was no way to melodramatize it.

Mort's thoughts had led him to precisely the same consideration, for he

said, "There's no use trying to get out by any of the back doors.

They'll have split up by now-two in front, two in back."

The front and rear exits-both the regular doors and rollup cargo bay

doors-were the only ways out.  There were no openings, not even windows

or vents, on the sides of the enormous building, no basement and

therefore no basement exit, no way to get onto the roof.  In preparation

for the robbery, the three of them had studied detailed plans of the

building, and now they knew they were trapped.

Tommy said, "What are we going to do?"

The question was addressed to Jack Twist , not to Mort, because Jack

organized any robbery he took part in.  If unanticipated events required

improvisation, Jack was expected to come up with the brilliant ideas.

" Hey," Tommy said, taking a stab at brilliance himself,

why don't we go out the same way we got in!"

They had entered the building with a variation on the Trojan Horse ploy,

which was the only way to bypass the elaborate security systems that

were in operation at night.  The warehouse was a front for the illegal

drug trade, but it was also a real, functioning, profitable warehouse

that accepted regular shipments from legitimate businesses in need of

temporary storage for excess inventory.  Therefore, with the personal

computer and modern in his apartment, Jack had tapped into the computers

of both the warehouse and one of its reputable clients, and had created

the file of electronic paperwork that would legitimize the delivery of a

huge crate, which had arrived this morning and had been stored per

instructions.  He, Mort, and Tommy had been inside the crate, which had

been designed and constructed with five concealed exits, so they could

get out of it quietly even if it was blocked by other crates on four

sides.  A few minutes after eleven o'clock tonight, they had slipped out

and had surprised the tough guys in the office, who had been quite

confident that their multiple alarm systems and locked doors had

transformed the warehouse into an inviolable fortress.

"We could get back in the crate," Tommy said, "and when they finally

come in and don't find us, they'll go crazy trying to figure how we got

away.  By tomorrow night the heat'll be off.  Then we can slip out and

make our getaway."

"No good," Mort said sourly.  "They'll figure it out.  They'll search

this place until they find us."

"No good, Tommy," Jack agreed.  "Now, here's what I want you to

do.........  He quickly improvised an escape plan, and they assented to

it.

Tommy hurried to the master panel of light switches in the office, to

kill every light in the warehouse.

Jack and Mort dragged the four heavy bags of money toward the south end

of the long building, and the dry sound of canvas scraping along the

concrete floor echoed and reechoed through the chilly air.  At that far

end of the building, instead of more stacks of merchandise, there were

several trucks that had been parked in the interior staging area, where,

first thing in the morning, they would be loaded.  Jack and Mort were

less than halfway through the maze, still half a city block from the

semis, when the dim lights winked out and the warehouse was plunged into

unrelieved darkness. They paused long enough for Jack to switch on his

Eveready before continuing through the gloom.

Bearing his own flashlight, Tommy rejoined them and took one of the bags

from Jack, one from Mort.

The clicking impact and susurrant slide of sleet upon the roof began to

subside slightly as the storm entered a lull, and Jack thought he heard

the screech of brakes outside.  Could reinforcements have arrived so

soon?

The warehouse's interior loading zone contained four eighteen-wheelers:

a Peterbilt, a White, and two Mack trucks. Each of them faced out toward

a loading-bay door.

Jack went to the nearest Mack, dropped his sack of money, stepped up on

the running board, opened the door, and shone his flashlight inside,

along the dashboard.  The keys dangled from the ignition.  He had

expected as much.  Confident of their multilayered security system, the

warehouse employees did not believe there was any danger that one of

these vehicles might be stolen during the night.

Jack and Mort went to the other three trucks, found keys in all of them,

and started the engines.

In the cab of the first Mack, there was a sleeping berth behind the

seat, where one member of a long-distance driving team could catch a nap

while his partner took the wheel. Tommy Sung stowed the four bags of

money in that recess.

Jack returned to the Mack just as Tommy finished with the sacks.  He

settled in behind the wheel and switched off his flashlight.  Mort got

in on the passenger's side.  Jack started the engine but did not switch

on the headlights.

All four trucks were idling noisily now.

Carrying his flashlight, Tommy ran to the farthest of the four big

roll-down doors of the interior loading zone and touched the control

that started it moving laboriously upward on its track.  Jack watched

him tensely from the high seat of the big rig.  Tommy hurried back along

that outer wall, his progress marked by the bobbling beam of his flash,

slapping his right hand against the door controls as he came to each of

them.  Then, snapping off his flashlight, he bolted toward the Mack as

the four doors slowly lumbered open with much grating and clattering.

Outside, the Morlocks would know the doors were going up, would hear the

trucks' engines.  But they'd be looking into a dark building, and until

they could throw some light in here, they couldn't know which rig was

the intended escape vehicle.  They might spray all of the trucks with

submachinegun fire, but Jack was counting on gaining a few precious

seconds before they opted for that violent course of action.

Tommy clambered up into the cab of the Mack, pulling the door shut

behind him, sandwiching Mort between himself and Jack.

"Damn rollers move too slow," Mort said as the bay doors clattered

toward the ceiling, gradually revealing the sleetlashed night beyond.

"Drive through the sucker," Tommy urged.

Fastening his seatbelt, Jack said, "Can't risk getting hung up."

The door was one-third open.

Gripping the wheel with both hands again, Jack saw movement in the

murky, wintry world beyond, where the few dim exterior security lights

did little to push back the darkness. Two men hurried across the wet and

icy blacktop, from the left, slipping and skidding, both of them armed,

one of them with what appeared to be an Uzi.  They were trying to stay

low to make poor targets of themselves and trying to stay on their feet

at the same time, squinting into the black warehouse under the rising

bay doors, and as yet they had not thought of meeting the crisis with an

indiscriminate spray of bullets.

The first door, the one in front of Jack, was halfway up.

Abruptly, angling in from the left, the same direction from which the

two hoods had come, the gray Ford van appeared, its tires churning up

silvery plumes of slush.  It fishtailed to a stop between the second and

third ramps, blocking those exits.  Its front wheels were up on the

lower edge of the third ramp, so its headlights speared into the fourth

bay, revealing that the cab of that truck was untenanted.

In front of Jack, the door was two-thirds up.

"Keep your heads down," he said.

Mort and Tommy squeezed down as low as they could, and Jack hunched over

the wheel.  The heavy rolling panel was not all the way up, but he

thought he could slip under itwith a little luck.  In quick succession

he released the brakes, popped the clutch, and hit the accelerator.

The instant he put the truck in gear, those outside knew that the break

was being made from the first bay, and the night was shaken with the

rattle of gunfire.  Jack heard slugs slam into the truck as he reached

the exit, drove through, and headed down the concrete ramp, but none

penetrated the cab or shattered the windshield.

Below, another van, this one a Dodge, swept in at the foot of the

incline, trying to block his path.  Reinforcements had, indeed, arrived.

Instead of braking, Jack tramped down harder on the accelerator and

grinned at the horrified expressions of the men in the Dodge as the

massive grille of the Mack slammed into them.  The rig rammed the van

backward so hard that the smaller vehicle tipped over on its side and

slid fifteen or twenty feet across the macadam.

The impact jolted Jack, but his safety belt held him in check.  Mort and

Tommy were thrown forward, against the lower part of the dash and into

the cramped space below. They protested with cries of pain.

To execute that maneuver, Jack had been forced to descend the ramp

faster than he should have done, and now as he tried to wheel the truck

to the left, toward the lane leading away from the warehouse, the rig

lurched, swayed, threatened to either tear itself out of his control or

tip over as the Dodge had done.  Cursing, he held on to it, brought it

around with an effort that made his arms feel as if they were pulling

out of his shoulders, and then he was headed straight into the lane.

Ahead of him, three men stood around a midnight-blue Buick, and at least

two of them were armed.  They opened fire as he bore down on them.  One

man aimed too low, and bullets snapped off the top of the Mack's grille,

sparking brightly where they struck.  The other guy aimed too high; Jack

heard slugs ricocheting off the brow of the cab, above the windshield.

One of the two overhead-mounted air-horns was hit and torn loose; it

fell down along the side of the cab, thumped against Tommy's window,

hanging from its wires.

Jack was almost on top of the Buick, and the gunmen realized he meant to

hit it, so they stopped shooting and scattered.  Handling the huge rig

as if it were a tank, he broadsided the car, shoving it out of the way.

He kept going, past the end of the warehouse, toward another warehouse,

past that one, still accelerating.

Mort and Tommy pushed themselves back onto the seat, groaning.  Both

were battered.  Mort had a bloody nose, and Tommy was bleeding from a

small cut over his right eye, but neither of them was seriously hurt.

"Why does every job go sour?" Mort asked morosely, his voice more nasal

than usual because of his injured nose.

"It hasn't gone sour," Jack said, switching on the windshield wipers to

clear away the glimmering beads of sleet. "It's just turned out to be a

little more exciting than we expected."

"I hate excitement," Mort said, putting a handkerchief to his nose.

Jack glanced in the side mirror, back toward the fratellanza's

warehouse, and he saw the Ford van turning around to follow him.  He had

put the Dodge and the Buick out of commission, and he only had the Ford

to worry about.  He had no hope of outrunning it.  the roads were

treacherously icy, and he had too little experience behind the wheel of

a rig like this to risk pushing it to its limits in bad weather.

He was also worried about an unnerving chorus of small noises that had

sprung up from the engine compartment following the ramming of the van

and the Buick.  Something rattled tinnily.  Something else hissed.  If

the Mack broke down and left them stranded, they would very likely be

killed in the ensuing shoot-out with the Morlocks.

They were in a vast industrial area of warehouses, packing plants, and

factories, and the nearest major city street was more than a mile ahead

of them.  Though some of the factories had night shifts and were

currently operating, the industrial park's main service road, along

which they were speeding, was deserted.

Glancing at the mirror, Jack saw the Ford on their tail and gaining

fast.  He abruptly wheeled the rig to the right, into a branch road past

a factory where a sign proclaimed HARKWRIGHT CUSTOM FOAM PACKAGING.

"Where the hell are you going?" Tommy asked.

"We can't outrun them," Jack said.

"We can't face them down, either," Mort said through his bloody

handkerchief.  "Not handguns against Uzis."

"Trust me," Jack said.

Harkwright Custom Foam Packaging did not operate a late shift.  The

building itself was dark, but the road around it and the big truck lot

behind were lit by sodium-vapor lamps that colored the night yellow.

At the rear of the building, Jack turned left, into the truck lot,

through drilling sleet that looked like molten gold under the big lamps.

Two score of trailers, without cabs attached, stood in orderly ranks,

like beheaded prehistoric beasts, all painted mustard by the fall of

sodium light.  He swung the rig in a wide circle, brought it in close to

the back wall of the factory, doused the headlights, and drove parallel

to the building, heading back toward the road that entered the lot and

along which he had just come.  He braked to a stop at the corner, close

up against the factory wall, at a right angle to the branch road.

"Brace yourselves," he said.

Mort and Tommy already knew what was coming.  Their feet were pressed

flat up against the dashboard and their backs were jammed against the

back of the seat, as protection against the impact.

No sooner had Jack braked at the corner of the buildingthe Mack poised

like a crouching cat anticipating a mousethan a glow appeared on the

passing road.  The light approached from the right, from the front of

the factory: the most out-reaching headlamp beams of the unseen but

oncoming Ford van.  The glow grew brighter, brighter still, and Jack

tensed, trying to wait until the last best moment before pulling into

the lane.  Now the glow became two distinct parallel beams, lancing past

the snout of the Mack, and the beams grew very bright.  Finally Jack

tramped hard on the accelerator, and the Mack lurched forward, but it

was a big truck, not quick off the dime.  The Ford, going faster than

Jack had expected, shot past the corner, directly across the Mack's bow,

and Jack surged forward in time to catch only the rear of it.  But that

was enough to send the small van into a spin. It whipped around 360

degrees, then again, on the icy surface of the parking lot, before

crashing nose-first into one of the mustard-colored cargo trailers.

Jack was sure that none of the men in the Ford was in any condition to

come out of the wreck shooting, but he did not dawdle.  He swung the

Mack around and headed back past the side of Harkwright Custom Foam

Packaging.  When he reached the main service road, he turned right, away

from the distant fratellanza warehouse, toward the entrance to the

industrial park and the network of city streets beyond.

They were not followed.

He drove three miles by a direct route to an abandoned Texaco service

station that they had scouted days ago.  He pulled past the useless

pumps and parked alongside the dilapidated little building.

The moment Jack halted the rig, Tommy Sung threw open the door on his

side, jumped out, and walked away into the darkness.  He was heading for

a lower-middle-class residential neighborhood three blocks away, where,

on Monday, they had parked a dirty, rusted, battered Volkswagen Rabbit.

The car was newer under the hood than it was outside-and fast. It would

get them back to Manhattan, where they would dump it.

They had also stashed an untraceable Pontiac in the industrial park on

Monday, within a two-minute walk of the mob warehouse.  They intended to

hump the bags of money to the Pontiac, then drive the Pontiac here for

the switch to the Rabbit.  But alternate transportation had become

essential, and the Pontiac had been left to rot where they stashed it.

Jack and Mort heaved the sacks of money out of the Mack and stood them

against the side wall of the shuttered service station, where the

slanting sleet began to crust on the canvas. Mort climbed back in the

cab and wiped down all the surfaces they might have touched.

Jack stood by the bags, looking at the street beyond the end of the rig,

where an occasional car crept past on the glistening pavement.  None of

the motorists would be interested in a truck parked at a long-abandoned

service station. But if a police car cruised by on patrol .  .  .

At last Tommy pulled in from the side street and parked between the rows

of pumps.  Mort grabbed two sacks, hustled them toward the car, slipped,

fell, got right up, made for the Rabbit again.  Dragging the other pair

of bags, Jack followed with greater care.  By the time Jack reached the

Rabbit, Mort was already in the back seat.  Jack threw the last bags in

with Mort, slammed the door, and got in front with Tommy.

He said, "For God's sake, drive slow and careful."

"You can count on it," Tommy said.

The tires spun on the sleet-skinned blacktop as they pulled out from

between the pumps, and when they left the lot and moved into the street,

they slid sideways before the tread gripped.

"Why does every job turn sour?" Mort asked mournfully.

"It hasn't turned sour," Jack said.

The Rabbit hit a pothole and began to slide toward a parked car, but

Tommy turned the wheel into the slide and got control.  They continued

at an even slower pace, found the expressway, and climbed a ramp under a

sign that said NEW YORK CITY.

At the upper end of the ramp, as the tires slithered one last time

before gripping and carrying them onto the expressway, Mort said, "Why'd

it have to sleet?"

"They've got a lot of salt and cinders on these lanes," Tommy said.

"It's going to be all right now, all the way into the city."

"We'll see," Mort said glumly.  "What a bad night.  Jesus."

"Bad?" Jack said.  "Bad?  Mort, they would never in a thousand years let

you in the Optimist's Club.  For God's sake, we're all of us

millionaires.  You're sitting on a fortune back there!"

Under his pork-pie hat, which still dripped melting sleet, Mort blinked

in surprise.  "Well, uh, I guess that does take some of the sting out of

it."

Tommy Sung laughed.

Jack laughed, and Mort, too, and Jack said, "The biggest score any of us

ever made.  And no taxes payable on it, either."

Suddenly, everything seemed uproariously funny.  They settled in a

hundred yards behind a highway maintenance truck with flashing yellow

beacons, cruising at a safe and leisurely speed, while they gleefully

recalled the highlights of their escape from the warehouse.

Later, when the tension was somewhat relieved, when their giddy laughter

had subsided to pleased smiles, Tommy said, "Jack, I gotta tell you that

was a first-rate piece of work.  The way you used the computer to create

paperwork for the crate .  .  .  and that little electronic gizmo you

used to open the safe so we didn't need to blow it .  .  .  well, you

are one hell of an organizer."

"Better than that," Mort said, "in a crisis you're just about the best

knockover artist I've ever seen.  You think fast.  I tell you, Jack, if

you ever decided to put your talents to work in the straight world, for

a good cause, there's no telling what you could do."

"Good cause?" Jack said.  "Isn't getting rich a good cause?"

"You know what I mean," Mort said.

"I'm no hero," Jack said.  "I don't want any part of the straight world.

They're all hypocrites out there.  They talk about honesty, truth,

justice, social conscience .  .  .  but most of them are just looking

out for number one.  They won't admit it, and that's why I can't stand

them.  I admit it.  I'm looking out for number one, and to hell with

them." He heard the tone of his own voice changing from amusement to

sullen resentment, but he could not help that.  He scowled through the

wet windshield, past the thumping wipers.  "Good cause, huh?  If you

spend your life fighting for good causes, the so called good people will

sure as hell break your heart in the end.  Fuck 'em."

"Didn't mean to touch a nerve," Mort said, clearly surprised.

Jack said nothing.  He was lost in bitter memories.  Two or three miles

later, he said quietly, "I'm no damn hero."

In days to come, when he recalled those words, he would have occasion to

wonder how he could have been so wrong about himself.

It was one-twelve a m., Wednesday, December 4.

3.

Chicago, Illinois

By eight-twenty, Thursday morning, December 5, Father Stefan Wycazik had

celebrated the early Mass, had eaten breakfast, and had retreated to his

rectory office for a final cup of coffee.  Turning away from his desk,

he faced the big French window that presented a view of the bare,

snow-crusted trees in the courtyard, and he tried not to think about any

parish problems.  This was his time, and he valued it highly.

But his thoughts drifted inexorably to Father Brendan Cronin.  The rogue

curate.  The chalice-hurler.  Brendan Cronin, the talk of the parish.

The Berserk Priest of St.  Bernadette's. Brendan Cronin of all people.

It just did not make sense.  No sense at all.

Father Stefan Wycazik had been a priest for thirty-two years, the rector

of the Church of St.  Bernadette for nearly eighteen years, and

throughout his life of service, he had never been tortured by doubt. The

very concept baffled him.

Following ordination, he was assigned as a curate to St. Thomas's, a

small parish in the Illinois farm country, where seventy-year-old Father

Dan Tuleen was shepherd.  Father Tuleen was the sweetest-tempered,

kindest, most sentimental, and most lovable man Stefan Wycazik had ever

known. Dan had also been troubled by arthritis and failing vision, too

old for the job of running a parish.  Any other priest would have been

removed, gently forced into retirement.  But Dan Tuleen had been

permitted to remain at his post because he had been at St.  Thomas's for

forty years and was an integral part of the life of his flock.  The

Cardinal, a great admirer of Father Tuleen, had looked around for a

curate who could handle a good deal more responsibility than would

usually be expected of a rookie, and he had finally settled on Stefan

Wycazik.  After only a day at St.  Thomas's, Stefan had realized what

was expected of him and had not been intimidated.  He'd shouldered

virtually all the work of the parish. Few young priests would have been

equal to such a task. Father Wycazik never doubted he could handle it.

Three years later, when Father Tuleen died quietly in his sleep, a new

priest was assigned to St.  Thomas's, and the Cardinal sent Father

Wycazik to another parish in suburban Chicago, where the rector, Father

Orgill, was having troubles with alcohol.  Father Orgill had not been a

totally disgraced whiskey priest.  He had been a man with the power to

salvage himself, and he had been well worth salvaging.  Father Wycazik's

job had been to give Francis Orgill a shoulder to lean on and to guide

him, subtly but firmly, toward an exit from his dilemma.  Unhampered by

doubt, he had provided what Francis Orgill had needed.

During the next three years, Stefan served at two more problem-plagued

churches, and those who moved in the hierarchy of the archdiocese began

to refer to him as "His Eminence's troubleshooter."

His most exotic assignment was to Our Lady of Mercy Orphanage and School

in Saigon, Vietnam, where he was second in charge under Father Bill

Nader for six nightmarish years.  Our Lady of Mercy was funded by the

Chicago Archdiocese and was one of the Cardinal's pet projects.  Bill

Nader had carried the scars of two bullet wounds, one in his left

shoulder and one in his right calf, and had lost two Vietnamese priests

and one previous American to Vietcong terrorists.

From the moment of Stefan's arrival, during his entire tour of duty in

the war zone, he never doubted that he would survive or that his work in

that hell-on-earth was worthwhile. When Saigon fell, Bill Nader, Stefan

Wycazik, and thirteen nuns escaped the country with 126 children.

Hundreds of thousands died in the subsequent bloodbath, but even in the

face of mass slaughter, Stefan Wycazik never doubted that 126 lives were

a very significant number, never allowed despair to grip him.

Back in the States, as a reward for his willingness to be the Cardinal's

troubleshooter for a decade and a half, Stefan was offered a promotion

to monsignor, which he modestly declined.  Instead, he humbly

requested-and was rewarded with-his own parish.  At long last.

That was St.  Bernadette's.  It had not been a prosperous parish when it

was put into Stefan Wycazik's able hands.  St. Bernadette's was $125,000

in debt.  The church was in desperate need of major repairs, including a

new slate roof.  The rectory was worse than decrepit; it threatened to

come tumbling down in the next high wind. There was no parish school.

Attendance at Sunday Masses had been on a steady decline for almost ten

years.  St.  Bette's, as some of the altar boys referred to it, was

precisely the kind of challenge that excited Father Wycazik.

He never doubted that he could rescue St.  Bette's.  In four years he

raised the attendance at Mass by forty percent, retired the debt, and

repaired the church.  In five years he rebuilt the parish house.  In

seven years he doubled attendance and broke ground for a school.  In

recognition of Father Wycazik's unflagging service to Mother Church, the

Cardinal, in his last week of life, had conferred the coveted honor of

P. R. permanent rector-on Stefan, guaranteeing him life tenure at the

parish that he had single-handedly brought back from the edge of both

spiritual and financial ruin.

The granite solidity of Father Wycazik's faith made it difficult for him

to understand why, at the early Mass on the Sunday just past, Father

Brendan Cronin's belief had dissolved so completely as to cause him to

fling the sacred chalice across the chancel in despair and rage.  In

front of almost a hundred worshipers.  Dear God.  At least it had not

happened at one of the three later Masses, which were better attended.

Initially, when Brendan Cronin had come to St.  Bette's more than a year

and a half ago, Father Wycazik had not wanted to like him.

For one thing, Cronin had been schooled at the North American College in

Rome, reputedly the most splendid educational institution within the

jurisdiction of the Church. But though it was an honor to be invited to

attend that establishment, and though its graduates were considered the

cream of the priesthood, they were often effete dainties, loath to get

their hands dirty, with much too high an opinion of themselves.  They

felt that teaching catechism to children was beneath them, a waste of

their complex minds.  And visiting shut-ins was a task they found

unspeakably distasteful after the glories that had been Rome.

In addition to the stigma of being trained in Rome, Father Cronin was

fat.  Well, not fat, really, but certainly plump, with a round soft face

and liquid-green eyes that seemed, at first encounter, to betoken a lazy

and perhaps easily corrupted soul.  Father Wycazik, on the other hand,

was a big-boned Pole whose family had not contained a single fat man.

The Wycaziks were descended from Polish miners who had emigrated to the

United States at the turn of the century, taking physically demanding

jobs in steel mills, quarries, and the construction trades.  They had

produced big families that could be supported only through long hours of

honest labor, so there wasn't time to get fat.  Stefan had grown up with

an instinctual sense that a real man was solid but lean, with a thick

neck, big shoulders, and joints gnarled from hard work.

To Father Wycazik's surprise, Brendan Cronin had proved to be a hard

worker.  He had acquired no pretensions and no elitist opinions while in

Rome.  He was bright, good-natured, amusing, and he thrived on visiting

shut-ins, teaching the children, and soliciting funds.  He was the best

curate Father Wycazik had been given in eighteen years.

That was why Brendan's outburst on Sunday-and the loss of faith that had

inspired it-was so distressing to Stefan Wycazik.  Of course, on another

level, he looked forward to the challenge of bringing Brendan Cronin

back into the fold. He had begun his career in the Church as a strong

right arm for priests in trouble, and now he was being called upon to

fill that role once more, which reminded him of his youth and engendered

in him a buoyant feeling of vital purpose.

Now, as he took another sip of coffee, a knock came at the office door.

He turned his gaze to the mantel clock.  It was of ormolu and inlaid

mahogany with a fine Swiss movement, a gift from a parishioner.  That

timepiece was the only elegant object in a room boasting strictly

utilitarian-and mismatched-furniture and a threadbare imitation-Persian

carpet.  According to the clock, the time was eight-thirty, precisely,

and Stefan turned to the door, saying, "Come in, Brendan."

As he came through the door, Father Brendan Conin looked no less

distressed than he had on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, when

they had met in this office to discuss his crisis of faith and to search

for ways to reestablish his belief.  He was so pale that his freckles

burned like sparks on his skin, and by contrast his auburn hair looked

more red than usual.  The bounce had left his step.

"Sit down, Brendan.  Coffee?"

"Thank you, no." Brendan bypassed the tattered Chesterfield and the

Morris chair, slumping in the sag-bottomed wingback instead.

Did you eat a good breakfast?  Stefan wanted to ask.  Or did you just

nibble at some toast and swill it down with coffee?

But he did not want to seem to be mothering his curate, who was thirty

years old.  So he said, "You've done the reading I suggested?"

"Yes."

Stefan had relieved Brendan of all parish duties and had given him books

and essays that argued for the existence of God and against the folly of

atheism from an intellectual point of view.

"And you've reflected on what you've read," Father Wycazik said.  "So

have you found anything so far that .  .  .  helps you?"

Brendan sighed.  Shook his head.

"You continue to pray for guidance?"

"Yes.  I receive none."

"You continue to search for the roots of this doubt?"

"There don't seem to be any."

Stefan was increasingly frustrated by Father Cronin's taciturnity, which

was utterly unlike the young priest.  Usually, Brendan was open,

voluble.  But since Sunday he had turned inward, and he had begun to

speak slowly, softly, and never at length, as if words were money and he

a miser who begrudged the paying out of every penny.

"There must be roots to your doubt," Father Wycazik insisted.  "There

must be something from which doubt's growna seed, a beginning."

"It's just there," Brendan muttered, barely audible.  "Doubt. It's just

there as if it's always been there."

"But it wasn't: you did believe.  So when did doubt begin?

Last August, you said.  But what sparked it?  There must've been a

specific incident or incidents that led you to reevaluate your

philosophy."

Brendan gave a softly exhaled "no."

Father Wycazik wanted to shout at him, shake him, shock him out of his

numbing gloom.  But he patiently said, "Countless good priests have

suffered crises of faith.  Even some saints wrestled angels.  But they

all had two things in common: Their loss of faith was a gradual process

that continued many years before reaching a crisis; and they could all

point to specific incidents and observations from which doubt arose. The

unjust death of a child, for instance.  Or a saintly mother stricken

with cancer.  Murder.  Rape.  Why does God allow evil in the world?  Why

war?  The sources of doubt are innumerable if familiar, and though

Church doctrine answers them, cold doctrine is sometimes little comfort.

Brendan, doubt always springs from specific contradictions between the

concept of God's mercy and the reality of human sorrow and suffering."

"Not in my case," Brendan said.

Gently but insistently, Father Wycazik continued.  "And the only way to

assuage that doubt is to focus on those contradictions that trouble you

and discuss them with a spiritual guide."

"In my case, my faith just ...  collapsed under me ...  suddenly ...

like a floor that seemed perfectly solid but was rotten all along."

"You don't brood about unjust death, sickness, murder, war?  Like a

rotten floor, then?  Just collapsed overnight?"

"That's right."

"Bullshit!" Stefan said, launching himself up from his chair.

The expletive and the sudden movement startled Father Cronin.  His head

snapped up, and his eyes widened with surprise.

"Bullshit," Father Wycazik repeated, matching the word with a scowl as

he turned his back on his curate.  In part he intended to shock the

younger priest and force him out of his half-trance of self-pity, but in

part he was also irritated by Cronin's uncommunicative funk and stubborn

despair. Speaking to the curate but facing the window, where patterns of

frost decorated the panes and where wind buffeted the glass, he said,

"You didn't fall from committed priest in August to atheist in December.

Could not.  Not when you claim you've had no shattering experiences that

might be responsible.  There must be reasons for your change of heart,

Father, even if you're hiding them from yourself, and until you're

willing to admit them, face them, you'll remain in this wretched state."

A plumbless silence filled the room.

Then: the muffled ticking of the ormolu and mahogany clock.

At last, Brendan Cronin said, "Father, please don't be angry with me.  I

have such respect...  and I value our relationship so highly that your

anger.....  on top of everything else .  .  .  is too much for me right

now."

Pleased by even a thread-thin crack in Brendan's shell, delighted that

his little stratagem had produced results, Father Wycazik turned from

the window, moved quickly to the wingback chair, and put a hand on his

curate's shoulder.  "I'm not angry with you, Brendan.  Worried.

Concerned.  Frustrated that you won't let me help you.  But not angry."

The young priest looked up.  "Father, believe me, I want nothing more

than your help in finding a way out of this.  But in truth, my doubt

doesn't spring from any of the things you mentioned.  I really don't

know where it comes from.  It remains .  .  .  well, mysterious."

Stefan nodded, squeezed Brendan's shoulder, returned to his chair behind

the desk, sat down, and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.

"All right, Brendan, your inability to identify the cause of your

collapsed faith indicates it's not an intellectual problem, so no amount

of inspirational reading will help.  If it's a psychological problem,

the roots lie in your subconscious, awaiting revelation."

When he opened his eyes, Stefan saw that his curate was intrigued by the

suggestion that his own inner mind was simply malfunctioning.  Which

meant God hadn't failed Brendan, after all: Brendan had failed God.

Personal responsibility was far easier to deal with than the thought

that God was unreal or had turned His back.

Stefan said, "As you may know, the Illinois Provincial of the Society of

Jesus is Lee Kellog.  But you may not know that he oversees two

psychiatrists, both Jesuits themselves, who deal with the mental and

emotional problems of priests within our order.  I could arrange for you

to begin analysis with one of those psychiatrists."

"Would you?" Brendan asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Yes.  Eventually.  But not right away.  If you begin analysis, the

Provincial will refer your name to the province's Prefect of Discipline,

who will begin to pick through your actions of the past year to see if

you've violated any of your vows."

"But I never-"

"I know you never," Stefan said reassuringly.  "But the Prefect of

Discipline's job is to be suspicious.  The worst thing is .  .  .  even

if your analysis leads to a cure, the Prefect will scrutinize you for

years to come, to guard against a lapse into unpriestly conduct.  Which

would limit your prospects.  And until your current problem, Father, you

struck me as a priest who'd go far-monsignor, perhaps higher."

"Oh, no.  Certainly not.  Not me," Brendan said self-deprecatingly.

"Yes, you.  And if you beat this problem, you could still go far.  But

once you're on the Prefect's danger list, you'll always be suspect.  At

best you'll wind up no better than me, a simple parish priest."

A smile flickered at the corners of Brendan's mouth.  "It would be an

honor-and a life well spent-to be, as you say, no better than you."

"But you can go farther and be of great service to the Church.  And I'm

determined you'll have that chance.  So I want you to give me until

Christmas to help you find a way out of this hole.  No more pep talks.

No debates about the nature of good and evil.  Instead, I'll apply some

of my own theories about psychological disorders.  You'll get amateur

treatment from me, but give it a chance.  Just until Christmas. Then, if

your distress is still as great, if we're no nearer an answer, I'll put

you in the hands of a Jesuit psychiatrist. Deal?"

Brendan nodded.  "Deal."

"Terrific!" Father Wycazik said, sitting up straight, rubbing his hands

together briskly, as if about to chop wood or perform some other

invigorating exercise.  "That gives us more than three weeks.  For the

first week, you'll put away your ecclesiastical suits, dress in ordinary

clothes, and report to Dr.  James McMurtry at St.  Joseph's Hospital for

Children. He'll see that you're assigned to the hospital staff."

"As chaplain?"

"As an orderly-emptying bedpans, dhanging bedclothes, whatever is

required.  Only Dr.  McMurtry will know you're a priest."

Brendan blinked.  "But what's the point of this?"

"You'll figure it out before the week is up," Stefan said happily.  "And

when you understand why I sent you to the hospital, you'll have one

important key to help you unlock your psyche, a key that'll open doors

and give you a look inside yourself, and maybe then you'll see the cause

of your loss of faith-and overcome it."

Brendan looked doubtful.

Father Wycazik said, "You promised me three weeks."

"All right." Brendan unconsciously fingered his Roman collar and seemed

disturbed by the thought of removing it, which was a good sign.

"You'll move out of the rectory until Christmas.  I'll give you funds to

pay for meals and an inexpensive hotel room. You'll work and live in the

real world, beyond the shelter of the ecclesiastic life.  Now, change

clothes, pack your suitcases, and report back to me.  Meanwhile, I'll

call Dr.  McMurtry and make the necessary arrangements."

Brendan sighed, got up, went to the door.  "There's one thing maybe

supports the notion that my problem's psychological, not intellectual.

I've been having these dreams ...

actually the same dream every time."

"A recurring dream.  That's very Freudian."

"I've had it several times a month since August.  But this week it's

become a regular occurrence-three out of the last four nights.  It's a

bad one, too-a short dream that I have over and over again in one night.

Short, but .  .  .  intense.  It's about these black gloves."

"Black gloves?"

Brendan grimaced.  "I'm in a strange place.  Don't know where.  I'm

lying in bed, I think.  I seem to be ...  restrained. My arms are held

down.  And my legs.  I want to move, run, get out of there, but I can't.

The light is dim.  Can't see much. Then these hands .  .  ." He

shuddered.

"Hands wearing black gloves?" Father Wycazik prompted.

"Yes.  Shiny black gloves.  Vinyl or rubber.  Tightly fitted and shiny,

not like ordinary gloves." Brendan let go of the doorknob, took two

steps toward the middle of the room, and stood with his hands raised

before his face, as if the sight of them would help him recollect the

details of the menacing hands in his dream.  "I can't see whose hands

they are.  Something wrong with my vision.  I can see the hands ...  the

gloves ...  but only up to the wrists.  Beyond that, it's all ...

blurry."

By the offhanded way that Brendan had mentioned the dream, almost as an

afterthought, he obviously wanted to believe that it was of no

consequence.  However, his face was paler than before, and there was a

vague but unmistakable flutter of fear in his voice.

A burst of winter wind rattled a loose window pane, and Stefan said,

"The man with black gloves-does he say anything to you?"

"He never speaks." Another shudder.  Brendan lowered his hands, thrust

them in his pockets.  "He touches me.  The gloves are cold, slick." The

curate looked as if he could feel those gloves even now.

Acutely interested, Father Wycazik leaned forward in his chair and said,

"Where do these gloves touch you?"

The young priest's eyes glazed.  "They touch .  .  .  my face. Forehead.

Cheeks, neck .  .  .  chest.  Cold.  They touch me almost everywhere."

"They don't hurt you?"

"No."

"But you're afraid of these gloves, of the man wearing them?"

"Terrified.  But I don't know why."

"One can't help but see how Freudian a dream it is."

"I suppose," the curate said.

"Dreams are a way for the subconscious mind to send messages to the

conscious, and in this case it's easy to see Freudian symbolic meanings

in these black gloves.  The hands of the devil, reaching out to pull you

down from grace.  Or the hands of your own doubt.  Or they could be

symbols of temptations, of sins seeking your indulgence."

Brendan seemed grimly amused by the possibilities.  "Especially sins of

the flesh.  After all, the gloves do touch me all over." The curate

returned to the door and put his hand on the knob, but paused again.

"Listen, I'll tell you something odd.  This dream ...  I'm half-sure

it's not symbolic." Brendan let his gaze slide away from Stefan's, down

to the worn rug.  "I think those gloved hands represent nothing more

than gloved hands.  I think ...  somewhere, someplace, at some time or

other, they were real."

"You mean you were once in a situation like the one in your dream?"

Still looking at the rug, the curate said, "I don't know. Perhaps in my

childhood.  See, this might not have anything to do with my crisis of

faith.  The two things might beprobably are-unconnected."

Stefan shook his head.  "Two unusual and serious afflictions-a loss of

faith and a recurring nightmare-troubling you at the same time, and you

want me to think they've no relation?  Too coincidental.  There must be

some connection. But tell me, at what point in your childhood would

you've been menaced by this unseen, gloved figure?"

"Well, I had a couple of serious illnesses as a boy.  Maybe during a

fever I was examined by a doctor who was a little rough or

scary-looking.  And maybe the experience was so traumatic that I

repressed it, and now it's coming back to me in a dream."

"When doctors wear gloves for an examination, they use throwaway white

latex.  Not black.  And not heavy rubber or vinyl gloves."

The curate took a deep breath, blew it out.  "Yeah, you're right.  But I

just can't shake the feeling that the dream's not symbolic.  It's crazy,

I suppose.  But I'm sure those black gloves are real, as real as that

Morris chair, as real as those books on the shelf."

On the mantel, the clock struck the hour.

The soughing of the wind in the caves became a howl.

"Creepy," Stefan said, referring not to the wind or the hollow striking

of the clock.  He crossed the room and clapped the curate on the

shoulder.  "But I assure you, you're wrong. The dream is symbolic, and

it is related to your crisis of faith.

The black hands of doubt'.  it's your subconscious warning you that

you're in for a real battle.  But it's a battle in which you're not

alone.  You've got me beside you."

"Thank you, Father."

"And God.  He's beside you as well."

Father Cronin nodded, but there was no conviction in his face or in the

defeated hunching of his shoulders.

"Now go pack your suitcases," Father Wycazik said.

"I'm leaving you short-handed when I go."

"I've got Father Gerrano and the sisters at the school.  Now, off with

you." When his curate had gone, Stefan returned to his desk.

Black gloves.  It was only a dream, not particularly frightening in its

essence, yet Father Cronin's voice had been so haunted when he spoke of

it that Stefan was still affected by the image of shiny black

rubber-clad fingers reaching out of a blur and prodding, poking....

Black gloves.

Father Wycazik had a hunch that this was going to be one of the most

difficult salvage jobs upon which he had ever embarked.

Outside, snow fell.

It was Thursday, December 5.

4.

Boston, Massachusetts

On Friday, four days after the catastrophic fugue that followed the

aortal graft on Viola Fletcher, Ginger Weiss was still a patient at

Memorial Hospital, where she had been admitted after George Hannaby led

her out of the snowy alleyway in which she had regained consciousness.

For three days, they had put her through exhaustive tests. An EEG study,

cranial X rays, sonograms, pneumoventriculography, a lumbar puncture, an

angiogram, and more, repeating the several procedures (though

fortunately not the lumbar puncture) for cross-checked results.  With

the sophisticated tools and processes of modern medicine, they searched

her brain tissue for neoplasms, cystic masses, abscesses, clots,

aneurysms, and benign gummatous lumps.  For a while they concentrated on

the possibility of malignancies of the perineural nerves.  They checked

for chronic intracranial pressure. They analyzed the fluid from the

spinal tap in search of abnormal protein, cerebral bleeding, a low sugar

count that would indicate bacterial infection, or signs of a fungus

infection.  Because they were physicians who always gave their best to a

patient, but especially because Ginger was one of their own colleagues,

her doctors were diligent, determined, thoughtful, thorough, and firmly

committed to pinpointing the cause of her problem.

At two o'clock Friday afternoon, George Hannaby came to her room with

the results of the final battery of tests and with the reports of

consultants who had given one last round of opinions.  The fact that he

had come himself, rather than let the oncologist or the brain specialist

(who were in charge of her case) bring the news, most likely meant that

it was bad, and for once Ginger was sorry to see him.

She was sitting in bed, dressed in blue pajamas that Rita Hannaby,

George's wife, had been kind enough to fetch (along with a suitcase.

full of other necessities) from the Beacon Hill apartment.  She was

reading a paperback mystery, pretending to be confident that her

seizures were the result of some easily corrected malady, but she was

scared.

But what George had to tell her was so bad that she could no longer hold

fast to her composure.  In a way, it was worse than anything for which

she had prepared herself.

They had found nothing.

No disease.  No injury.  No congenital defect.  Nothing.

As George solemnly outlined the final results and made it clear that her

wild flights, performed in a fugue, were without a discernible

pathological cause, she finally lost control of her emotions for the

first time since she had broken into tears in the alleyway.  She wept,

not noisily, not copiously, but quietly and with enormous anguish.

A physical ailment might have been correctable.  And once cured, it

would not have prevented her from returning to a career as a surgeon.

But the test results and the opinions of the specialists all conveyed

the same unbearable message: Her problem was entirely in her mind, a

psychological illness beyond the reach of surgery, antibiotics, or

controlling drugs.  When a patient suffered repeated incidents of fugue

for which no physiological cause could be found, the only hope of ending

the seizures was psychotherapy, though the finest psychiatrists could

not boast of a high cure rate with patients thus afflicted.  Indeed, a

fugue was often an indication of incipient schizophrenia. Her chances of

managing her condition and living a normal life were small; her chances

of institutionalization were dismayingly high.

Within reach of her lifelong dream, within months of beginning her own

surgical practice, her life had been shattered as thoroughly as a

crystal goblet struck by a bullet.  Even if her condition was not that

extreme, even if psychotherapy gave her a chance to control her strange

outbursts, she'd never be able to obtain a license to practice medicine.

George plucked several Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and gave

them to her.  He poured a glass of water.  He got a Valium and made her

take it, though at first she resisted. He held her hand, which seemed

like that of a very small girl when clasped in his large mitt.  He spoke

softly, reassuringly.

Gradually he calmed her.

When she could speak, she said, "But George, damn it, I wasn't raised in

a psychologically destructive atmosphere.  Our home was happy, at peace.

And I certainly got more than my share of love and affection.  I wasn't

physically, mentally, or emotionally abused." She angrily snatched the

box of tissues from the nightstand, tore Kleenex from it.  "Why me?

How could I, coming from my background, develop a psychosis?  How?  With

my fantastic mother, my special papa, my damned-if-it-wasn't-happy

childhood, how could I wind up seriously mentally disturbed?  It isn't

fair.  It isn't right.  it isn't even believable."

He sat on the edge of her bed, and he was so tall that he still loomed

over her.  "First of all, Doctor, the consulting specialists tell me

there's a whole school of thought that says many mental illnesses are

the result of subtle chemical changes in the body, in the brain tissue,

changes we're not yet advanced enough to detect or understand.  So this

doesn't have to mean that you're screwed up by your childhood.  I don't

think you've got to reevaluate your whole life because of this. Second,

I'm not-I repeat.  not-at all convinced that your condition is anything

as serious as debilitating psychosis."

"Oh, George, please don't coddle-"

"Coddle a patient?  Me?" he said, as if no one had ever suggested

anything half as astonishing to him.  "I'm not just trying to lift your

spirits.  I mean what I say.  Sure, we didn't find a physical cause for

this, but that doesn't mean there isn't a physical problem involved. You

might have a condition that's not yet sufficiently advanced to be

detectable.  In a couple of weeks, or a month, or as soon as there's any

worsening of the problem, any indication of deterioration, we'll run

more tests; we'll take another look, and I'd bet everything I own that

we'll eventually put our finger on the problem."

She allowed herself to hope.  Discarding a wadded mass of tissues, she

fumbled for the Kleenex box.  "You really think it could be like that? A

brain tumor or an abscess so small it doesn't show up yet?"

"Sure.  I find that a hell of a lot easier to believe than that you're

psychologically disturbed.  You'?  You're one of the steadiest people

I've ever known.  And I can't accept that you could be psychotic or even

psychoneurotic and not exhibit unusual behavior between these fugues.  I

mean, serious mental illness isn't expressed in neatly contained little

bursts.  It relops over into the patient's entire life."

She had not thought about that before.  As she considered his point, she

felt a little better, though not wildly hopeful and certainly not happy.

On the one hand, it seemed weird to be hoping for a brain tumor, but a

tumor could be excised, perhaps without gross damage to cerebral

tissues.  Madness, however, responded to no scalpel.

"The next few weeks or months are probably going to be the most

difficult of your life," he said.  "The waiting."

"I suppose I'm restricted from hospital work for the duration."

"Yes.  But depending on how you come along, I don't see why you can't

help me out at the office."

"And what if I .-.  .  threw one of these fits?"

"I'd be there to keep you from hurting yourself until it passed."

"But what would your patients think?  Wouldn't exactly help your

practice any, would it?  To have an assistant who suddenly turns into a

meshuggene and runs shrieking through the office?"

He smiled.  "Let me worry about what my patients think. Anyway, that's

for the future.  Right now, at least for a week or two, you've got to

take it easy.  No work at all.  Relax.

Rest.  These last few days have been emotionally and physically

exhausting."

"I've been in bed.  Exhausting?  Don't knock a teapot."

He blinked, confused.  "Don't what?"

"Oh," she said, surprised to have heard those four words pop out of her,

lit's something my father used to say.  It's a Yiddish expression.  Hok

nit kain tehynik: don't knock a teapot.  It means, don't talk nonsense.

But don't ask me why it means that.  It's just something I used to hear

all the time when I was a kid."

"Well, I'm not knocking a teapot," he said.  "You may have been in bed

all week, but it's been an exhausting experience nonetheless, and you

need to take it easy for a while. I want you to move in with Rita and me

for the next few weeks."

"What?  Oh, I couldn't impose on you-"

"It's no imposition.  We have a live-in maid, so you won't even have to

make your bed in the morning.  From the guestroom window, you'll have a

nice view of the bay.  Living around water is calming.  In fact, it's

quite literally what the doctor ordered."

"No.  Really.  Thank you, but I couldn't."

He frowned.  "You don't understand.  I'm not just your boss but your

doctor, and I'm telling you this is what you're going to do."

"I'll be perfectly fine at the apartment-"

"No," he said firmly.  "Think about it.  Suppose one of these seizures

struck while you were making dinner.  Suppose you knocked over a pot on

the stove.  It could start a fire, and you might not even be aware of it

until you came out of the fugue, by which time the whole apartment could

be ablaze and you could be trapped ' That's only one way you might hurt

yourself.  I can think of a hundred.  So I have to insist that .  .  .

for a while you must not live alone.  If you don't want to stay with me

and Rita, do you have relatives who'd take you in for a while?"

"Not in Boston.  In New York, I've got aunts, uncles .

But Ginger could not stay with any of her relatives.  They would be

happy to have her, of course-especially Aunt Francine or Aunt Rachel.

However, she did not want them to see her in her current condition, and

the thought of pitching a fit in front of them was intolerable.  She

could almost see Francine and Rachel huddling over a kitchen table,

speaking in low voices, clucking their tongues: "Where did Jacob and

Anna go wrong?  Did they push her too hard?  Anna always pushed her too

hard.  And after Anna died, Jacob relied on the girl too much.  She had

to take over the house at twelve It was too much for her.  Too much

pressure too young."

Ginger would receive considerable compassion, understanding, and love

from them, but at the risk of sullying the memory of her parents, a

memory she was determined to honor, always.

To George, who still sat upon the edge of the bed and awaited her

response with an obvious concern that touched her deeply, she said,

"I'll take the guest room with the view of the bay."

"Splendid!"

"Though I think it's a horrible imposition.  And I warn you, if I really

like it there, you might never get rid of me.  You'll know you're in

trouble if you come home some day, and I've hired people to repaint the

walls and hang new drapes."

He grinned.  "At the first mention of painters or draperies, we'll throw

your butt out in the street." He kissed her lightly on the cheek, got up

from the edge of the bed, and walked to the door.  "I'm going to start

the release procedures now, so you should be out of here in two hours.

I'll call Rita and have her come pick you up.  I'm sure you can beat

this thing, Ginger, but you've got to keep thinking positive."

When he left the room and his footsteps faded down the hall, she stopped

struggling to maintain her smile, and it collapsed instantly.  She

leaned back against her pillows and stared morosely at the age-yellowed

acoustic tile on the ceiling.

After a while she got out of bed and went into the adjoining bathroom,

where she approached the sink with trepidation. After a brief

hesitation, she turned on the water and watched it whirling around and

around and into the drain.  On Monday, at the surgical scrub sink, after

successfully performing the aortal graft on Viola Fletcher, Ginger had

been panicked by the sight of water swirling into a drain, but she could

not imagine why.  Damn it, why?  She desperately wanted to understand.

Papa, she thought, I wish you were alive, here to listen, to help.

Life's nasty surprises had been the subject of one of Papa's little

sayings that Ginger had once found amusing.  When anyone fretted about

the future, Jacob would shake his head and wink and say, "Why worry

about tomorrow?  Who knows what'll hit you today?"

How true.  And how utterly unamusing flow.

She felt like an invalid.  She felt lost.

It was Friday, December 6.

5.

Laguna Beach, California

When Dom went to the doctor's office on Monday morning, December 2, in

the company of Parker Faine, Dr.  Cobletz did not recommend immediate

diagnostic procedures, for he had only recently given Dom a thorough

examination and had seen no signs of physical disorder.  He assured them

there were other treatments to be tried before jumping to the conclusion

that it was a brain disorder that sent the writer scurrying upon errands

of fortification and self-defense inhis sleep.

After Dom's previous visit, on November 23, the physician had, he said,

become curious about somnambulism and had done some reading on the

subject.  With most adults the affliction was short-lived; however, in a

few cases, there was a danger of it becoming habitual, and in its most

serious forms it resembled the inflexible routines and pattern-obsessed

behavior of worst-case neurotics.  Once habitual, somnambulism was much

harder to cure, and it could become the dominant factor in the patient's

life, generating a fear of night and sleep, producing profound feelings

of helplessness culminating in more serious emotional disorders.

Dom felt he was already in that danger zone.  He thought of the

barricade he had built across his bedroom door.  The arsenal on the bed.

Cobletz, intrigued and concerned but not worried, had assured

Dominick-and Parker-that in most instances of persistent somnambulism,

the pattern of nocturnal rambling could be broken by the administration

of a sedative before bed. Once a few untroubled nights had passed, the

patient was usually cured.  In chronic cases, the nightly sedative was

augmented with a diazepam compound during the day when the patient was

plagued by anxiety.  Because the tasks that Dominick performed in his

sleep were unnaturally strenuous for a somnambulist, Dr.  Cobletz had

prescribed both Valium during the day and a 15 ing. tablet of Dalmane,

just before slipping under the covers each night.

On the drive back to Laguna Beach from Dr.  Cobletz's offices in

Newport, with the sea on the right and hills on the left, Parker Faine

argued that, until the sleepwalking stopped, it was not wise for Dom to

continue living alone.  Hunched over the steering wheel of his Volvo,

the bearded and shaggyhaired artist drove fast, aggressively but not

recklessly.  He seldom glanced away from the Pacific Coast Highway, yet

he gave the impression, through the sheer force of his personality, that

his eyes and attention were fixed constantly and entirely upon Dom.

"There's plenty of room at my place.  I can keep an eye on you.  I won't

hover, mind you.  I won't be a mother hen.  But at least I'll be there.

And we would have plenty of opportunity to talk about this, really get

into it, just you and me, and try to figure how this sleepwalking is

related to the changes you went through the summer before last, when you

threw away that job at Mountainview College.  I'm definitely the guy to

help you.  I swear, if I hadn't become a goddamned painter, I'd have

become a goddamned psychiatrist.  I have a knack for getting people to

talk about themselves.  How about it?

Come stay with me for a while and let me play therapist."

Dom had refused.  He wanted to stay at his own house, alone, for to do

otherwise seemed to be a retreat into the same rabbit hole in which he

had hidden from life for so many years.  The change he had undergone

during his trip to Mountainview, Utah, the summer before last, had been

dramatic, inexplicable, but for the better.  At thirty-three, he had

finally seized the reins of life, had mounted it with a flourish, and

had ridden into new territory.  He liked the man he had become, and he

feared nothing more than slipping back into his dreary former existence.

Perhaps his somnambulism was mysteriously related to the previous

changes of attitude that he had undergone, as Parker insisted, but Dom

had his doubts that the relationship was either mysterious or complex.

More likely, the connection between the two personality crises was

simple: The sleepwalking was an excuse to retreat from the challenges,

excitement, and stress of his new life.  Which could not be allowed.

Therefore, Dom would stay in his own house, alone, take the Valium and

Dalmane as Dr.  Cobletz had prescribed them,

and tough this thing out.

That was what he had decided in the Volvo, on Monday morning, and by

Saturday, the seventh of December, it seemed that he had made the

correct decision.  Some days he needed a Valium and some days he did

not.  Every evening he took a Dalmane tablet with milk or hot chocolate.

Somnambulism disturbed his nights less frequently.  Before beginning

drug therapy, he walked in his sleep every night, but in the past five

nights he journeyed just twice, leaving his bed only in the predawn

hours of Wednesday and Friday mornings.

Furthermore, his activities in his sleep were far less bizarre and less

disturbing than they had been.  He no longer gathered up weapons, built

barricades, or tried to nail the windows shut.  On both occasions, he

merely left his Beauty rest for a makeshift bed in the back of the

closet, where he woke stiff and sore and frightened by some unknown and

nameless threat that had pursued him in dreams he could not recall.

Thank God, the worst seemed past.

By Thursday he had begun to write again.  He worked on the new novel,

picking up where he left off weeks ago.

On Friday, Tabitha Wycombe, his editor in New York, called with good

news.  Two prepublication reviews of Twilight in Babylon had just come

in, and both were excellent. She read them to him, then revealed even

better news: Bookseller excitement, aroused by industry publicity and by

the distribution of several hundred advance reading copies, continued to

grow, and the first printing, which had already been raised once, was

now being raised again.  They talked for almost half an hour, and when

Dom hung up, he felt that his life was back on the rails.

But Saturday night brought a new development, which might have been

either a turn for the better or the worse.  Every night that he had gone

walking in his sleep, he had been unable to recall even the smallest

detail of the nightmares that drove him from his bed.  Then, Saturday,

he was plagued by an uncannily vivid, terrifying dream that sent him

fleeing through the house in somnambulistic panic, but this time he

remembered part of it when he woke, not most of it, but at least the

end.

In the last minute or two of the dream, he was standing in a

half-glimpsed bathroom, everything blurred.  An unseen man shoved him

against a sink, and Dom bent over it, his face thrust down into the

porcelain bowl.  Someone had an arm around him and was holding him on

his feet, for he was too weak to stand on his own.  He felt rag-limp,

and his knees were quivering, and his stomach was twisting and rolling.

A second unseen person had two hands on his head, forcing his head into

the sink.  He could not speak.  He could not draw breath.  He knew he

was dying.  He had to get away from these people, out of this room, but

he did not have the physical resources to take flight.  Though his

vision remained bleary, he could see the smooth porcelain and the

chrome-plated rim of the drain in detail, for his face was only inches

from the bottom of the sink.  It was an old-fashioned drain without a

mechanically operated stopper.  The rubber plug had been removed and set

aside, somewhere out of sight.  The water was running, spewing out of a

faucet, past his face, splattering against the bottom of the basin,

whirling around and around, down into the drain, around and down.  The

two people pouring him into the sink were shouting, though he could not

understand them.  Around and down ...  around....  Staring hypnotically

into the miniature whirlpool, he grew terrified of the gaping drain,

which was like a sucking orifice intent upon drawing him into its

reeking depths.  Suddenly he was aware they wanted to stuff him down

into the drain, dispose of him.  Might be a garbage disposal in there,

something that would chop him to pieces and flush him away He woke,

screaming.  He was in his bathroom.  He had walked in his sleep.  He was

at the sink, bent over, screaming into the drain.  He leapt back from

that gaping hole, stumbled, nearly fell over the edge of the bathtub. He

grabbed a towel rack to steady himself.

Gasping for breath, shaking, he finally got up enough nerve to return to

the sink and look into it.  Glossy white porcelain. A brass drain rim

and a dome-shaped brass stopper.  Nothing else, nothing worse.

The room in his nightmare had not been this room. Dominick washed his

face and returned to the bedroom. According to the clock on the

nightstand, it was only twotwenty-five A. M.

Though it made no sense at all and seemed to have no symbolic or real

connection with his life, the nightmare was profoundly disturbing.

However, he had not nailed windows shut or gathered up weapons in his

sleep, so it seemed that this was only a minor setback.

In fact, it might be a sign of improvement.  If he remembered his

dreams, not just pieces but all of them from beginning to end, he might

discover the source of the anxiety that had made a night rambler of him.

Then he would be better able to deal with it.

Nevertheless, he did not want to go back to bed and risk returning to

that strange place in his dream.  The bottle of Dalmane was in the top

drawer of the nightstand.  He was not supposed to take more than one

tablet each evening, but surely one indulgence couldn't hurt.

He went out to the bar cabinet in the living room, poured some Chivas

Regal.  With a shaky hand, he popped the pill in his mouth, drank the

Chivas, and returned to bed.

He was improving.  Soon, the sleepwalking would stop.  A week from now,

he'd be back to normal.  In a month, this would seem like a curious

aberration, and he'd wonder how he'd allowed it to get the better of

him.

Precariously prone upon the trembling wire of consciousness above the

gulf of sleep, he began to lose his balance.  It was a pleasant feeling,

a soft slipping away.  But as he floated down into sleep, he heard

himself murmuring in the darkness of the bedroom, and what he heard

himself saying was so strange it startled him and piqued his interest

even as the Dalmane and whiskey inexorably had their way with him.

"The moon," he whispered thickly.  "The moon, the moon."

He wondered what he could possibly mean by that, and he tried to push

sleep away at least long enough to ponder his own words.  The moon? "The

moon," he whispered again, and then he was gone.

It was three-eleven A. M., Sunday, December 8.

6.

New York, New York

Five days after stealing more than three million dollars from the

fratellanza, Jack Twist went to see a dead woman who still breathed.

At one o'clock Sunday afternoon, in a respectable neighborhood on the

East Side, he parked his Camaro in the underground garage beneath the

private sanitarium and took the elevator up to the lobby.  He signed in

with the receptionist and was given a visitor's pass.

One would not think the place was a hospital.  The public area was

tastefully decorated in Art Deco style suited to the building's period.

There were two small Ertd originals, sofas, one armchair, tables with

neatly arranged magazines, and all the furniture had a 1920s' look.

It was too damn luxurious.  The Ends were unnecessary. A hundred other

economies were obvious.  But the management felt that image was

important in order to continue to attract upper-crust clientele and keep

the annual profit around the hundred percent mark.  The patients were of

all typesmiddle-aged catatonic schizophrenics, autistic children, the

long-term comatose both young and old-but they all had two things in

common: Their conditions were all chronic rather than acute, and they

were from well-to-do families who could afford the best care.

Thinking about the situation, Jack invariably became angry that no place

in the city provided fine custodial care for the catastrophically

brain-injured or mentally ill at a reasonable price.  In spite of huge

expenditures of tax money, New York's institutions, like public

institutions everywhere, were a grim joke that the average citizen had

to accept for a lack of alternatives.

If he had not been a skilled and highly successful thief, he would not

have been able to pay the sanitarium's exorbitant monthly charges.

Fortunately, he had a talent for larceny.

Carrying his visitor's pass, he went to another elevator and rode up to

the fourth of six floors.  The hallways in the upper levels were more

reminiscent of a hospital than the lobby had been.  Fluorescent lights.

White walls.  The clean, crisp, minty smell of disinfectant.

At the far end of the fourth-floor hall, in the last room on the right,

lived the dead woman who still breathed.  Jack hesitated with his hand

on the push-plate of the heavy swinging door, swallowed hard, took a

deep breath, and finally went inside.

The room was not as sumptuous as the lobby, and it was not Art Deco,

either, but it was very nice, resembling a medium-priced room at the

Plaza: a high ceiling and white molding; a fireplace with a white

mantel; a deep hunter-green carpet; pale green drapes; a green

leaf-patterned sofa and a pair of chairs.  The theory was that a patient

would be happier in a room like this than in a clinical room.  Although

many patients were oblivious of their surroundings, the cozier

atmosphere at least made visiting friends and relatives feel less bleak.

The hospital bed was the only concession to utilitarian design, a

dramatic contrast to everything else.  But even that was dressed up with

green-patterned designer sheets.

Only the patient spoiled the lovely mood of the chamber.

Jack lowered the safety railing on the bed, leaned over, and kissed his

wife's cheek.  She did not stir.  He took one of her hands and held it

in both of his.  Her hand did not grip him in return, did not flex,

remained slack, limp, senseless, but at least it was warm.

"Jenny?  It's me, Jenny.  How are you feeling today?

Hmmmmm?  You look good.  You look lovely.  You always look lovely."

In fact, for someone who had spent eight years in a coma, for someone

who had not taken a single step and had not felt sunshine or fresh air

upon her face in all that time, she looked quite good indeed.  Perhaps

only Jack could say that she was still lovely-and mean it.  She was not

the beauty she had once been, but she certainly did not look as if she

had spent almost a decade in solemn flirtation with death.

Her hair was not glossy any more, though still thick and the same rich

chestnut shade as when he had first seen her at her job, behind the

men's cologne counter in Bloomingdale's, fourteen years ago.  The

attendants washed her hair twice a week here and brushed it every day.

He could have moved his hand under her hair, along the left side of her

skull, to the unnatural depression, the sickening concavity.  He could

have touched it without disturbing her, for nothing disturbed her any

more, but he did not. Because touching it would have disturbed him.

Her brow was uncreased, her face unlined even at the corners of her

eyes, which were closed.  She was gaunt though not shockingly so.

Motionless upon those green designer sheets, she seemed ageless, as if

she were an enchanted princess

awaiting the kiss that would wake her from a century of slumber.

The only signs of life were the vague, rhythmic rise and fall of her

breast as she breathed, and the soft movement of her throat as she

occasionally swallowed saliva.  The swallowing was an automatic,

involuntary action and not a sign of awareness on any level whatsoever.

The brain damage was extensive and irreparable.  The movements she made

here and now were virtually the only movements she would ever make

until, at last, she gave a dying shudder.  There was no hope.  He knew

there was no hope, and he accepted the permanence of her condition.

She would have looked much worse if she had not received such

conscientious care.  A team of physical therapists came to her room

every day and put her through passive exercise routines.  Her muscle

tone was not the best, but at least she had muscle tone.

Jack held her hand and stared down at her for a long time. For seven

years, he had been coming to see her two nights a week and for five or

six hours every Sunday afternoon, sometimes on other afternoons as well.

But in spite of the frequency of his visits and in spite of her

unchanging condition, he never tired of looking at her.

He pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed, still holding her hand,

staring at her face, and for more than an hour he talked to her.  He

told her about a movie that he had seen since his previous visit, about

two books he had read.  He spoke of the weather, described the force and

bite of the winter wind.  He painted colorful word pictures of the

prettiest Christmas displays he had seen in shop windows.

She did not reward him with even a sigh or a twitch.  She lay as always,

unmoving and unmoved.

Nevertheless, he talked to her, for he worried that a fragment of

awareness might survive, a gleam of comprehension down in the black well

of the coma.  Maybe she could hear and understand, in which case the

worst thing for her was being trapped in an unresponsive body, desperate

even for one-way communication, but receiving none because they thought

she could not hear.  The doctors assured him that these worries were

groundless; she heard nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing, they said,

except what images and fantasies might sputter across short-circuiting

synapses of her shattered brain.  But if they were wrong-if there was

only one chance in a million that they were wrong-he could not leave her

in that perfect and terrible isolation.  So he talked to her as the

winter day beyond the window changed from one shade of gray to another.

At five-fifteen, he went into the adjoining bathroom and washed his

face.  He dried off and blinked at his reflection in the mirror.  As on

countless other occasions, he wondered what Jenny had ever seen in him.

Not one feature or aspect of his face could be called handsome.  His

forehead was too broad, ears too big.  Although he had 20-20 vision, his

left eye had a leftward cast, and most people could not talk to him

without nervously shifting their attention from one eye to the other,

wondering which was looking at them when, in fact, both were.  When he

smiled he looked clownish, and when he frowned he looked sufficiently

threatening to send Jack the Ripper scurrying for home and hearth.

But Jenny had seen something in him.  She had wanted, needed, and loved

him.  In spite of her own good looks, she had not cared about

appearances.  That was one of the reasons he had loved her so much.  One

of the reasons he missed her so much.  One of a thousand reasons.

He looked away from the mirror.  If it was possible to be lonelier than

he was now, he hoped to God that he never slipped down that far.

He returned to the other room, said goodbye to his unheeding wife,

kissed her, smelled her hair once more, and got out of there at

five-thirty.

In the street, behind the wheel of his Camaro, Jack looked at passing

pedestrians and other motorists with loathing.  His fellow men.  The

good, kind, gentle, righteous people of the straight world would regard

him with disdain and possibly even disgust if they knew he was a

professional thief, though it was what they had done to him and to Jenny

that had driven him to crime.

He knew anger and bitterness solved nothing, changed nothing, and hurt

no one but himself.  Bitterness was corrosive.  He did not want to be

bitter, but there were times when he could not help it.

Later, after dinner alone at a Chinese restaurant, he returned to his

apartment.  He had a spacious one-bedroom coop in a first-class building

on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park.  Officially, it was owned by

a Liechtenstein-based corporation, which had purchased it with a check

written on a Swiss bank account, and each month the utilities and the

association fees were paid by the Bank of America out of a trust

account.  Jack Twist lived there under the name "Philippe Delon.  " To

the doormen and other building employees, to the few neighbors with whom

he spoke, he was known as the odd and slightly disreputable relative of

a wealthy French family who had sent him to America ostensibly to scout

investments but actually just to get him out of their hair.  He spoke

French fluently and could speak English with a convincing French accent

for hours without slipping up and revealing his deception.  Of course,

there was no French family, and both the corporation in Liechtenstein

and the Swiss bank account were his, and the only wealth he had to

invest was that which he had stolen from others.  He was not an ordinary

thief.

In his apartment, he went directly to the walk-in closet in the bedroom

and removed the false partition at the rear of it.  He pulled two bags

from the secret, three-foot-deep storage space and took them into the

dark living room, not bothering to turn on lights.  He piled the bags

beside his favorite armchair, which stood by a large window.

He got a bottle of Becks from the refrigerator, opened it, and returned

to the living room.  He sat in the darkness for a while, by the window,

looking down on the park, where lights reflected off the snow-covered

ground and made strange shadows in the bare-limbed trees.

He was stalling, and he knew it.  Finally he switched on the reading

lamp beside the chair.  He pulled the smallest of the two bags in front

of him, opened it, and began to scoop out the contents.

Jewels.  Diamond pendants, diamond necklaces, glittering diamond

chokers.  A diamond and emerald bracelet.  Three diamond and sapphire

bracelets.  Rings, broaches, barrettes, stickpins, jeweled hat pins.

These were the proceeds of a heist that he had pulled off

single-handedly six weeks ago.  It should have been a twoman job, but

with extensive and imaginative planning, he had found a way to handle it

himself, and it had gone smoothly.

The only problem was that he had gotten no kick whatsoever from that

heist.  When a job had been successfully concluded, Jack was usually in

a grand mood for days after. From his point of view, these were not

simply crimes but also acts of retribution against the straight world,

payment for what it had done to him and to Jenny.  Until the age of

twenty-nine, he had given much to society, to his country, but as a

reward he had wound up in a Central American hellhole, in a dictator's

prison, where he had been left to rot.  And Jenny .  .  .  He could not

bear to think about the condition in which he had found her when, at

last, he had escaped and come home.  Now, he no longer gave to society

but took from it, and with intense pleasure.  His greatest satisfaction

was breaking the rules, taking what he wanted, getting away with

it-until the jewelry heist six weeks ago.  At the end of that operation,

he had felt no triumph, no sense of retribution. That lack of excitement

scared him.  It was, after all, what he lived for.

Sitting in the armchair by the window, he piled the jewelry in his lap,

held selected pieces up to the light, and tried once more to gain a

feeling of accomplishment and revenge.

He should have disposed of the jewelry in the days immediately following

the burglary.  But he was reluctant to part with it until he had

squeezed at least a small measure of satisfaction from it.

Troubled by his continued lack of feeling, he put the jewels back into

the sack from which he had taken them.

The other sack contained his share of the proceeds from the robbery at

the fratellanza warehouse five days ago.  They had been able to open

only one of the two safes, but that had contained over $3,100,000-more

than a million apiece, in untraceable twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

By now he should have begun to convert the cash into cashier's checks

and other negotiable instruments for deposit, by mail, in his Swiss

accounts.  However, he held on to it because, as with the jewelry, the

possession of it had not yet given him a sense of triumph.

He removed thick stacks of tightly banded currency from the bag and held

them, turned them over in his hands.  He brought them to his face and

smelled them.  That singular scent of money was usually exciting in

itself-but not this time.  But he did not feel triumphant, clever,

lawless, or in any way superior to the obedient mice who scurried

through society's maze exactly as they were taught.  He just felt empty.

If this change in him had occurred with the warehouse job, he would have

attributed it to having stolen from other thieves, rather than from the

straight world.  But his reaction subsequent to the jewelry heist had

been the same, and that victim had been a legitimate business.  It was

his ennui following the jewelry store action that caused him to move on

to another job sooner than he should have.  Usually he pulled off one

job every three or four months, but only five weeks had elapsed between

his most recent operations.

All right, so maybe the usual thrill eluded him on both these recent

jobs because the money was no longer important to him.  He had set aside

enough to support himself in style for as long as he lived and to take

care of Jenny even if she endured a normal lifespan in her coma, which

was unlikely. Perhaps, all along, the most important thing about his

work had not been the rebellion and defiance of it, as he had thought;

perhaps, instead, he had done it all just for the money, and the rest of

it had been merely cheap rationalization and self-delusion.

But he could not believe that.  He knew what he had felt, and he knew

how much he missed those feelings now.

Something was happening to him, an inner shifting, a seachange.  He felt

empty, adrift, without purpose.  He dared not lose his love of larceny.

It was the only reason he had for living.

He put the money back into the bag.  He turned out the light and sat in

the darkness, sipping Beck's and staring down at Central Park.

In addition to his recent inability to find joy in his work, he had been

plagued by a recurring nightmare more intense than any dream he had ever

known.  It had begun six weeks ago, before the jewelry store job, and

he'd had it eight or ten times since.  In the dream, he was fleeing from

a man in a motorcycle helmet with a darkly tinted visor.  At least he

thought it was a motorcycle helmet, although he could not see many

details of it or anything else of the man who wore it.  The faceless

stranger pursued him on foot through unknown rooms and along amorphous

corridors and, most vividly, along a deserted highway that cut through

an empty moon-washed landscape.  On every occasion, Jack's panic built

like steam pressure in a boiler, until it exploded and blew him awake.

The obvious interpretation was that the dream was a warning, that the

man in the helmet was a cop, that Jack was going to get caught.  But

that was not the way the nightmare felt. In the dream, he never had the

impression that the guy in the helmet was a cop.  Something else.

He hoped to God he would not have the dream tonight. The day had been

bad enough without that midnight terror.

He got another beer, returned to the chair by the window, and sat down

in the darkness once more.

It was December 8, and Jack Twist-former officer in the elite United

States Army Rangers, former POW in an undeclared war, a man who had

helped save the lives of over a thousand Indians in Central America, a

man who functioned under a burden of grief that might have broken some

people, a daring thief whose reservoir of courage had always been

bottomless-wondered if he had run out of the simple courage to go on

living.  If he could not regain the sense of purpose he had found in

larceny, he needed to find a new purpose. Desperately.

7.

Elko County, Nevada

Ernie Block broke all the speed limits on the drive back from Elko to

the Tranquility Motel.

The last time he had driven so fast and recklessly had been on a gloomy

Monday morning during his hitch with Marine Intelligence in Vietnam.  He

had been behind the wheel of a Jeep, passing through what should have

been friendly territory, and had unexpectedly come under enemy fire. The

incoming shells had spewed up geysers of dirt and chunks of macadam only

feet away from his front and rear bumpers. By the time he had broken out

of the fire zone, he had escaped more than twenty near-misses, had been

hit by three small but painfully jagged pieces of mortar, had been

rendered temporarily deaf from the thunderous explosions, and had found

himself struggling to control a Jeep that was running on its wheel rims

with four flat tires.  Having survived, he figured he had known fear as

profound as it could ever be.

But coming back from Elko, his fear was building toward a new peak.

Nightfall was approaching.  He had driven to the Elko freight office in

the Dodge van to take delivery of a shipment of lighting fixtures for

the motel.  He had set out shortly after noon, leaving Faye in charge of

the front desk, giving himself plenty of time to make the round-trip

before twilight.  But he had a flat tire and lost time changing it.

Then, once he reached Elko, he wasted almost an hour having the tire

repaired because he had not wanted to start home without a spare.  With

one thing or another, he had left Elko almost two hours later than

expected, and the sun had westered to the far edge of the Great Basin.

He kept the accelerator most of the way to the floor, whipping around

other traffic on the superhighway.  He did not think he would be able to

finish the drive home if he had to do it in full darkness.  In the

morning they would find him behind the wheel of the van, still parked

along the roadside, stark raving mad from having spent long hours in

horrified contemplation of the perfectly black landscape.

In the two and a half weeks since Thanksgiving, he had continued to

conceal his irrational fear of darkness from Faye. After she returned

from her visit to Wisconsin, Ernie found it more difficult to sleep

without a lamp burning, having indulged himself with a night light while

she was gone.  Every morning he used Murine to clear his bloodshot eyes.

Fortunately, she had not suggested going into Elko at night for a movie,

so Ernie had not been required to make excuses.  A few times, after

sunset, he'd had to go from the office to the Tranquility Grille next

door, and even though the walk was well-lighted by the motel's outdoor

lamps and signs, he had been nearly overwhelmed by a sense of fragility,

vulnerability. But he had kept his secret.

All his life, in the Marine Corps and out of it, to the best of his

ability, Ernie Block had done what was required of him, all that could

be expected.  And now, by God, he was not going to fail his own wife.

Behind the wheel of the Dodge van, racing westward toward the

Tranquility Motel under a smeary orange-purple sky, Ernie Block wondered

if his problem was premature senility, Alzheimer's disease.  Even though

he was only fifty-two, it almost had to be something like Alzheimer's.

Although it frightened him, at least he could understand it.

Understand it, yes, but he could not accept it.  Faye depended on him.

He could not become a mental invalid, a burden on her.  The men in the

Block family never let their womenfolk down.  Never.  Unthinkable.

The highway rounded a small hillock, and a mile ahead, north of the

Interstate, lay the motel, the only building in that vast panorama.  Its

blue and green neon sign was already switched on, shining fiercely

bright against the twilight sky. He'd never seen a more welcome sight.

Complete darkness was still ten minutes away, and he decided it was

foolish to risk being stopped by a cop when he was this close to

sanctuary.  He eased up on the accelerator, and the speedometer needle

swiftly dropped: ninety ...  eighty-five .  .  .  seventy-five .  .  .

sixty .  .  .

He was three-quarters of a mile from home when a curious thing happened:

He glanced southward, away from the road, and his breath caught.  He did

not know what startled him. Something about the landscape.  Something

about the way the light and shadow played across those down-sloping

fields. He was suddenly gripped by the odd idea that a particular piece

of ground-a half-mile ahead, on the opposite side of the highway-was of

supreme importance in understanding the bizarre changes that had been

taking place in him during the past few months.

.  .  .  fifty .  .  .  forty-five ...  forty .  .  .

He could see nothing to make that piece of land different from the tens

of thousands of acres around it.  Besides, he had seen it countless

times before and had been unimpressed by it.  Nevertheless, in the slope

of the terrain, in the gently folded contours of the earth, in the

bisecting wound of an arroyo, in the configuration of sagebrush and

grass, and in the scattered gnarled outcroppings of rock, something

seemed to cry out for investigation.

He felt as if the land itself were saying, "Here, here, here is part of

the answer to your problem, part of the explanation for your fear of the

night.  Here.  Here But that was ridiculous.

To his surprise, he found himself pulling to the shoulder of the

highway, stopping a quarter-mile from home, not far from the exit ramp

to the county road that led past the motel. He squinted south across the

highway, at the place that had mysteriously captured his attention.

He was gripped by the most amazing sense of impending epiphany, an

overwhelming feeling that something of monumental importance was about

to happen to him.  The skin prickled along the back of his neck.

He got out of the van, leaving it idling behind him.  In a state of

tremulous expectation that he could not understand, he headed toward the

far side of the interstate, where he could have a better look at the

plot of ground that fascinated him.  He traversed two lanes of blacktop,

clambered into the twenty-foot-wide gulley that divided the halves of

the interstate, and scrambled up the far slope.  He waited for three

huge trucks to roar past, then crossed the eastbound lanes in the windy

wake of those rigs.  His heart was pounding with an inexplicable

excitement, and for the moment he had forgotten the advent of night.

He stopped on the far berm, at the crest of the highway's elevated bed,

looking south and slightly west.  He wore a bulky suede jacket with

sheepskin lining, but his brush-cut gray hair provided little protection

from the chilly wind, which scrubbed its cold knuckles across his skull.

He began to lose the feeling that something of immense importance was

about to happen.  Instead, he was seized by the even creepier notion

that something had already happened to him on that patch of

shadow-banded ground out there, something that accounted for his recent

fear of the dark.  Something he had assiduously banned from his memory.

But that made no sense.  If important events had transpired here, they

simply would not have slipped his mind.  He was not forgetful.  And he

was not the kind of person who repressed unpleasant memories.

Still, the back of his neck continued to tingle.  Out there, not far

into those trackless Nevada plains, something had happened to him that

he had forgotten but that now pricked him from his subconscious, where

it was deeply embedded, much the way a needle, accidentally left in a

quilt, might jab and startle a sleeper out of a dream.

With his legs spread wide and his feet planted firmly in the berm, with

his blocky head hunched down on his blocky shoulders, Ernie seemed to be

challenging the landscape to speak more clearly to him.  He strained to

resurrect the dead memory of this place-if, indeed, there was one-but

the harder he tried to grasp the elusive revelation, the faster it

receded from him.  Then it was gone altogether.

The thought vu deserted him as completely as the sense of impending

epiphany had evaporated before it.  The tingle left his scalp and neck.

His frantically pounding heart settled slowly into a more normal pace.

Bewildered and somewhat dizzy, he studied the fast-fading scene before

him-the angled land, the spines and teeth of rock, the brush and grass,

the weathered convexities and concavities of the ancient earth-and now

he could not imagiNe why it had seemed special to him.  It was just a

portion of the high plains virtually indistinguishable from a thousand

other spots from here to Elko or from here to Battle Mountain.

Disoriented by the suddenness of his plunge from the brink of

transcendent awareness, he looked back toward the van, which waited on

the north side of the interstate.  He felt conspicuous and foolish when

he thought of the way he had dashed from there to here in the grip of a

strange excitement. He hoped Faye had not seen him.  If by chance she

had been looking out a window in this direction, she could not have

missed his performance, for the motel was only a quarter of a mile away,

and the flashing emergency blinkers on the truck made it by far the most

noticeable thing in the swiftly descending darkness.

Darkness.

Abruptly, the nearness of nightfall hit Ernie Block hard. For a while,

the mysterious magnetism that had drawn him to this place had been

stronger than his fear of the dark.  But that changed in an instant when

he realized that the eastern half of the sky was purple-black and that

only minutes of vague light remained in the western realm.

With a cry of panic, he bolted across the eastbound lanes, in front of a

motor home, oblivious of the danger.  A horn blared at him.  He did not

care, did not pause, just ran pellmell because he could feel the

darkness clutching at him and pressing down on him.  He reached the

shallow gully that served as a lane divider, fell as he started down

into it, rolled back onto his feet, terrified of the blackness that was

welling up out of each depression in the land and from under every rock.

He flung himself up the other side of the gully, fled into the westbound

lanes. Fortunately there was no oncoming traffic, for he did not look to

see if the way was clear.  At the van, he fumbled with the door handle,

acutely conscious of the perfect blackness under the truck.  It was

grappling at his feet.  It wanted to pull him under the Dodge and devour

him. He yanked the door open.  Tore his feet loose of the hands of

darkness. Clambered into the cab.  Slammed the door. Locked it.

He felt better but far from safe, and if he had not been so close to

home he would have frozen stiff.  But he only had a quarter of a mile to

go, and when he switched on his headlights, the gloom fell back, which

encouraged him.  He was shaking so violently that he did not trust

himself to pull back into traffic, so he drove along the shoulder of the

interstate until he came to the exit ramp.  There were sodium lamps

along the ramp and at the base of it, and he was tempted to stop there

at the bottom, in the yellow glare, but he gritted his teeth and turned

onto the county road, out of the light. After driving only two hundred

yards, Ernie reached the entrance to the Tranquility Motel.  He swung

through the parking area, slid the van into a slot in front of the

office, switched off the headlights, and cut the engine.

Beyond the big windows of the office, he could see Faye at the front

desk.  He hurried inside, closing the door behind himself with too much

force.  He smiled at Faye when she glanced up, and he hoped the smile

looked more convincing than it felt.

"I was beginning to worry, dear," she said, returning his smile.

"Had a flat tire," Ernie said, unzipping his jacket.

He felt somewhat relieved.  Nightfall was easier to accept when he was

not alone; Faye gave him strength, but he was still uneasy.

She said, "I missed you."

"I was only gone the afternoon."

"I guess I'm hooked, then.  Seemed longer.  Guess I've got to have my

Ernie fix every couple of hours or go through withdrawal symptoms."

He leaned across the counter, and she leaned from her side, and they

kissed.  There was nothing half-hearted about their kiss. She put one

hand to his head to hold him close. Most long-married couples, even if

they remained in love, were perfunctory in their displays of affection,

but that was not the case with Ernie and Faye Block.  After thirty-one

years of marriage, she could still make him feel young.

She said, "Where are the new lighting fixtures?  They did come in,

didn't they?  The freight office didn't make a mistake?"

That question jolted him back to an acute awareness of the night

outside.  He glanced at the windows, then quickly away. "Uh, no.  I'm

tired.  I don't really feel up to hauling them in here tonight."

"Just four crates-"

"Really, I'd rather do it in the morning," he said, striving to keep a

tremor out of his voice.  "The stuff will be all right in the truck.

Nobody'll touch it.  Hey, you put up the Christmas decorations!"

"You mean you just noticed?"

A huge wreath of pine cones and nuts hung on the wall above the sofa.  A

life-sized cardboard figure of Santa Claus stood in the corner beside

the rack of postcards, and a small ceramic sleigh with ceramic reindeer

was displayed at one end of the long counter.  Red and gold

Christmas-tree balls hung from the ceiling light fixture on lengths of

transparent fishing line.

"You had to get up on a ladder for some of this," he said.

"Just the stepladder."

"But what if you'd fallen?  You should've left this for me to do."

Faye shook her head.  "Honey, I swear to God I'm not the fragile type.

Now, hush up.  You ex-Marines carry macho too far sometimes."

"Is that so?"

The outer door opened, and a trucker came in, asking about a room.

Ernie held his breath until the door closed.

The trucker was a lanky man in a cowboy hat, denim jacket, cowboy shirt,

and jeans.  Faye complimented him on the hat, which had an elaborately

sculpted leather band brightened with chips of turquoise.  In that easy

way of hers, she made the stranger feel like an old friend as she

shepherded him through the check-in process.

Leaving her to it, trying to forget his curious experience on the

interstate, trying not to dwell on the night that had come, Ernie moved

behind the counter, hung his coat on the brass rack in the corner by the

file cabinets, and went to the oak desk, where mail was stacked on the

blotter.  Bills, of course.  Advertistments.  A charity solicitation.

The first Christmas cards of the year.  His military pension check.

Finally, there was a white envelope without a return address, which

contained only a Polaroid color photograph that had been taken in front

of the motel, beside the door to Room 9.  It was of three people-man,

woman, child.  The man was in his late twenties, darkly tanned and

good-looking.  The woman was a couple of years younger, a pretty

brunette.  The little girl, five or six, was very cute.  All three were

smiling at the camera.  Judging from their clothes-shorts and

Tshirts-and the quality of sunlight in the picture, Ernie assumed that

the snapshot had been taken in the middle of summer.

Puzzled, he turned the photo over, looking for a scribbled note of

explanation.  The back was blank.  He checked the envelope again, but it

was empty: no letter, no card, not even a business card to identify the

sender.  The postmark was Elko, December 7, last Saturday.

He looked again at the people in the picture, and although he did not

remember them, he felt his skin prickle, just as it had done when he had

been drawn to that place along the highway.  His pulse accelerated.  He

quickly put the picture aside and looked away from it.

Faye was still chatting with the cowboy-trucker as she took a room key

off the pegboard and passed it across the counter.

Ernie kept his eyes on her.  She was a calming influence. She had been a

lovely farmgirl when he'd met her, and had grown into a lovelier woman.

Her blond hair might have begun to turn white, but it was hard to tell.

Her blue eyes were clear and quick.  Hers was an open, friendly Iowa

face, slightly saucy but always wholesome, even beatific.

By the time the cowboy-trucker left, Ernie had stopped shaking.  He took

the Polaroid snapshot to Faye.  "What do you make of this?"

"That's our Room Nine," she said.  "They must've stayed with us." She

frowned at the young couple and little girl in the photograph.  "Can't

say I remember them, though.

Strangers to me."

"So why would they send us a photo without a note?"

"Well, obviously, they thought we would remember them.

"But the only reason they'd think that was if maybe they stayed for a

few days and we got to know them.  And I don't know them at all.  I

think I'd remember the tyke," Ernie said. He liked children, and they

usually liked him.  "She's cute enough to be in movies."

"I'd think you'd remember the mother.  She's gorgeous."

"Postmarked Elko," Ernie said.  "Why would anybody who lives in Elko

come out here to stay?"

"Maybe they don't live in Elko.  Maybe they were here last summer and

always meant to send us a photo, and maybe they recently passed through

and meant to stop and leave this off but didn't have time.  So they

mailed it from Elko."

"Without a note."

"It is odd," Faye agreed.

He took the picture from her.  "Besides, this is a Polaroid. Developed a

minute after it was taken.  If they wanted us to have it, why didn't

they leave it with us when they stayed here?"

The door opened, and a curly-haired guy with a bushy mustache came into

the office, shivering.  "Got any rooms left?" he asked.

While Faye dealt with the guest, Ernie took the Polaroid back to the oak

desk.  He meant to gather up the mail and go upstairs, but he stood by

the desk, studying the faces of the people in the snapshot.

It was Tuesday evening, December 10.

8.

Chicago, Illinois

When Brendan Cronin went to work as an orderly at St. Joseph's Hospital

for Children, only Dr.  Jim McMurtry knew that he was really a priest.

Father Wycazik had obtained a guarantee of secrecy from the physician,

as well as the solemn assurance that Brendan would be assigned as much

workand as much unpleasant work-as any orderly. Therefore, during his

first day on the job, he emptied bedpans, changed urine-soaked bed

linens, assisted a therapist with passive exercises for bed-ridden

patients, spoon-fed an eight-year-old boy who was partially paralyzed,

pushed wheelchairs, encouraged despondent patients, cleaned up the vomit

of two young cancer victims nauseous from chemotherapy.  No one pampered

him, and no one called him "Father." The nurses, doctors, orderlies,

candy-stripers, and patients called him Brendan, and he felt

uncomfortable, like an impostor engaged in a masquerade.

That first day, overcome with pity and grief for St.  Joseph's children,

he twice slipped away to the staff men's room and locked himself in a

stall, where he sat and wept.  The twisted legs and swollen joints of

those who suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, that mangler of the

innocent young, was a sight almost too terrible to be borne.  The wasted

flesh of the muscular dystrophy victims, the suppurating wounds of the

burn victims, the battered bodies of those whose parents had abused

them: He wept for all of them.

He could not imagine why Father Wycazik thought this duty would help him

regain his lost faith.  If anything, the existence of so many

pain-racked children only reinforced his doubt.  If the merciful God of

Catholicism really existed, if there was a Jesus, why would He allow the

innocent to endure such atrocities?  Of course, Brendan knew all the

standard theological arguments on that point.  Mankind had brought all

forms of evil upon itself by choice, the Church said, by turning away

from the grace of God.  But theological arguments were inadequate when

he came face to face with these smallest victims of fate.

By the second day, the staff was still calling him Brendan, but the

children were calling him Pudge, a long-unused nickname which he

divulged to them in the course of telling a funny story.  They liked his

stories, jokes, rhymes, and silly puns, and he found he could nearly

always get a laugh or at least a smile out of them.  That day, he went

to the men's room and wept only once.

By the third day, both the children and staff called him Pudge.  If he

had another metier besides the priesthood, he had found it at St.

Joseph's.  In addition to performing the usual tasks expected of an

orderly, he entertained the patients with comic patter, teased them,

drew them out.  Wherever he went, he was greeted with cries of "Pudge!"

that were a better reward than money.  And he did not cry until he was

back in the hotel room that he had taken for the duration of Father

Wycazik's unconventional therapy.

By Wednesday afternoon, the seventh day, he knew why Father Wycazik sent

him to St.  Joseph's.  Understanding came while he was brushing the hair

of a ten-year-old girl who'd been crippled by a rare bone disease.

Her name was Emmeline, and she was rightfully proud of her hair.  It was

thick, glossy, raven-black, and its healthy luster seemed to be a

defiant response to the sickness that had wasted her body.  She liked to

brush her hair a hundred strokes every day, but often her knuckles and

wrist-joints were so inflamed that she could-not hold the brush.

On Wednesday, Brendan put her in a wheelchair and took her to the X ray

department, where they were monitoring a new drug's effects on her bone

marrow, and when he brought her back to her room an hour later, he

brushed her hair for her.  Emmeline sat in the wheelchair, looking out a

window, while Brendan pulled the soft bristles through her silken

tresses, and she became enchanted with the winterscape beyond the glass.

With a gnarled hand more suited to the body of an eightyyear-old woman,

she pointed down to the roof of another, lower wing of the hospital.

"See that patch of snow, Pudge?"

Rising heat within the building had caused most of the snow to loosen

and slide off the pitched roof.  But a large patch remained, outlined by

dark slate shingles.  "It looks like a ship," Emmy said.  "The shape.

You see?  A beautiful old ship with three white sails, gliding across a

slate-colored sea."

For a while Brendan could not see what she saw.  But she continued to

describe the imaginary vessel ' and the fourth time that he looked up

from her hair, he suddenly was able to see that the patch of snow did,

indeed, bear a remarkable and delightful resemblance to a sailing ship.

To Brendan, the long icicles that hung in front of Emmy's window were

transparent bars, the hospital a prison from which she might never be

released.  But to Emmy, those frozen stalactites were wondrous Christmas

decorations that, she said, put her in the holiday mood.

"God likes winter as much as He likes spring," Emmy said. "The gift of

the seasons is one of His ways of keeping us from getting bored with the

world.  That's what Sister Katherine told us, and right away I could see

it must be true.  When the sun hits those icicles just right, they cast

rainbows across my bed. Ever-so-pretty rainbows, Pudge.  The ice and

snow are like .  .  .  like jewels .  .  .  and ermine cloaks that God

uses to dress up the world in winter to make us ooh and ah.  That's why

He never makes two snowflakes alike: it's a way of reminding us that the

world He made for us is a wonderful, wonderful world."

As if on cue, snowflakes spiraled down from the gray December sky.

In spite of her nearly useless legs and twisted hands, in spite of the

pain she had endured, Emmy believed in God's goodness, and in the

inspiring rightness of the world that He had created.

Strong faith was, in fact, a trait of nearly all the children in St.

Joseph's Hospital.  They remained convinced that a caring Father watched

over them from His kingdom in the sky, and they were encouraged.

In his mind he could hear Father Wycazik saying: If these innocents can

suffer so much and not lose their faith, what sorry excuse do you have,

Brendan?  Perhaps, in their very innocence and naivetd, they know

something that you have forgotten while chasing your sophisticated

education in Rome. Perhaps there is something to be learned from this,

Brendan. Do you think so?  Just maybe?  Something to be learned?

But the lesson was not powerful enough to restore Brendan's faith.  He

continued to be deeply moved, not by the possibility that a caring and

compassionate God might actually exist, but by the children's amazing

courage in the face of such adversity.

He gave Emmy's hair a hundred strokes, then ten more, which pleased her,

and then he lifted her from the wheelchair and put her into bed.  As he

pulled the covers over her pathetic bent-stick legs, he felt a surge of

that same rage that had filled him during Mass at St.  Bette's two

Sundays ago, and if a sacred chalice had been close at hand, he would

not have hesitated to hurl it at the wall once more.

Emmy gasped, and Brendan had the odd notion that she had read his

blasphemous thoughts.  But she said, "Oh, Pudge, did you hurt yourself?"

He blinked at her.  "What do you mean?"

"Did you burn yourself?  Your hands.  When'd you hurt your hands?"

Bewildered by her question, he looked down at the backs of his hands,

turned them over, and was surprised by the marks on his palms.  In the

center of each palm was a red ring of inflamed and swollen flesh.  Each

ring was two inches in diameter and sharply defined along all its edges.

The circular band of irritated tissue which formed the ring was no more

than half an inch wide, inscribing a perfect circle; the skin around and

within the circle was quite normal.  It almost looked as if the marks

had been painted on his hands, but when he touched one of the rings with

a fingertip, he could feel the bump it made in his palm.

"That's strange," he said.

Dr.  Stan Heeton was the resident physician on duty in St. Joseph's

emergency room.  Standing at the examining table on which Brendan sat,

peering with interest at the odd rings on Brendan's hands, he said, "Do

they hurt?"

"No.  Not at all."

"Itching?  A burning sensation?"

"No.  Neither."

"Do they at least tingle?  No?  You've never had these before?"

"Never.

"Do you have any allergies that you're aware of?  No?

Hmmmm.  At first glance, it looks like a mild burn, but you'd have

remembered leaning against something hot enough to cause this.  There'd

be pain.  So we can rule that out.  Same for acid contact.  Did you say

you'd taken a little girl to radiology?"

"Yes, but I didn't stay in the room while the X rays were taken."

"Doesn't really look like a radiation burn.  Maybe dermatomycosis, a

fungal infection, perhaps in the ringworm family, though the symptoms

aren't sufficiently indicative of ringworm.  No scaling, no itching. And

the ring is much too clearly defined, not like the inflammation patterns

you get with a Microsporum or Trichophyton infection."

"So what does all this boil down to?"

Heeton hesitated, then said, "I don't think it's anything serious.  The

best guess is a rash related to an unidentified allergy.  If the problem

persists, you'll have to take the standard patch tests and find the

source of your problem." He let go of Brendan's hands, went to a chair

at a corner desk, and began to fill out a prescription form.

Puzzled, Brendan stared at his hands a moment longer, then folded them

in his lap.

At the corner desk, still writing, Heeton said, "I'll start with the

simplest treatment, a cortisone lotion.  If the rash doesn't disappear

in a couple of days, come see me again."

He returned to the examining table, holding out the prescription form.

Brendan took the paper from him.  "Listen, is there any chance I might

pass on an infection to the kids or anything like that?"

"Oh, no.  If I thought there was the slightest chance, I'd have told

you," Heeton said.  "Now, let me have one last look."

Brendan turned his hands palms-up for examination.

"What the devil?" Dr.  Heeton said, surprised.

The rings were gone.

That night, in his room at the Holiday Inn, Brendan again endured the

by-now familiar nightmare about which he had spoken with Father Wycazik.

It had disturbed his sleep twice before in the past week.

He dreamed he was lying in a strange place, with his arms and legs

restrained by straps or braces.  From out of a haze, a pair of hands

reached for him.  Hands encased in shiny black gloves.

He woke in knots of sweat-soaked sheets, sat up in bed, and leaned back

against the headboard, letting the dream evaporate as sweat dried on his

forehead.  In the dark he brought his hands to his face to blot it-and

went rigid when his palms touched his cheeks.  He switched on the lamp.

The swollen, inflamed rings had returned to his palms.  But as he

watched, they faded.

It was Thursday, December 12.

9.

Laguna Beach, California

Dom Corvaisis thought he had slept Wednesday night straight through in

peace.  He woke in bed, in precisely the same position in which he had

gone to sleep, as if he had not moved an inch during the night.

But when he went to work at his Displaywriter, he was dismayed to find

proof of his somnambulistic wandering on the current work diskette.  As

on a few other occasions, he apparently had gone to the Displaywriter in

his night trance and had repeatedly typed two words.  Previously, he had

typed, "I'm scared," but this time there were two different words:

The moon.  The moon.  The moon.  The moon.

The moon.  The moon.  The moon.  The moon.

There were hundreds of repetitions of those sev&n letters, and he was at

once reminded that he had heard himself murmuring the same words in a

state of drowsy disorientation, just as he had fallen asleep last

Sunday.  Dominick stared at the screen for a long time, chilled, but he

had no idea what special meaning "the moon" held for him, if any.

The Valium and Dalmane therapy was working well.  Until now, there had

been no new episodes of sleepwalking and no dreams since last weekend,

when he'd had that nasty nightmare about being forced face-down into a

sink.  He had seen Dr.  Cobletz again, and the physician had been

pleased by his swift progress.

Coblei-z had said, "I'm going to extend your prescriptions, but be sure

not to take the Valium more than once-or at most, twice-a day."

"I never do," Dom had lied.

"And only one Dalmane a night.  I don't want you becoming

drug-dependent.  I'm sure we'll beat this thing by the first of the

year."

Dom believed Cobletz was correct, which was why he did not want to worry

the doctor by confessing that there were days when he only made it

through with the aid of Valium and nights when he took two or even three

Dalmane tablets, washing some of them down with beer or Scotch.  But in

a couple of weeks he could stop taking them without fear that the

somnambulism would get a new grip on him.  The treatment was working.

That was the important thing.  The treatment was, thank God, working.

Until now.

The moon.

Frustrated and angry, he deleted the words from the diskette, a hundred

lines of them, four repetitions to the line.

He stared at the screen a long time, growing increasingly nervous.

Finally he took a Valium.

That morning Dom got no work done, and at eleven-thirty he and Parker

Faine picked up Denny Ulmes and Nyugen Kao Tran, the two boys assigned

to them by the Orange County chapter of Big Brothers of America.  They

had planned a lazy afternoon at the beach, dinner at Hamburger Hamlet,

and a movie, and Dominick had been looking forward to the outing.

He had become involved in the Big Brothers program years earlier in

Portland, Oregon.  It had been his only community involvement, the only

thing that had been able to bring him out of his rabbit hole.

He had spent his own childhood in a series of foster homes, lonely and

increasingly withdrawn.  Some day, when he finally got married, he hoped

to adopt kids.  In the meantime, when he spent time with these kids, he

was not only helping them but was also comforting the lonely child

within himself.

Nyugen Kao Tran preferred to be called "Duke," in imitation of John

Wayne, whose movies he loved.  Duke was thirteen, the youngest son of

boat people who had fled the horrors of "peacetime" Vietnam.  He was

bright, quick-witted, as startlingly agile as he was thin.  His

father-after surviving a brutal war, a concentration camp, and two weeks

in a flimsy boat on the open sea-had been killed three years ago in a

holdup while working at his second job as a nightshift clerk at a

Seven-Eleven store in sunny southern California.

Denny Ulmes, the twelve-year-old who was Parker's little brother, lost

his father to cancer.  He was more reticent than Duke, but the two got

along famously, so Dom and Parker frequently combined their outings.

Parker became a Big Brother at Dom's insistence, with curmudgeonly

reluctance.  "Me?  Me?  I'm not father material-or surrogate father

material," Parker had said.  "Never was and never will be.  I drink too

much, womanize too much. It'd be downright criminal for any kid to ttirn

to me for advice.

I'm a procrastinator, a dreamer, and a self-centered egomaniac.  And I

like me that way!  What in God's name would I have to offer a kid?  I

don't even like dogs.  Kids like dogs, but I hate 'em.  Damn dirty

flea-bitten things.  Me, a Big Brother?  Friend, you have lost your

marbles for sure."

But Thursday afternoon at the beach, when the water proved too cold for

swimming, Parker organized a volleyball game and surfside races.  He got

Dom and the boys involved in a complicated game of his own devising,

involving two frisbees, a beach ball, and an empty soda can.  Under his

direction they also built a sandcastle complete with a menacing dragon.

Later, during an early dinner at Hamburger Hamlet in Costa Mesa, while

the kids were in the bathroom, Parker said, "Dom, good buddy, this Big

Brother thing was sure one of the best ideas I've ever had."

"Your idea?" Dominick said, shaking his head.  "I had to drag you into

it kicking and screaming."

"Nonsense," Parker said.  "I've always had a way with kids. Every artist

is a bit of a kid at heart.  We have to stay young to create.  I find

kids invigorate me, keep my mind fresh."

"Next, you'll be getting a dog," Dom said.

Parker laughed.  He finished his beer, leaned forward.  "You okay?  At

times today, you seemed ...  distracted.  A little out of it."

."Lot on my mind," Dom said.  "But I'm fine.  The sleepwalking's pretty

much stopped.  And the dreams.  Cobletz knows what he's doing."

"Is the new book going well?  Don't shit me, now."

:'It's going well," Dom lied.

'At times you have that look," Parker said, watching him intently. "That

.  .  .  doped up.  Following the prescribed dos age, I assume?"

The painter's perspicacity disconcerted Dom.  "I'd have to be an idiot

to snack on Valium as if it was candy.  Of course, I follow the

prescribed dosage."

Parker stared hard at him, then apparently decided not to push it.

The movie was good, but during the first thirty minutes Dom grew nervous

without reason.  When he felt the nervousness building toward an anxiety

attack, he slipped out to the men's room.  He'd brought another Valium

for just such an emergency.

The important thing was that he was winning.  He was getting well.  The

somnambulism was losing its grip on him.  It really was.

Beneath a strong pine-scented disinfectant, there was an acrid stench

from the urinals.  Dom felt slightly nauseous.  He swallowed the Valium

without water.

That night, in spite of the pills, he had the dream again, and he

remembered more of it than just the part where people were forcing his

head into a sink.

In the nightmare, he was in a bed in an unknown room, where there seemed

to be an oily saffron mist in the air.  Or perhaps the amber fog was

only in his eyes, for he could not see anything clearly.  furniture

loomed beyond the bed, and at least two people were present.  But those

shapes rippled and writhed as if this were purely a realm of smoke and

fluid, where nothing had a fixed appearance.

He almost felt as if he were underwater, very deep underneath the

surface of some mysterious cold sea.  The atmosphere in the dream-place

had more weight than mere air.  He could barely draw breath.  Each

inhalation and exhalation was agony.  He sensed that he was dying.

The two blurred figures came close.  They seemed concerned about his

condition.  They spoke urgently to each other. Although he knew they

were speaking English, he could not understand them.  A cold hand

touched him.  He heard the clink of glass.  Somewhere a door shut.

With the flash-cut suddenness of a scene transition in a film, the dream

shifted to a bathroom or kitchen.  Someone was forcing his face down

into the sink.  Breathing became even more difficult.  The air was like

mud: with each inhalation it clogged his nostrils.  He choked and gasped

and tried to blow out the mud-thick air, and the two people with him

were shouting at him, and as before he could not understand what they

were saying, and they pressed his face down into the sink Dom woke and

was still in bed.  Last weekend he had been flung free of the dream only

to discover that he had walked in his sleep and had been acting out the

nightmare at his own bathroom sink.  This time, he was relieved to find

himself beneath the sheets.

I am getting better, he thought.

Trembling, he sat up and switched on the light.

No barricades.  No signs of somnambulistic panic.

He looked at the digital clock: two-oh-nine A. M.  A halfempty can of

warm beer stood on the nightstand.  He washed down another Dalmane

tablet.

I am getting better.

It was Friday the thirteenth.

10.

Elko County, Nevada

Friday night, three days after his weird experience on the I80, Ernie

Block couldn't sleep at all.  As darkness embraced him, his nerves wound

tighter, tighter, until he thought he would start screaming and be

unable to stop.

Slipping out of bed as soundlessly as he could, pausing to make sure

that Faye's slow and even breathing had not changed, he went into the

bathroom, closed the door, turned on the light.  Wonderful light.  He

reveled in the light.  He put down the lid of the commode and sat for

fifteen minutes in his underwear, just letting the brightness scar him,

as mindlessly happy as a lizard on a sun-washed rock.

Finally he knew he must return to the bedroom.  If Faye woke, and if

he'remained in here too long, she would begin to think something was

wrong.  He was determined to do nothing that would make her suspicious.

Although he had not used the toilet, he flushed it for cover, and went

to the sink to wash his hands.  He had just finished rinsing off the

soap and had plucked the towel off the rack when his eyes were drawn to

the only window in the room. It was above the bathtub, a rectangle about

three feet wide and two feet high, which opened outward on an overhead

piano hinge.  Although the glass was frosted and provided no view of the

night beyond, a shiver passed through Ernie as he stared at the opaque

pane.  More disturbing than the shiver was the sudden rush of peculiar,

urgent thoughts that came with it:

The window's big enough to get through, I could get away, escape, and

the roof of the utility room is under the window, so there's not a long

drop, and I could be off, into the arroyo behind the motel, up into the

hills, make my way east, get to a ranch somewhere and get help.  .  .  .

Blinking furiously as that swift train of thoughts flashed through his

mind and faded away, Ernie discovered that he had stepped from the sink

to the bathtub.  He did not remember moving.

He was bewildered by the urge to escape.  From whom?

From what?  Why?  This was his own home.  He had nothing to fear within

these walls.

Yet he could not take his glaze from the milky window.  A dreaminess had

come over him.  He was aware of it but unable to cast it off.

Got to get out, get away, there won't be another chance, not another

chance like this, now, go now, go, go.  .  .  .

Unwittingly, he had stepped into the tub and was directly in front of

the window, which was set in the wall at face-level. The porcelain

coating of the tub was cold against his bare feet.

Slide back the latch, push up the window, stand on the rim of the tub,

pull yourself up onto the sill, out and away, a threeor four-minute

headstart before you're missed, not much but enough.  .  .  .

Panic rose in him without reason.  There was a fluttering in his guts, a

tightness in his chest.

Without knowing why he was doing it, yet unable to stop himself, he slid

the bolt from the latch on the bottom of the window.  He pushed out. The

window swung up.

He was not alone.

Something was at the other side of the window, out there on the roof,

something with a dark, featureless, shiny face. Even as Ernie recoiled

in surprise, he realized it was a man in a white helmet with a tinted

visor that came all the way down over his face, so darkly tinted that it

was virtually black.

A black-gloved hand reached through the window, as if to grab him, and

Ernie cried out and took a step backward and fell over the edge of the

tub.  Toppling out of the tub, he grabbed wildly at the shower curtain,

tore it loose from several of its rings, but could not arrest his fall.

He hit the bathroom floor with a crash.  Pain flashed through his right

hip.

"Ernie!" Faye cried, and a moment later she pushed open the door.

"Ernie, my God, what's wrong, what happened?"

"Stay back." He got up painfully.  "Someone's out there."

Cold night air poured through the open window, rustling the

half-wrecked, bunched-up shower curtain.

Faye shivered, for she slept in only a pajama shirt and panties.

Ernie shivered, too, though partly for different reasons. The moment the

pain had throbbed through his hip, the dreaminess had left him.  In the

sudden rush of clear-mindedness, he wondered if the helmeted figure had

been imaginary, a hallucination.

"On the roof?" Faye said.  "At the window?  Who?"

"I don't know," Ernie said, rubbing his sore hip as he stepped back into

the tub and peered out the window again. He saw no one this time.

"What'd he look like?" Faye asked.

"I couldn't tell.  He was in motorcycle gear.  Helmet, gloves," Ernie

said, realizing how outlandish it sounded.

He levered himself up on the windowsill far enough to lean out and look

across the full length and breadth of the utility room's roof.  Shadows

were deep in places, but nowhere deep enough to hide a man.  The

intruder was gone-if indeed he had ever existed.

Abruptly Ernie became aware of the vast darkness behind the motel.  It

stretched across the hills, off to the distant mountains, an immense

blackness relieved only by the stars.  Instantly, a crippling weakness

and vulnerability overwhelmed him.  Gasping, he dropped off the sill,

back into the tub, and started to turn away from the window.

"Close it up," Faye said.

Squeezing his eyes shut to guard against another glimpse of the night,

he turned once more to the in-rushing cold air, fumbled blindly for the

window, and pulled it shut so hard that he almost broke the pane.  With

unsteady hands he struggled to secure the latch bolt.

When he stepped out of the tub, he saw concern in Faye's eyes, which he

expected.  He saw surprise, which he also expected.  But he saw a

penetrating awareness for which he was unprepared.  For a long moment

they looked at each other, neither of them speaking.

Then she said, "Are you ready to tell me about it?"

"Like I said .  .  .  I thought I saw a guy on the roof."

"That's not what I'm talking about, Ernie.  I mean, are you ready to

tell me what's wrong, what's been eating at you?"

Her eyes did not waver from his.  "For a couple of months now.  Maybe

longer."

He was stunned.  He thought he had concealed it so well. She said,

"Honey, you've been worried.  Worried like I've never seen you before.

And scared."

"No.  Not scared exactly."

"Yes.  Scared," Faye said, but there was no scorn in her, just an

Iowan's forthrightness and a desire to help.  "I've only ever seen you

scared once before, Ernie-back when Lucy was five and came down with

that muscle fever, and they thought it might be muscular dystrophy."

"God, yes, I was scared shitless then."

"But not since."

"Oh, I was scared in Nam sometimes," he said, his admission echoing

hollowly off the bathroom walls.

"But I never saw it." She hugged herself.  "It's rare that I see you

like this, Ernie, so when you're scared I'm scared. Can't help it.  I'm

even more scared because I don't know what's wrong.  You understand?

Being in the dark like I am .  .  .  that's worse than any secret you're

withholding from me."

Tears came to her eyes, and Ernie said, "Oh, hey, don't cry.  It's going

to be all right, Faye.  Really it is."

"Tell me!" she said.

"Okay."

"Now.  Everything."

He had woefully underestimated her, and he felt thickheaded.  She was a

Corps wife, after all, and a good one.  She had followed him from

Quantico to Singapore to Pendleton in California, even to Alaska, almost

everywhere but Nam and, later, Beirut.  She had made a home for them

wherever the Corps allowed dependents to follow, had weathered the bad

times with admirable aplomb, had never complained, and had never failed

him.  She was tough.  He could not imagine how he had forgotten that.

"Everything," he agreed, relieved to be able to share the burden.

Faye made coffee, and they sat in their robes and slippers at the

kitchen table while he told her everything.  She could see that he was

embarrassed.  He was slow to reveal details, but she sipped her coffee,

remained patient, and gave him a chance to tell it in his own way.

Ernie was about the best husband a woman could want, but now and then

his Block-family stubbornness reared its head, and Faye wanted to shake

some sense into him.  Everyone in his family suffered from it,

especially the men.  Blocks did things this way, never that way, and you

better never question why.  Block men liked their undershirts ironed but

never their underpants.  Block women always wore a bra, even at home in

the worst summer heat.  Blocks, both men and women, always ate lunch at

precisely twelve-thirty, always had dinner at six-thirty sharp, and God

forbid if the food was put on the table two minutes late: The subsequent

complaining would burst eardrums.  Blocks drove only General Motors

vehicles.  Not because GM products were notably better than others, but

because Blocks had always driven only General Motors vehicles.

Thank God, Ernie was not a tenth as bad as his father or brothers.  He

had been wise enough to get out of Pittsburgh, where the Block clan had

lived for generations in the same neighborhood.  Out in the real world,

away from the Kingdom of the Blocks, Ernie had loosened up.  In the

Marine Corps he could not expect every meal at precisely the time that

Block tradition demanded.  And soon after their marriage, Faye had made

it clear that she would make a first-rate home for him but would not be

bound by senseless traditions.  Ernie adapted, though not always easily,

and now he was a black sheep among his people, guilty of such sins as

driving a variety of vehicles not made by General Motors.

Actually, the only area where the Block family stubbornness still had a

hold on Ernie was in some man-woman matters.  He believed that a husband

had to protect his wife from a variety of unpleasantnesses that she was

just too fragile to handle.  He believed that a husband should never

allow his wife to see him in a moment of weakness.  Although their

marriage had never been conducted according to those rules, Ernie did

not always seem to realize they had abandoned the Block traditions more

than a quarter of a century ago.

For months, she had been aware something was seriously wrong.  But Ernie

continued to stonewall it, straining to prove he was a happy retired

Marine blissfully launched on a second career in motels.  She had

watched an unknown fire consuming him from within, and her subtle and

patient attempts to get him to open up hadgone right over his head.

During the past few weeks, ever since returning from Wisconsin after

Thanksgiving, she had been increasingly aware of his reluctance-even

inability-to go out at night.  He could not seem to make himself

comfortable in a room where even one lamp was left unlit.

Now, as they sat in the kitchen with cups of steaming coffee, the blinds

tightly closed and all the lights on, Faye listened intently to Ernie,

interrupting only when he seemed to need a word of encouragement to keep

him going, and nothing he told her was more than she could cope with.

Indeed, her spirits rose, for she was increasingly certain that she knew

what was wrong with him and how he might be helped.

He finished, his voice low and thin.  "So .  .  .  is that the reward

for all the years of hard work and careful financial planning? Premature

senility?  Now, when we can really start enjoying what we've earned, am

I going to wind up with my brains all scrambled, drooling, pissing my

pants, useless to myself and a burden on you?  Twenty years before my

time?

Christ, Faye, I've always realized that life isn't fair, but I never

thought the deck was stacked against me this bad."

"It won't be like that." She reached across the table and took his hand.

"Sure, Alzheimer's can strike people even younger than you, but this

isn't Alzheimer's.  From what I've read, from the way it was with my

father, I don't think the onset of senility-premature or otherwise-is

ever like this. What it sounds like is a simple phobia.  Phobia.  Some

people have an irrational fear of flying or heights.  For some reason,

you've developed a fear of the dark.  It can be overcome."

"But phobias just don't develop overnight, do they?"

Their right hands were still clasped.  She squeezed his as she said, "Do

you remember Helen Dorfman?  Almost twenty-four years ago.  Our landlady

when you were first assigned to Camp Pendleton."

"Oh, yeah!  The building on Vine Street, lived in number one, first

floor front.  We lived in number six." He seemed to take heart from his

ability to recall those details.  "She had a cat .  .  .  Sable.

Remember how the damn cat took a liking to us, left little gifts on our

doorstep?"

"Dead mice."

"Yeah.  Right there beside the morning paper and the milk,"

He laughed, blinked, and said, "Hey, I see what you mean by bringing up

Helen Dorfinan!  She was afraid to go out of her apartment.  Couldn't

even walk out on her own lawn."

"The poor woman had agoraphobia," Faye said.  "An irrational fear of

open spaces.  She was a prisoner in her own home.  Outside, she was

overwhelmed with fear.  Doctors call it a 'panic attack,' I think."

"Panic attack," Ernie said softly.  "Yeah, that's it, all right."

"And Helen didn't develop her agoraphobia till she was thirty-five,

after her husband died.  Phobias can spring up suddenly, later in life."

"Well, whatever the hell a phobia is, wherever it comes from ...  I

guess it's a lot better than senility.  But good God, I don't want to

spend the rest of my life being afraid of the dark."

"You won't have to," Faye said.  "Twenty-four years ago, nobody

understood phobias.  There hadn't been much study done.  No effective

treatments.  But it's not like that now.  I'm sure it's not."

He was silent a moment.  "I'm not crazy, Faye."

"I know that, you big jerk."

He mulled over the word "phobia, and he plainly wanted to believe her

answer.  In his blue eyes, she saw a rebirth of hope.

He said, "But the weird experience I had on the interstate on

Tuesday....  And the hallucination-I'm sure it must've been a

hallucination-of the motorcyclist on the roof....  How does stuff like

that fit this explanation?  How could that be a part of my phobia?"

"I don't know.  But an expert in the field could explain it all and tie

it together.  I'm sure it's not as unusual as it seems, Ernie."

He pondered for a moment, then nodded.  "Okay.  But how do we begin?

Where do we go for help?  How do I beat this damn thing?"

"I already have it figured out," she said.  "No doctor in Elko is going

to know how to treat a case like this.  We need a specialist, someone

who deals with phobic patients every day.  Probably isn't anyone like

that in Reno, either.  We'll have to go to a bigger city.  Now, I

suspect Milwaukee's big enough to have a doctor with experience in these

things, and we could stay with Lucy and Frank-"

"And at the same time get to see a lot of Frank, Jr., and Dorie," Ernie

said, smiling at the thought of his grandchildren.

"Right.  We'll go there for Christmas a week sooner than planned, this

Sunday instead of next.  Which is tomorrow, in fact.  It's already

Saturday.  When we get to Milwaukee, we'll look up a doctor.  If, by New

Year's, it looks like we'll have to stay there awhile, then I'll fly

back here, find a full-time couple to manage the place, and rejoin you.

We were planning to hire somebody this spring, anyway."

"If we close the motel a week early, Sandy and Ned will lose out on some

money over at the Grille."

"Ned will still get the truckers off the interstate.  And if he doesn't

do as well as usual, we'll make it up to him."

Ernie shook his head and smiled.  "You've got it all worked out.  You're

something, Faye.  You sure are.  You're an absolute wonder."

"Well, I will admit I can be dazzling sometimes."

"I thank God every day that I found you," he said. "I don't have any

regrets either, Ernie, and I know I never will."

"You know, I feel a thousand percent better than when we first sat down

here.  Why'd it take me so damn long to ask you for help?"

"Why?  Because you're a Block," she said.

He grinned and finished the old joke: "Which is only one step removed

from a blockhead."

They laughed.  He grabbed her hand again and kissed it. "That's the

first real laugh I've had in weeks.  We're a terrific team, Faye.  We

can face anything together, can't we?"

"Anything," she agreed.

It was Saturday, December 14, near dawn, and Faye Block was sure they

would come out on top of their current problem, just as they had always

come out on top before when they worked together, side by side.

She, like Ernie, had already forgotten the unidentified Polaroid

photograph that they had received in a plain envelope last Tuesday.

Boston, Massachusetts

On an intricately crocheted doily, on the highly polished maple dresser,

lay black gloves and a stainless-steel ophthalmo  scope.

Ginger Weiss stood at a window to the left of the dresser, looking out

at the bay, where the gray water seemed to be a mirror image of the

ashen mid-December sky.  Farther shores were hidden by a lingering

morning mist that shimmered with a pearly luminosity.  At the end of the

Hannaby property, at the bottom of a rocky slope, a private dock thrust

out into the choppy bay.  The dock was covered with snow, as was the

long expanse of lawn leading back to the house.

It was a big house, built in the 1850s, with new rooms added in 1892, in

1905, and again in 1950.  The brick driveway curved beneath an enormous

front portico, and broad thick steps led up to massive doors.  Pillars,

pilasters, carved granite lintels above doors and windows, a multitude

of gables and circular dormers, bay-facing second-story balconies at the

back, and a large widow's walk on the roof contributed to an impression

of majesty.

Even for a surgeon as successful as George, the house might have been

too expensive, but he had not needed to buy it. He had inherited the

place from his father, and his father had inherited it from George's

grandfather, and his father had bought it in 1884.  The house even had a

name-Baywatch-like ancestral homes in British novels, and more than

anything else, that inspired awe in Ginger.  Houses in Brooklyn, where

she came from, did not have their own names.

At Memorial, Ginger never felt uncomfortable around George.  There, he

was a figure of authority and respect, but he seemed to have his roots

in common stock like everyone else.  At Baywatch, however, Ginger was

aware of the patrician heritage, and that made George different from

her.  He never invoked a claim to privilege.  That would not be like

him.  But the ghost of the New England patriciate haunted the rooms and

corridors of Baywatch, often making her feel out of place.

The corner guest suite-bedroom, reading alcove, and bathin which Ginger

had been settled for the past ten days, was simpler than many chambers

in Baywatch, and there she was almost as comfortable as in her own

apartment.  Most of the pegged-oak floor was covered by a figured Serapi

carpet in shades of blue and peach.  The walls were peach, the ceiling

white.  The maple furniture, which consisted of various kinds of chests

used as nightstands and tables and dressers, had all come off

19th-century sailing ships owned by George's greatgrandfather.  There

were two upholstered armchairs covered in peach-colored silk from

Brunschwig & Fils.  On the nightstands, the bases of the lamps were

actually Baccarat candlesticks, a reminder that the apparent simplicity

of the room was built upon an elegant foundation.

Ginger went to the dresser and stared down at the black gloves that lay

upon the doily.  As she had done countless times during the past ten

days, she put the gloves on, flexed her hands, waiting for a rush of

fear.  But they were only ordinary gloves that she had bought the day

she had been discharged from the hospital, and they did not have the

power to bring her to the trembling edge of a fugue.  She took them off.

A knock sounded at the door, and Rita Hannaby said, "Ginger, dear, are

you ready?"

"Coming," she said, snatching her purse from the bed and taking one last

quick glance at herself in the dresser mirror.

She was wearing a lime-green knit suit with a creamy white blouse that

had a simple lime-green bow at the throat.  Her ensemble included a pair

of green pumps that matched the suit, an eelskin purse that matched the

pumps, a gold and malachite bracelet.  The outfit perfectly complemented

her complexion and golden hair.  She thought she looked chic. Well,

perhaps not chic, but at least stylish.

However, when she stepped into the hall ' and got a look at Rita

Hannaby, Ginger felt at a disadvantage, a mere pretender to class.

Rita was as slim as Ginger, but at five-eight she was six inches taller,

and everything about her was queenly.  Her chestnut-brown hair swept

back from her face in a perfectly feathered cut.  If her facial bones

had been more exquisitely chiseled, she would have looked severe.

However, beauty and warmth were assured by her luminous gray eyes,

translucent skin, and generous mouth.  Rita was wearing a gray St.

John's suit, pearls, pearl earrings, and a broad-brimmed black hat.

To Ginger, the amazing thing was that Rita's fashionable appearance did

not seem planned.  One had no sense that she had spent hours getting

ready.  Instead, she seemed to have been born with impeccable grooming

and a fashionably tailored wardrobe; elegance was her natural condition.

"You look sma,.hing!" Rita said.

"Next to you, I feel like a frump in blue jeans and a sweatshirt."

"Nonsense.  Even if I were twenty years younger, I'd be no match for

you, dear.  Wait and see who the waiters pamper

the most at lunch."

Ginger had no false modesty.  She knew she was attractive. But her

beauty was more that of a pixie, while Rita had the blueblood looks of

one who could sit upon a throne and convince the world she belonged.

Rita did nothing to cause Ginger's newfound inferiority complex.  The

woman treated her not like a daughter but like a sister and an equal.

Ginger's feelings of inadequacy were, she knew, a direct result of her

pathetic condition.  Until two weeks ago, she had not been dependent on

anyone in ages. Now she was dependent again, not entirely able to look

after herself, and her self-respect slipped a bit further every day.

Rita Hannaby's good humor, carefully planned outings, woman-to-woman

shmoozing, and unflagging encouragement were not enough to distract

Ginger from the cruel fact that fate once more had cast her, at thirty,

in the frustrating role of a child.

Together, they descended to the marble-floored foyer, where they got

their coats from the closet, then went out the door and down the steps

under the portico to the black Mercedes 500 SEL in the driveway.

Herbert, who was sort of a cross between a butler and a Man Friday, had

brought the car around five minutes ago and had left the engine running,

so the interior was a toasty-warm haven from the frigid winter day.

Rita drove with her usual confidence, away from the old estates, out of

quiet streets lined with bare-limbed elms and maples, through

ever-busier thoroughfares, heading to Dr. Immanuel Gudhausen's office on

bustling State Street.  Ginger had an eleven-thirty appointment with

Gudhausen, whom she had seen twice last week.  She was scheduled to

visit him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until they got to the

bottom of her attacks of fugue.  In her bleaker moments, Ginger was sure

she'd still be lying on Gudhausen's couch thirty years from now.

Rita intended to do a bit of shopping while Ginger was with the doctor.

Then they would go to lunch at some exquisite restaurant in which, no

doubt, the decor would seem to have been planned to flatter Rita Hannaby

and in which Ginger would feel like a schoolgirl foolishly trying to

pass for a grownup.

"Have you given some thought to what I suggested last Friday?" Rita

asked as she drove.  "The Women's Auxiliary at the hospital?"

"I don't really think I'm up to it.  I'd feel so awkward."

"It's important work," Rita said, expertly slipping the Mercedes out

from behind a Globe newspaper truck, into a gap in traffic.

"I know.  I've seen how much money you've raised for the hospital, the

new equipment you've bought .  .  .  but I think I've got to stay away

from Memorial right now.  It'd be too frustrating to be around the

place, too constant a reminder that I can't do the work I've been

trained for."

"I understand, dear.  Don't give it another thought.  But there's still

the Symphony Committee, the Women's League for the Aged, and the

Children's Advocacy Committee.  We could use your help at any of those."

Rita was an indefatigable charity worker, ably chairing committees or

serving on them, not only organizing beneficent societies but getting

her hands dirty in the operation of them.  "What about it?" she pressed.

"I'm sure you'd find working with children especially rewarding."

"Rita, what if I had one of my attacks while I was with the children? It

would frighten them, and I-"

"Oh, pish posh," Rita said.  "Every time I've gotten you out of the

house these last two weeks, you've used that same excuse to try to

resist leaving your room.  'Oh, Rita,' you say, 'I'll have one of my

awful fits and embarrass you." But you haven't, and you won't.  Even if

you did, it wouldn't embarrass me.  I don't embarrass easily, dear."

"I never thought for a moment you were a shrinking violet.

But you haven't seen me in this fugue state.  You don't know what I'm

like or-"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, you make it sound as if you're a regular Dr.

Jekyll and Mr.  Hyde-or Ms.  Hyde-which I'm sure you're not.  You

haven't beaten anyone to death with a cane yet, have you, Ms.  Hyde?"

Ginger laughed and shook her head.  "You're something else, Rita."

"Excellent.  You'll bring so much to the organization."

Although Rita probably did not think of Ginger as another charity case,

she had approached this recuperation and rehabilitation as a new cause.

She rolled up her sleeves and committed herself to seeing Ginger through

the current crisis, and nothing on earth was going to stop her.  Ginger

was touched by Rita's concern-and depressed by the need for it.

They stopped at a traffic light, third car from the intersection, with

cars, trucks, buses, taxis, and delivery vans crowding them on all

sides.  In the Mercedes, the cacophony of the city was muffled but not

silenced altogether, and when Ginger looked out the window at her side

to search for the source of a particularly annoying engine roar, she saw

a large motorcycle.  The rider turned his head toward her at that

moment, but she could not see his face.  He was wearing a helmet with a

tinted visor that came all the way down to his chin.

For the first time in ten days, the amnesic mist descended over Ginger.

It happened much faster this time than it had with the black gloves,

ophthalmoscope, or sink drain.  She looked into the blank and shiny

visor, and her heart stuttered, and her breath was pinched off, and she

was instantly swept away by a massive wave of terror, gone.

First, Ginger became aware of horns.  Car horns, bus horns, the

air-horns of trucks.  Some like the high squeals of animals, some low

and ominous.  Wailing, whooping, barking, shrieking, honking, bleating.

She opened her eyes.  Her vision swam into focus.  She was still in the

car.  The intersection was still in front of them, though evidently a

couple of minutes had passed and the traffic ahead had moved.  With the

engine running but the gearshift in park, the Mercedes was ten feet

closer to the crosswalk and angled slightly into the next lane, which

was what was causing the horn blowing as other vehicles tried to get

around.

Ginger heard herself whimpering.

Rita Hannaby was leaning across the console that separated the driver's

and passenger's seats, very close, gripping both of Ginger's hands,

holding them down and holding them very tightly.  "Ginger?  Are you

there?  Are you all right?  Ginger?"

Blood.  After the jarring blasts of the horns, after Rita's voice,

Ginger became aware of the blood.  Red spots marked her lime-green

skirt.  A dark smear stained the sleeve of her suit jacket.  Her hands

were gloved in blood, as were Rita's hands.

"Oh, my God," Ginger said.

"Ginger, are you with me?  Are you back?  Ginger?" One of Rita's

manicured nails was torn off, with only a splintered stub sticking up

jaggedly from the cuticle, and both her hands appeared to have been

gouged.  Scratches on the woman's fingers, on the backs of her hands,

and on her palms were bleeding freely, and as far as Ginger could tell,

all of the blood was Rita's, none of it her own.  The cuffs of the gray

St.  John's suit were wet with blood.  "Ginger, talk to me."

Horns continued to blare.

Ginger looked up and saw that Rita's perfectly coiffured hair was now in

disarray.  A two-inch-long scratch furrowed her left cheek, and blood

tinted with makeup was trickling along her jaw to her chin.

"You're back," Rita said with obvious relief, letting go of Ginger's

hands.

"What've I done?"

"Only scratches," Rita said.  "It's all right.  You had an attack,

panicked, tried to leave the car.  I couldn't let you go. You might've

been hit in traffic."

A passing driver, maneuvering around the Mercedes, angrily shouted

something unintelligible at them.

"I've hurt you," Ginger said.  Sickness throbbed through her at the

thought of the violence she had done.

Other drivers sounded their horns with increasing impatience, but Rita

ignored them.  She took Ginger's hands again, not to restrain her this

time but to offer comfort and reassurance.  "It's all right, dear.  It's

passed now, and a little iodine will patch me up just fine."

The motorcyclist.  The dark visor.

Ginger looked out the side window; the cyclist was gone.

He had, after all, been no threat to her, just a stranger passing in the

street.

Black gloves, an ophthalmoscope, a sink drain, and now the dark visor of

a motorcyclist's helmet.  Why had those particular things set her off?

What did they have in common, if anything?

As tears spilled down her face, Ginger said, "I'm so sorry."

"No need to be.  Now, I better get us out of the way," Rita said.  She

pulled handsful of Kleenex from the box on the console and used them to

grip the wheel and gearshift, to avoid spreading bloodstains.

Her own hands wet with Rita's blood, Ginger sagged back against her seat

and closed her eyes and tried to stop the tears but could not.

Four psychotic episodes in five weeks.

She could no longer glide placidly through the gray winter days,

defenseless, docile in the face of this vicious turn of fate, merely

waiting for another attack or for a shrink to explain what was wrong.

It was Monday, December 16, and Ginger was suddenly determined to do

something before she suffered a fifth fugue. She could not imagine what

she possibly could do, but she was sure she'd think of something if she

put her mind to it and stopped feeling sorry for herself.  She had

reached bottom now.  Her humiliation, fear, and despair could not bring

her to any greater depths.  There was nowhere to go but up.  She would

claw her way back to the surface, damned if she wouldn't, up toward the

light, of it of the dark into which she had fallen.

Christmas Eve-Christmas Day

1.

Laguna Beach, California

At eight A. M., Tuesday, December 24, when Dom Corvaisis got out of bed,

he went through his morning ablutions in a haze resulting from the

lingering effects of yesterday's indulgence in Valium and Dalmane.

For the eleventh night in a row, he had been troubled by neither

somnambulism nor the bad dream that involved the sink.  The drug therapy

was working, and he was willing to tolerate a period of pharmaceutically

induced detachment to put an end to his unnerving midnight journeys.

He did not believe he was in danger of becoming physically addicted

to-or even psychologically dependent on-Valium or Dalmane.  He had been

exceeding the prescribed dosage, but he was still not worried.  He had

allmost run out of pills, and in order to get another prescription from

Dr.  Cobletz, he had fabricated a story about a break-in at his house,

claiming that the drugs had been taken along with his stereo and TV set.

Dom had lied to his doctor in order to obtain drugs, and sometimes he

saw his action in exactly that harsh and unfavorable light; but most of

the time, in the soft haze that accompanied continuous tranquilization,

he was able to dress the shabby truth in self-delusion.

He dared not think about what would happen to him if the episodes of

somnambulism returned in January, after the drugs were discontinued.

At ten o'clock, unable to concentrate enough to work, He put on a light

corduroy jacket and left the house.  The lateDecember morning was cool.

Except for a few unseasonably warm days now and then, the beaches would

not be busy again until April.

As Dom descended the hills in his Firebird, heading for the center of

town, he noticed that Laguna looked dull under a somber gray sky.  He

wondered how much of the leaden gloom was real and how much resulted

from the dulling effects of the drugs, but he quickly abandoned that

disturbing line of thought.  In acknowledgment of his somewhat fuzzy

perceptions and impaired responsiveness, he drove with exaggerated care.

Dom received most mail at the post office.  Because he subscribed to so

many publications, he rented a large drawer rather than just a box, and

that day before Christmas, the drawer was more than half full.  He

didn't look at the return addresses but carried everything back to the

car with the intention of reading his mail at breakfast.

The Cottage, a popular restaurant for decades, was on the east side of

Pacific Coast Highway, on the slope above the road.  At that hour, the

breakfast rush had passed, and the lunch crowd had not yet arrived.  Dom

was given a table by the window with the best view.  He ordered two

eggs, bacon, cottage fries, toast, and grapefruit juice.

As he ate, he went through the mail.  In addition to magazines and

bills, there was a letter from Lennart Sane, the wonderful Swedish agent

who handled translation rights in Scandinavia and Holland, and a padded

envelope from Random House.  As soon as he saw the publisher's address

on the label, he knew what he had.  Finally, his mind began to clear,

the fuzziness partially dispelled by excitement.  He put down the toast

he had been eating and tore open the large envelope, and an advance copy

of his first novel slid out.  No man can know what a woman feels when

taking her newborn child in her arms for the first time, but a novelist

who holds the first copy of his first book must experience a joy similar

to that of the mother who looks upon the face of her baby for the first

time and feels its warmth through the swaddling clothes.

Dom kept the book beside his plate and could barely look away from it.

He had finished his meal and had ordered coffee by the time he was able

to tear his attention from Twilight and examine what mail remained.

Among other things, there was a plain white envelope with no return

address, which contained a single page of white paper on which had been

typewritten two sentences that rocked him:

The sleepwalker would be well-advised to search the past for the source

of his problem.  That is where the secret is buried.

He read the passage again, astonished.  The sheet of paper rattled as a

tremor passed through him.  The back of his neck went cold.

2.

Boston, Massachusetts

When Ginger got out of the cab, she was in front of a sixstory, brick,

Victorian Gothic building.  A blustery wind slapped her, and the

bare-limbed trees along Newbury Street rasped, clattered, and clicked:

the sound of rattling bones.  Huddling against the bitter wind, she

scurried past a low iron fence and entered 127 Newbury, the former Hotel

Agassiz, one of the city's finest historic landmarks, now converted into

condominiums.  She had come to see Pablo Jackson, about whom she knew

only what she had read in yesterday's Boston Globe.

She had left Baywatch after George departed for the hospital and after

Rita went off to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, for she had

been afraid they would try to stop her. In fact, the maid, Lavinia, had

pleaded with her not to go out alone.  Ginger had left a note,

explaining her whereabouts, and she hoped they would not be too upset.

When Pablo Jackson opened his door, Ginger was surprised.  That he was a

black man, that he was in his eighties those things were not surprising,

for she had learned as much about him from the article in the Globe.

However, she was not prepared for such a vital and vigorous

octogenarian.  He was about five-eight, slight, but age had not bowed

his legs, bent his back, or rounded his shoulders.  He stood militarily

erect, in white shirt and sharply creased black trousers, and there was

a sprightliness and youthfulness in his smile and in the way he waved

her into the apartment.  His thick kinky hair had not receded, but it

had gone so white that it seemed to glow with a spectral light, giving

him a curiously mystical aura.  He escorted Ginger into the living room,

moving with the stride of a man forty or fifty years his junior.

The living room was a surprise, too, not what she expected either of a

sedate old monument like the Hotel Agassiz or of Pablo Jackson, an

elderly bachelor.  The walls were creamcolored, and the contemporary

sofas and chairs were upholstered in a matching fabric.  An Edward

Fields carpet of the same creamy shade provided relief from the dominant

scheme by means of a deeply sculpted wave pattern.  Color was provided

by pastel accent pillows-yellow, peach, green, and blue-on the sofas,

and from two large oil paintings, one a Picasso.  The result was an

airy, bright, warm, and modern decor.

Ginger settled into one of two armchairs that faced each other across a

small table near a long, bay window.  She declined coffee and said, "Mr.

Jackson, I'm afraid I'm here under false pretenses."

"What an interesting beginning", he said, smiling, crossing his legs,

resting his long-fingered black hands on the arms of his chair.

"No, really, I'm not a reporter."

"Not from People?" He studied her speculatively.  "Well, that's all

right.  I knew you weren't a reporter when I let you in.  These days,

reporters have an oily smoothness about them, and they're an arrogant

lot.  Soon as I saw you standing at the door, I said to myself, 'Pablo,

this bitty girl is no reporter. She's a real person." "

:'I need some help that only you can provide."

'A damsel in distress?" he said, amused.  He seemed not at all angry or

uneasy, which she had expected he would be.

She said, "I was afraid you wouldn't see me if I told you my real

reasons for wanting to meet you.  You see, I'm a doctor, a surgical

resident at Memorial, and when I read the article about you in the

Globe, I thought you might be able to help."

"I'd be delighted to see you even if you were selling magazines.  An

eighty-one-year-old man can't afford to turn anyone away .  .  .  unless

he prefers to spend his days talking to the walls."

Ginger appreciated his efforts to put her at ease, though she suspected

that his social life was more interesting than her own.

He said, "Besides, not even a burnt-out old fossil like me would turn

away such a lovely girl as you.  But now tell me what this help is that

only I can give you."

Ginger leaned forward in her chair.  "First, I've got to know if the

article in the newspaper was accurate."

He shrugged.  "As accurate as newspaper articles ever are. My mother and

father were expatriate Americans living in France, just as the newspaper

said.  She was a popular chantellse, a cafe singer in Paris, before and

after World War I.

My father was a musician, as the Globe said.  And it's true that my

parents knew Picasso and recognized his genius early on.  I was named

after him.  They bought two score of Picasso's pieces when his work was

cheap, and he gave them several paintings as gifts.  They had bon got.

They didn't own a hundred works, as the paper said, but fifty.  Still,

that collection was an embarrassment of riches.  Sold gradually over the

years, it cushioned their retirement and gave me something to fall back

on as well."

"You were an accomplished stage magician?"

"For over fifty years," he said, raising both hands in a graceful and

elegant expression of amazement at his own longevity.  That gesture was

marked by the rhythm and fluidity of prestidigitation, and Ginger

half-expected him to pluck living white doves from thin air.  "And I was

famous, too. Sans pareil, even if I say so myself.  Not famous over here

so much, you understand, but all over Europe and in England."

"And your act involved hypnotizing a few members of the audience?"

He nodded.  "That was the centerpiece.  It always wowed them."

"And now you're helping the police by hypnotizing witnesses to crimes,

so they can recall details they've forgotten."

"Well, it's not a full-time job," he said, waving one slender hand as if

to dismiss any such thoughts she might have had. The gesture seemed

likely to end with the magical appearance of a bouquet of flowers or

deck of cards.  "In fact, they've only come to me four times in the past

two years.  I'm usually their last resort."

"But what you've done has worked for them?"

"Oh, yes.  Just as the newspaper said.  For instance, a by stander might

see a murder take place and get a glimpse of the car in which the killer

escaped, but not be able to recall the license number.  Now, if he

glanced at the license even for a split second, that number is buried in

his subconscious mind, 'cause we never really forget anything we see.

Never. So if a hypnotist puts the witness in a trance, regresses him in

time-that is, takes him back in his memories to the shooting-and tells

him to look at the car, then the license number can be obtained."

"Always?"

"Not always.  But we win more than we lose."

"Why turn to you?  Aren't the police department's psychiatrists capable

of using hypnosis?"

"Certainly.  But they're psychiatrists not hypnotists.  Hypnosis is not

what they specialized in.  I've made it a lifelong study, developed my

own techniques that often succeed where standard methods fail."

"So when it comes to hypnotism, you're a maven."

"An expert?  Yes, that's true.  Even a maven's maven.  But why does any

of this interest you, Doctor?"

Ginger had been sitting with her purse in her lap and her hands at rest

upon it.  But as she told Pablo Jackson about her attacks, she clutched

the purse tighter, tighter, until her knuckles were white.

Jackson's relaxed demeanor changed to shocked interest and concern. "You

poor child.  You poor, poor little thing. De mal en pis-en pis!  From

bad to worse-to worse!  How horrible.  You wait there.  Don't you move."

He popped up from the chair and hurried from the room.

When he returned, he was carrying two glasses of brandy. She tried to

refuse hers.  "No thank you, Mr.  Jackson.  I don't drink much, and

certainly not at this hour of the morning."

"Call me Pablo.  How much sleep did you get last night?

Not much?  You were up most of the night, woke up hours ago, so for you

this isn't morning, it's the middle of the afternoon.  And there's no

reason a person can't have a drink in the afternoon, is there?"

He settled into his chair again, and for a moment they were silent as

they sipped their brandies.

Then she said, "Pablo, I want you to hypnotize me, regress me back to

the morning of November twelfth, to Bernstein's Delicatessen.  I want

you to hold me at that point in time and question me relentlessly until

I can explain why the sight of those black gloves terrified me."

"Impossible!" He shook his head.  "No, no."

"I can pay whatever-"

"Money is not the issue.  I don't need money." He frowned. "I'm a

magician, not a physician."

"I'm already seeing a psychiatrist, and I've broached the subject with

him, but he won't do it."

"He must have his reasons."

"He says it's too soon for hypnotic regression therapy.  He admits the

technique might help me discover the cause of my attacks, but he says

that might be a mistake because I might not yet be ready to face up to

the truth.  He says premature confrontation with the source of my

anxieties might contribute to .  .  .  a breakdown."

"You see?  He knows best.  I would be meddling."

"He does not know best," Ginger insisted, angered by the vivid

recollection of her recent conversation with the psychiatrist, in which

he had been infuriatingly condescending. "Maybe he knows what's best for

most patients, but he doesn't know what's best for me.  I can't go on

like this.  By the time Gudhausen's willing to resort to hypnosis, maybe

in a year, I'll no longer be sane enough to benefit.  I've got to get a

grip on this problem, take control, do something."

"But surely you see that I can't be responsible-"

"Wait," she interrupted, putting her brandy aside.  "I anticipated your

reluctance." She opened her purse, withdrew a folded sheet of typing

paper, and held it out to him.  "Here. Please take this."

He took the paper.  Though Pablo was half a century older than she, his

hands were far steadier than hers.  "What is it?"

"A signed release making it clear that I came here in desperation,

exonerating you in advance for anything that goes wrong."

He did not bother to read it.  "You don't understand, dear lady.  I'm

not concerned about being sued.  Considering my age and the snail's pace

of the courts, I wouldn't live to see a judgment placed against me.  But

the mind is a delicate mechanism, and if something went wrong, if I led

you into a breakdown, I would surely roast in Hell."

"If you don't help me, if I've got to spend long months in therapy,

uncertain of the future, I'll have a breakdown any way." Desperate,

Ginger raised her voice, venting her frustration and anger.  "If you

send me away, leave me to the well-meaning mercy of friends, abandon me

to Gudhausen, I'm finished.  I swear, that'll be the end of me.  I can't

go on like this!  If you refuse to help me, you'll still be responsible

for my breakdown because you could've prevented it."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Please."

"can't."

"You cold, black bastard," Ginger said, startled by the epithet even as

she spoke it.  The hurt expression on his benign and gnomish face stung

and shamed her.  Now it was her turn to say, "I'm sorry.  So sorry." She

brought her hands to her face, bent forward in her chair, and wept.

He came to her, stooped down in front of her.  "Dr.  Weiss, please don't

cry.  Don't despair.  It'll be all right."

"No.  It never will," she said.  "Not ever like it was."

He gently pried her hands away from her face.  He put one of his hands

under her chin, lifted her head until she was looking at him.  He

smiled, winked, and held a hand before her eyes to show her that it was

empty.  Then, to her surprise, he plucked a quarter from her right ear.

"Hush now," Pablo Jackson said, patting her shoulder. "You've made your

point.  And I certainly don't have an time

de boue, a soul of mud, an ungenerous spirit.  A woman's tears can move

the world.  Against my better judgment, I'll do what I can."

Instead of putting an end to her crying, his offer of help renewed her

weeping, though these were tears of gratitude.

".  .  .  and now you are in a deep sleep, deep, very deep, utterly

relaxed, and you will answer all my questions.  Is that understood?"

'Yes."

:,You cannot refuse to answer.  Cannot refuse.  Cannot."

Pablo had drawn the drapes over the three-bay window and had turned out

all the lights except the lamp beside Ginger Weiss's chair.  The amber

beams fell over her, giving her hair the appearance of real gold

filaments and emphasizing the unnatural paleness of her skin.

He stood before her, looking down at her face.  She had a fragile

beauty, an exquisite femininity, yet in her face there was also a great

strength almost masculine in quality.  Le juste milieu: perfect balance,

the golden mean, was nowhere better defined than in her countenance,

where character and beauty were given equal weight.

Her eyes were closed, and they moved very little beneath her lids, an

indication that she was in a deep trance.

Pablo returned to his chair, which stood in shadow, beyond the amber

light from the single lamp.  He sat, crossed his legs. "Ginger, why were

you frightened by the black gloves?"

"I don't know," she said softly.

"You cannot lie to me.  Do you understand?  You can withhold nothing

from me.  Why were you afraid of the black gloves?"

"I don't know."

"Why were you afraid of the ophthalmoscope?"

"I don't know."

"Why were you afraid of the sink drain?"

"I don't know."

"Did you know the man on the motorcycle on State Street?"

"No."

"Then why were you frightened of him?"

"I don't know."

Pablo sighed.  "Very well.  Ginger, we'll now do something amazing,

something that might seem impossible but which I assure you is possible.

In fact, it's easy.  We're going to make time run backward, Ginger.

Nothing to it.  We're going to send you slowly but surely back in time.

You are going to get younger.  It's already happening.  You can't resist

it ...  time like a river ...  flowing backward ...  ever back ...  and

now it's no longer December twenty-fourth.  It's December twentythird,

Monday, and still the clock runs backward .  .  .  a little faster...

now it is the twenty-second ...  now the twentieth...  the eighteenth. .

.  ." He continued in that manner until he had regressed Ginger to the

twelfth of November. "You are in Bernstein's Delicatessen, waiting for

your order to be filled.  Can you smell the hot baked goods, the

spices?"

She nodded, and he said, "Tell me what you smell."

She drew a deep breath, and a pleased look overtook her face.  Her voice

became more animated: "Pastrami, garlic

...  honey cookies ...  cloves and;cinnamon .  .  ." She remained in her

chair, with her eyes closed, but she lifted her head and turned left and

right, as if surveying the deli.  "Chocolate. Just smell that cocoa

pound cake!"

"It's wonderful," Pablo said.  "Now, you pay for your order, turn from

the counter .  .  .  head toward the door, preoccupied with your purse."

"I can't get my wallet in," she said, scowling.

"You have the bag of groceries in one arm."

"Got to clean out this purse."

"Bang!  You bump into the man in the Russian hat."

Ginger gasped and twitched in surprise.

"He grabs your grocery bag to keep it from falling," Pablo said.

"Oh!" she said.

"He tells you he's sorry."

"My fault," Ginger said.  Pablo knew she was not talking to him but to

the doughy-faced man in the Russian hat, who was now as real to her as

he had been that Tuesday in the deli.  Apologetically, she said, "I

wasn't looking where I was going.

"He holds out your groceries, which you take from him."

The aged magician watched her closely.  "And you notice .  .  .  his

gloves."

Her transformation was instantaneous and electrifying.  She sat straight

up; her eyes popped open.  "The gloves!  Oh, God, the gloves!"

"Tell me about the gloves, Ginger."

"Black," she said in a small, quavering voice.  "Shiny."

"What else?"

"No!" she cried, starting to get up from the chair.

"Sit down, please," Pablo said.

She froze, half out of her seat.

"Ginger, I am ordering you to sit down and relax."

She sat rigidly, her small hands fisted.  Her radiant blue eyes were

open wide, focused not on Pablo but on the gloves in her memory.  She

looked as if she would bolt again at the slightest provocation.

"You will relax now, Ginger.  You will be calm ...

calm .  .  .  very calm.  Do you understand?"

"Yes.  All right," she said.  Her breath came less rapidly than it had

done, and her shoulders slumped a bit, but she was still tense.

Ordinarily, when he put someone into a trance, he maintained total and

instantaneous control of the subject.  He was surprised and made uneasy

by this woman's continued distress in spite of his admonitions to relax,

but he could not calm her further.  Finally he said, "Tell me about the

gloves, Ginger."

"Oh, my God." Her face twisted in fear.

" Relax and tell me about the gloves.  Why are you afraid of them?"

She shook.  "D-Don't let them t-t-touch me."

"Why are you afraid of them?" he persisted.

She hugged herself and shrank back into her chair.

"Listen to me, Ginger.  That moment in time is frozen.  The clock is

moving neither forward nor back.  The gloves cannot touch you.  I will

never let them touch you.  Time is suspended. I have the power to

suspend time, and I have stopped it.  You are safe.  Do you hear me?"

" Yes," she said, but as she cringed against the back of her armchair,

there was doubt and barely suppressed terror in her voice.

"You are perfectly safe." Pablo was distressed to see this sweet girl so

oppressed by fear.  "Time has been stopped, so you can study those black

gloves without being afraid they'll get hold of you.  You will study

them and tell me why they frighten you."

She was silent, shaking.

"You must answer me, Ginger.  Why are you afraid of the gloves?" She

only whimpered, so he thought a moment, then said, "Is it really this

pair of gloves that frighten you?"

"N-No.  Not exactly."

"The gloves on this man in the deli .  .  .  they remind you of a pair

of other gloves, perhaps from some incident long ago?  Is that it?"

:'Oh, yes.  Yes."

'When did this other incident take place?  Ginger, what other gloves do

these remind you of?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do." Pablo rose from his chair, moved to the draped windows,

and observed her from those shadows.  "All right .  .  .  the hands of

the clock are moving again.  Time is moving backward again ...  back . .

.  back .  .  .  all the way back to the time when you were first

frightened by a pair of black gloves.  You are drifting back .  .  .

back .  .  .  and now

you are there.  You are at the very time, at the very place, at the

precise moment and spot where you were first frightened by black

gloves."

Ginger ' s eyes were fixed on a horror in a different time, not in this

room or in Bernstein's Delicatessen, but in some other place.

Pablo watched her anxiously.  "Where are you, Ginger?"

When she remained silent, he said, "You must tell me where you are."

"The face," she said in a haunted voice that made Pablo shiver.  "The

face.  The blank face."

"Explain yourself, Ginger.  What face?  Tell me what you see."

"The black gloves .  .  .  the dark glass face."

"Do you mean.....  like the motorcyclist?"

"The gloves.....  the visor." A spasm of fear throbbed through her.

"Be calm, relax.  You're safe.  Safe.  Now, wherever you are, do you see

a man wearing a helmet and a visor?  And black gloves?"

She began a monotonous chant of stark terror: "Uh, uh, uh, uh .  .  ."

"Ginger, you must be calm.  Be calm, relaxed, and at ease. Nothing can

harm you.  You're safe." Afraid that he was losing control of her and

would have to bring her out of the trance soon, Pablo moved quickly to

her chair, knelt at her side, put one hand on her arm, and stroked

gently as he spoke to her.  "Where are you, Ginger?  How far back in

time have you gone, Ginger?  Where are you?  When are you?"

"'Oh, uh, uhhhhhhhh.  " A pathetic cry escaped her, an echo out of time,

the tortured response to a long-suppressed terror and despair.

He became very stern, switching from a soft to a hard voice. "I am in

command of you.  You are deeply asleep and completely in my control,

Ginger.  I demand that you answer me, Ginger."

A shudder, worse than any previous spasm, passed through her.

"I demand that you answer.  Where are you, Ginger?"

"Nowhere."

"Where are you?"

"No place." Abruptly, she stopped shaking.  She sagged in the chair. The

fear melted out of her face, and her features went soft, slack.  In a

thin and emotionless voice, she said, "Dead."

"What do you mean?  You're not dead."

"Dead," she insisted.

"Ginger, you must tell me where you are and how far back in time you've

gone, and you must tell me about the black gloves, that first pair of

black gloves, the ones you were reminded of when you saw the gloves on

that man in the delicatessen.  You absolutely must tell me."

"Dead."

Suddenly, because he was kneeling beside her chair and was close to her,

Pablo realized her breathing was extremely shallow.  He took her hand

and was startled by how cold it was.  He pressed two fingers to her

wrist, feeling for her pulse. Weak.  Very weak.  Frantic, he put his

fingertips to her throat and located a slow and weak heartbeat.

To avoid answering his questions, she seemed to be withdrawing into a

sleep far deeper than her hypnotic trance, perhaps into a coma, into an

oblivion where she could not hear his demanding voice.  He had never

encountered a reaction like this before, had never even read of such a

thing. Was it possible for Ginger to will herself dead merely to escape

his questions?  Memory blocks erected around traumatic experiences were

not uncommon; his reading in psychology journals sometimes turned up

accounts of these psychological barricades to recollection, but they

were barriers that could be dismantled without killing the subject.

Surely no experience could be so horrendous that a person would rather

die than remember it.  Yet even as Pablo pressed his fingers to her

throat, the throbbing of her pulse grew fainter and more irregular.

"Ginger, listen," he said urgently.  "You don't have to answer me.  No

more questions.  You can come back.  I won't insist on answers."

She seemed suspended on a terrible brink, teetering.

"Ginger, listen to me!  No more questions.  I'm finished asking

questions.  I swear it." After a long and frightening hesitation, he

detected a slight improvement in her pulse rate. "I'm no longer

interested in the black gloves or anything else, Ginger.  I just want to

bring you back to the present and out of your trance.  Do you hear me?

Please hear me.  Please.  I've finished questioning you."

Her pulse stuttered shockingly, but then it throbbed more steadily.

Respiration improved, too.  As he talked to her in that reassuring

manner, she quickly got better.  Color returned to her lovely face.

In less than a minute, he returned her to December 24 and woke her.

She blinked.  "It didn't work, huh?  You couldn't put me under."

"You were under," he said shakily.  "Too far under."

She said, "Pablo, you're trembling.  Why're you trembling?

What's wrong?  What happened?"

This time, she went to the kitchen and poured the brandy.

Later, at the door of Pablo's apartment, as Ginger was leaving to meet

the taxi that Pablo had summoned for her, she said, "I still can't think

what it could be.  Nothing so terrible has ever happened to me,

certainly nothing so bad I'd rather die than reveal it."

"There's something very traumatic in your past," Pablo said.  "An

incident involving a man wearing black gloves, a man with what you said

was a 'dark glass face." Perhaps a motorcyclist like the one that

panicked you on State Street. It's an incident you've buried very deep

...  and which you seem determined to keep buried at any cost.  I really

think you should tell Dr.  Gudhausen what happened here today and let

him proceed from there."

"Gudhausen is too traditional, too slow.  I want your help."

"I won't risk putting you in a trance and questioning you again."

"Unless your research turns up a similar case."

"Not much chance of that.  I've done a lot of reading in psychology and

hypnosis for fifty years, and I've never heard of anything like it."

"But you're going to research it, aren't you?  You promised."

"I'll see what I can find," he said.

"And if you discover that someone developed a workable technique for

getting through a memory block like this, you'll use it on me."

Ginger was mystified, but she was also considerably less distraught than

she had been when she first arrived at Pablo Jackson's apartment.  At

least they had gotten somewhere,

even if they did not yet know where.  They had found the problem, some

mysterious traumatic experience in the past, and though they had not

learned a single detail of it, they knew it was back there, a dark shape

waiting to be explored. In time they would find a way to throw a light

on it, and when it was revealed, she would know the cause of her fugues.

"Tell Dr.  Gudhausen," Pablo said again.

"I'm pinning all my hopes on you."

"You're damn stubborn," the old magician said, shaking his head.

"No.  Just persistent."

'Willful."

"Just determined."

"Acharnge!"

"When I get back to Baywatch I'll look up that word, and if it's an

insult, you'll be sorry when I come back on Thursday," she teased.

"Not Thursday," he said.  "The research is going to take time.  I'm not

going to hypnotize you again unless I can find a record of a similar

case and can follow someone else's procedures, knowing they succeeded."

"Okay, but if you don't call by Friday or Saturday, I'll probably come

back and bust my way in.  Remember, you're my best hope."

"I am your best hope ...  only for want of anything better."

"You underrate yourself, Pablo Jackson." She kissed him on the cheek.

"I'll be waiting for your call."

"Au revoir.

"Shalom."

Outside, as she got into the cab, she remembered one of her father's

favorite aphorisms, and, like a lead weight, it counteracted her new

buoyancy: It's always brightest just before the dark.

3.

Chicago, Illinois

Winton Tolk-the tall, jovial, black patrolman riding shotgun-got out of

the police cruiser to buy three hamburgers and Cokes at a corner

sandwich shop, leaving his partner, Paul Armes, behind the wheel, and

Father Brendan Cronin in the back seat.  Brendan glanced at the shop,

but he could not see inside, for the big front windows were painted with

festive holiday images: Santa, reindeer, wreaths, angels.  A light snow

had jus(begun to fall, and the weather forecast called for eight inches

by midnight, which meant tomorrow would be a white Christmas.

As Winton got out of the car, Brendan leaned forward and said to Paul

Armes, "Yeah, well, nobody's knocking Going My Way, but what about It's

a Wonderful Life?  Now there was a terrific picture!"

, 'Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed," Paul said.

"What a cast." They had been talking about great Christmas films, and

now Brendan was sure he had hit upon the best of the best.  "Lionel

Barrymore played the skinflint.  Gloria Grahame was in that, too."

"Thomas Mitchell," Paul Armes said as, outside, Winton reached the door

of the sandwich shop.  "Ward Bond.  God, what a cast!" Winton had gone

into the sandwich shop.  "But you're forgetting another great one.

Miracle on 34th Street."

"That was terrific, sure, but I still think Capra's better-"

It seemed that the gunshots and the startling cascade of shattering

glass came at the same instant, with not a fraction of a second between.

Even with the car doors shut, the heater fan making noise, and the

police-band radio crackling and chirruping, the shots were loud enough

to halt Brendan in midsentence.  As the explosions blew away the

Christmas peace of the Uptown street, the sandwich shop's painted window

tableau dissolved, erupted in a glittering spray.  New shots overlaid

the echo of old reports, and the blasts were accompanied by a brittle

and atonal music of glass smashing on the roof, hood, and trunk of the

cruiser.

"Oh, shit!" Paul Armes tore the dash-mounted riot gun free of its

clasps, throwing open his door even as the glass was still raining.

"Stay down," he shouted back at Brendan, and then he was out, crouching,

moving around the car, and using it as a shield

Stunned, Brendan looked through the window at his side, back toward the

sandwich-shop entrance.  Abruptly, that door was flung wide open, and

two young men appeared, one black, one white.  The black man wore a knit

cap and a long navy peacoat-and carried a semiautomatic sawed-off shot

gun.  The white man, in a plaid hunting jacket, was armed with a

revolver.  They came out fast, half-crouched, and the black man swung

the shotgun toward the patrol car.  Brendan was looking directly into

the muzzle.  There was a flash, and he was sure he had been shot, but

the rear passenger-side window in front of his face remained intact.

Instead, the front window exploded inward, fragments of glass and lead

pellets showering across the seat, rattling off the dashboard.  The

near-miss shocked Brendan out of his daze, and he rolled off his seat,

to the floor, his heart hammering almost as loud as the gunfire.

Winton Tolk had had the bad luck to walk unsuspecting into the middle of

an armed robbery.  He was probably dead.

As Brendan pressed himself to the floor of the squad car, he heard Paul

Armes shouting outside: "Drop it!"

Two shots cracked.  Not a shotgun.  Revolver fire.  But who pulled the

trigger?  Paul Armes or the guy in the plaid hunting jacket?

Another shot.  Someone screamed.

But who had been hit?  Armes or one of the robbers?

Brendan wanted to look, but he did not dare show himself.

Thanks to an arrangement Father Wycazik had made with the local precinct

captain, Brendan had been riding as an observer with Winton and Paul for

five days.  In an ordinary suit, tie, and topcoat, he was supposed to be

a lay consultant employed by the Church to study the need for Catholic

charity outreach programs, a cover story which everyone seemed to

accept.  Winton's and Paul's beat was uptown, an area bordered by Foster

Avenue on the North, Lake Shore Drive high-rises on the east, Irving

Park Road on the south, and North Ashland Avenue on the west.  It was

Chicago's poorest and most crime-ridden neighborhood, home to blacks and

Indians, but mostly to Appalachians and Hispanics.  After five days with

Winton and Paul, Brendan developed a strong liking for both men and a

deep sympathy for all the honest souls who lived and worked in those

decaying buildings and filthy streets-and who were prey to the packs of

human jackals among them.  He had learned to expect anything riding with

these guys, but the sandwich-shop shootout was the worst incident yet.

Another shotgun blast slammed into the car, rocking it.

Brendan curled fetally on the floor and tried to pray, but no words

came.  God was still lost to him, and he cowered in terrible solitude.

Outside, Paul Armes shouted, "Give it up!"

The gunman said, "Fuck you!"

When he'd reported to Father Wycazik after a week at St. Joseph's,

Brendan had been sent to another hospital, where he'd been given work on

the terminal ward, a dreadful place with no children at all.  There, as

at St.  Joseph's, Brendan quickly discovered the lesson that Stefan

Wycazik expected him to learn.  To most who were at the end of life,

death was not to be feared but welcomed, a blessing for which they

thanked God rather than cursed Him.  And in dying, many who had never

been believers became believers at last, and those who had fallen away

from faith came back.  There was frequently something noble and deeply

moving in the suffering that accompanied a person's exit from this

world, as if each shared, for a while, the mystical burden of the cross.

Yet, that lesson learned, Brendan remained unable to believe.  Now, the

fierce beating of his heart hammered the words of the prayer to dust

before he could speak them, and his mouth was as dry as powder.

Outside, there was shouting, but he could not make sense of the words

any more, maybe because the people shouting were incoherent and maybe

because he was partially deaf from the gunfire.

He did not yet fully understand the lesson that Father Wycazik had hoped

he would learn from this Uptown portion of his unconventional therapy.

And now as he listened to the chaos outside, he knew that the lesson,

regardless of its nature, would be insufficient to convince him that God

was as real as bullets.  Death was a bloody, stinking, foul reality, and

in the face of it, the promise of a reward in the afterlife was not the

least persuasive.

The shotgun discharged again, followed by the roar of the riot gun, then

by shouting and the slap-slap-slap of running feet.  It sounded like a

war out there.  Another blast from the riot gun.  More shattering glass.

Another scream, more horrible than the one that had rent the air before

it.  Yet another shot.  Silence.  Silence perfect and profound.

The driver's door was jerked open.

Brendan cried out in surprise and terror.

"Stay down!" Paul Armes said from the front seat, keeping a low profile

himself.  "Two dead, but there might be other shitheads inside."

"Where's Wintono" Brendan asked.

Paul did not answer.  Instead, he grabbed the radio microphone up front

and called Central.  "Officer down.  Officer down!" Armes gave his

position, the address of the sandwich shop, and requested backup.

Lying on his side on the floor of the squad car, Brendan closed his eyes

and saw, with heartbreaking clarity, the pictures that Winton Tolk

carried in his wallet and that he proudly displayed when queried about

his family-pictures of his wife, Raynella, and his three children.

"Those rotten fucking bastards," Paul Armes said, his voice shaking.

Brendan heard soft clicking and scraping sounds that puzzled him until

he realized Armes was reloading.  He said, "Winton's been shot?"

"Bet on it," Armes said.

"He might need help."

"It's on the way."

"But he may need help now," Brendan said.

"Can't go in there.  Might be another one.  Two more.  Who knows?  We

gotta wait for backup."

"Winton might need a tourniquet .  .  .  other first aid.  He might be

dead by the time help gets here."

"Don't you think I know that?" Paul Armes said bitterly, furiously.  He

finished reloading and slid out of the car to take up a position from

which he could watch the shop.

The more Brendan thought about Winton Tolk sprawled on the floor in

there, the angrier he became.  If he had still believed in God, he might

have quenched his anger in prayer. But now it fed on itself and grew

into a hot rage.  His heart pounded even harder than when the shotgun

blasts were crashing into the car inches from him.  The injustice of

Winton's fate-the unfairness, the wrongness-was like an acid eating at

Brendan.

He got out of the car and started across the sidewalk, through the

falling snow, toward the entrance to the sandwich shop.

"Stop!  For God's sake, don't!"

Brendan kept going, driven by his rage and by the thought that Winton

Tolk might need immediate first aid to survive.

A dead man in a plaid hunting jacket was lying on his back on the

sidewalk.  A round from Armes's revolver had taken him in the chest, a

second round in the throat.  There was a stink of loosed bowels.  In the

snow beside the corpse lay a handgun, perhaps the very one with which

Winton Tolk had been shot.

"Cronin!" Paul Armes yelled.  "Get your ass back here, you idiot!"

Moving past the broken windows, Brendan could see into the shop, which

was surprisingly dark.  The lights had been shot out or a switch thrown,

and the gray daylight penetrated only a couple of feet inside.  He could

not see anyone, but that did not mean it was safe to enter.

"Cronin!" Paul Armes shouted.

Brendan went to the entrance, where he found the black man in the

peacoat.  This one had been hit by a shotgun blast that also demolished

the glass door; he was crumpled in a thousand bright fragments.

Stepping over the body, Brendan entered the sandwich shop.  He did not

have his Roman collar, which might have been something of a shield if he

had been wearing it.  On the other hand, degenerates like these would

probably kill a priest as reflexively and as happily as they blew away

police officers. In his suit and tie and topcoat, he was as ordinary and

vulnerable as any man, but he did not care.  He was that furious.

Furious that God did not exist or, existing, did not care.

At the back of the small shop was a service counter.  Behind the counter

was a grill, other equipment.  On this side were five very small tables

and ten chairs, most of which had been toppled.  On the floor were a

couple of napkin dispensers, ketchup and mustard bottles, scattered one-

and five-dollar bills, a lot of blood, and Winton Tolk.

Not bothering to study the overturned tables to see if a gunman was

sheltering behind them, Brendan went to the officer, knelt beside him.

Winton had been hit twice in the chest.  Not with the shotgun.  Probably

the other thug's revolver.  The wounds were sickening, far too traumatic

to respond dramatically to a mere tourniquet or first-aid procedures.

His breast was mantled with blood, and blood trickled from his mouth.

The pool of blood in which he lay was so deep that he appeared to be

floating on it.  He was still, eyes closed, either unconscious or dead.

"Winton?" Brendan said.

The cop did not respond.  His eyelids did not even flutter.

Filled with a rage akin to that which had caused him to heave the holy

chalice against the wall during Mass, Brendan Cronin gently put both

hands on Winton Tolk's neck, one on each side, feeling for the throbbing

carotid arteries.  He detected no life, and in his mind he saw the

photographs of Raynella and the Tolk children again, and now he was

seething with resentment at the indifference of the universe.  "He can't

die," Brendan said angrily.  "He can't." Suddenly he thought he felt a

thready pulse, so faint it was virtually nonexistent.  He moved his

hands, seeking confirmation that Tolk lived.  He found it: a less feeble

beat than that first phantom drumming, though no less irregular.

"Is he dead?"

Brendan looked up and saw a man coming around the side of the service

counter, a Hispanic in a white apron, the owner or an employee.  A

woman, also in a white apron, had risen from behind the counter.

Outside, distant sirens were growing nearer.

Under Brendan's hands, the throbbing in Winton Tolk's neck seemed to be

getting stronger and more regular, which was surely not the case. Winton

had lost too much blood to stage even a limited spontaneous recovery.

Until the paramedics arrived with life-support machines, his vital signs

would deteriorate unavoidably, and even expert medical care might not

stabilize his condition.

The sirens were no more than two blocks away.

Puffs of snow blew in through the shattered windows.

The sandwich-shop employees edged closer.

Numb with shock, in a haze of anger at fate's capricious brutality,

Brendan trailed his hands from Winton's neck to the wounds in his chest.

When he saw the blood oozing up between his fingers, his rage gave way

to overwhelming helplessness and uselessness, and he began to cry.

Winton Tolk choked.  Coughed.  Opened his eyes.  Breath rattled thinly

and wetly in his throat, and a soft groan escaped him.

Amazed, Brendan felt for a pulse in the man's throat again. It was weak

but definitely not as weak as before, and hardly irregular at all.

Raising his voice over the shrieking sirens, which were now so near that

the air trembled, Brendan said, "Winton?  Winton, do you hear me?"

The cop did not seem to recognize Brendan-or even to know where he was.

He coughed again and choked more

violently than before.

Brendan quickly lifted Tolk's head a few inches and turned it to one

side, to let the blood and mucus drain more freely from his mouth.

Immedifitely the wounded man's respiration improved, though it remained

noisy, each inhalation hardwon.  He was still in critical condition, in

desperate need of medical attention, but he was alive.

Alive.

Incredible.  All this blood, and he was still alive, hanging on.

Outside, three sirens died one after the other.  Brendan shouted for

Paul Armes.  Excited by the hope that Winton could be saved, but also

panicked by the possibility that medical attention would arrive seconds

too late, he glanced at the sandwich-shop employees and shouted, "Go!

Get them in here.  Let them know it's safe.  Paramedics, damn it!"

the man in the apron hesitated, then moved toward the door.

Winton Tolk expelled bloody mucus and finally drew an unobstructed

breath.  Brendan carefully lowered Winton's head to the floor again. The

cop continued to breathe shallowly, with difficulty, but steadily.

Outside there were shouts and doors slamming and running feet coming

toward the sandwich shop Brendan's hands were wet with Winton Tolk's

blood.  Unthinking, he blotted them on his coat-and it was then that he

realized the rings had reappeared on his hands for the first time in

nearly two weeks.  One on each palm.  Twin bands of raised and inflamed

tissue.

Cops and paramedics burst through the front door, stepping over the dead

man in the navy peacoat, and Brendan quickly moved out of their way.  He

backed up until he bumped against the service counter, where he leaned

in sudden exhaustion, staring at his hands.

For a few days following the first appearance of the rings, he had used

the cortisone prescribed by Dr.  Heeton at St. Joseph's, but when the

rings had not reappeared, he had soon stopped applying the lotion.  He

had almost forgotten about the marks.  They had been a

curiosity-baffling, but of little concern. Now, as he looked at the

strange marks, he heard the voices of those around him, fuzzy and

strange: "Jesus, the blood!"

"Can't be alive .  .  .  twice in the chest."

"Get the fuck out of my way!"

"Plasma!"

"Type his blood.  No!  Wait .  .  .  do it in the ambulance."

Brendan finally looked at the crowd around Winton Tolk. He watched the

paramedics as they worked to keep the wounded man alive, get him on a

stretcher, and move him out of the sandwich shop.

He saw a cursing policeman dragging the dead man out of the doorway to

make it easier for the paramedics to exit with Tolk.

He saw Paul Armes moving along beside the stretcher.

He saw that the blood in which Tolk had been lying was not merely a pool

but a lake.

He looked at his hands again.  The rings were gone.

4.

Las Vegas, Nevada

The Texan in the yellow Day-Glo polyester pants would not have tried to

get Jorja Monatella into bed if he had known she was in the mood to

castrate someone.

Although it was the afternoon of December 24, Jorja was not yet in the

Christmas spirit.  Usually even-tempered and easygoing, she was in an

exceedingly sour state of mind as she strode back and forth through the

casino, from the bar to the blackjack tables and back to the bar again,

delivering drinks to the gamblers.

For one thing, she hated her job.  Being a cocktail waitress was bad

enough in a regular bar or lounge, but in a hotel casino bigger than a

football field, it was a killer.  At the end of a shift, her feet ached,

and often her ankles were swollen. The hours were irregular, too.  How

were you supposed to provide a stable home for a seven-year-old daughter

when you did not have a job with normal hours?

She also hated the costume: a little red nothing, cut high in the crotch

and hips, very low at the bustline, smaller than a bathing suit.  An

elastic corset was built in to minimize the waistline and emphasize the

breasts.  If you were already smallwaisted, with generous breasts-as

Jorja was-the getup made you look almost freakishly erotic.

And she hated the way the pit bosses and casino floormen were always

hitting on her.  Maybe they figured any girl who would strut her stuff

in an outfit like that was an easy lay.

She was sure that her name had something to do with their attitude as

well: Jorja.  It was cute.  Too cute.  Her mother must have been drunk

when she got creative with the spelling of Georgia.  It was all right

when people heard it, because they had no way of knowing she spelled it

cute, but she had to wear a name tag on her costume-joRJA-and at least a

dozen people a day commented on it.  It was a frivolous name, misspelled

like that, so it gave them the idea she was a frivolous person.  She had

considered going to court to have the proper spelling made legal, but

that would hurt her mother. However, if guys at work kept hitting on

her, she might even have it changed to Mother Teresa, which ought to

cool off some of the horny bastards.

And fending off the bosses was not the worst of it.  Every week, some

high-roller-a bigshot from Detroit or L A.  or Dallas, dropping a bundle

at the tables-would take a shine to Jorja and ask the pit boss to fix

him up with her.  A few cocktail waitresses were available-not many, but

a few.  But when the pit bosses approached Jorja, her answer was always

the same: "To hell with him.  I'm a waitress, not a hooker."

Her routine, cold refusal did not stop them from pressuring her to

relent, which they had done an hour ago.  A wartfaced, bug-eyed oilman

from Houston-in phosphorescent yellow pants, a blue shirt, and a red

string tie-one of the hotel's favored clients, had gotten the hots for

her and had made inquiries.  His breath stank of the burritos he had

eaten forlunch.

Now the bosses were angry with her for refusing a highly valued

customer, for being "too stuffy." Rainy Tarnell, the blackjack pit boss

on the day shift, had the gall to put it just like that-"Honey, don't be

so stuffy!"-as if falling on her back and spreading her legs for a

stranger from Houston was merely the equivalent of a fashion gaucherie

like wearing white shoes either before Memorial Day or after Labor Day.

Though she hated being a casino cocktail waitress, she could not afford

to quit.  No other job would pay her as well.  She was a divorced mother

raising a daughter without benefit of child-support payments, and in

order to protect her credit rating, she was still paying off bills that

Alan had run up in her name before walking out on her, so she was

acutely aware of the value of a dollar.  Her wages were low, -but the

tips were exceedingly good, especially on those occasions when one of

her customers started winning big at cards or dice.

On this day before Christmas, the casino was two-thirds empty, and tips

were bad.  Vegas was always slow Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the

crowds did not return until December 26.  The whizzing-rattling-ringing

of slot machines was muted.  Many of the blackjack dealers stood idle

and bored in front of empty tables.

No wonder I'm in a sour mood, Jorja thought.  Sore feet, back pain, a

horny creep who figures I ought to be as available as the drinks I

serve, an argument with Rainy Tarnell, and no tips to show for it.

When her shift ended at four o'clock, she hurried to the changing room

downstairs, punched the time clock, slipped out of her costume and into

street clothes, and was out the door into the employee parking lot with

a speed that would have drawn praise from an Olympic runner.

The unpredictable desert weather did nothing to instill the Christmas

spirit in her.  A Las Vegas winter day could be cold, with bone-numbing

wind, or it could be warm enough for shorts and halters.  This year, the

holiday was warm.

Her dusty, battered Chevette started on only the third try, which should

have improved her mood.  But listening to the starter grind and the

engine cough, she was reminded of the shiny new Buick that Alan had

taken with him fifteen months ago, when he had abandoned her and Marcie.

Alan Rykoff.  More than her job, more than any of the other things that

irritated her, Alan was the cause of Jorja's foul mood.  She had shed

his name when the marriage had been dissolved, reverting to her maiden

name, Monatella, but she could not as easily shed the memories of the

pain he had inflicted on her and Marcie.

As she drove out of the parking lot into the street behind the hotel,

Jorja tried to banish Alan from her thoughts, but he remained at center

stage.  The bastard.  With his current bedmate, an airhead blond bearing

the unlikely name "Pepper," he had flown off to Acapulco for a week, not

even bothering to leave a Christmas gift for Marcie.  What did you tell

a seven-year-old girl when she asked why her daddy didn't buy her

anything for Christmas-or even come to see her?

Although Alan left Jorja saddled with bills, she had willingly forgone

alimony because, by then, she loathed him so much that she had not

wanted to be dependent on him.  However, she had gone after child

support and had been shocked when he countered by insisting Marcie was

not his child and, therefore, not his responsibility.  Damn him.  Jorja

had married him when she was nineteen and he was twenty-four, and she'd

never been unfaithful.  Alan knew she hadn't cheated, but protecting his

jazzy lifestyle-he needed every dollar for clothes, fast cars, and

women-was more important to him than his wife's reputation or his

daughter's happiness.  To spare little Marcie humiliation and pain,

Jorja had released Alan from responsibility before he could voice his

sleazy accusations in the courtroom.

So she was finished withhim.  She could put him out of her mind.

But as she drove past the mall at the intersection of Maryland Parkway

and Desert Inn Road, Jorja thought about how young she had been when she

tied herself to Alan, too young for marriage and too naive to see

through his facade.  When she was nineteen, she thought he was

sophisticated, charming.  For more than a year, their union had seemed

blissful, but gradually she began to see him for what he was: shallow,

vain, lazy, a shockingly promiscuous womanizer.

The summer before last, when their relationship had been rocky, she had

tried to salvage the marriage by coercing Alan into a carefully planned

three-week vacation.  She believed that part of their problem was that

they spent too little time together.  He was a baccarat dealer in one

hotel, and she was employed in another, and they frequently worked

different shifts, slept on different schedules.  Just the two of them

and Marcie-embarking upon an adventurous three-week car trip seemed a

good way to repair their damaged relationship.

Unfortunately but predictably, her scheme had not worked. After the

vacation, upon their return to Vegas, Alan had been more promiscuous

than before.  He seemed determined-driven-to take a poke at anything in

skirts.  In fact, it was almost as if the car trip had somehow pushed

him over the edge, for the number and intensity of his one-night stands

developed a manic quality, a frightening desperation.  Three months

later, in October of that year, he walked out on her and Marcie.

The only good thing about the car trip had been the brief encounter with

that young woman doctor who had been driving cross-country from Stanford

to Boston on, she'd said, her first vacation ever.  Jorja still

remembered the woman's name: Ginger Weiss.  Although they had met only

once, and then for little more than an hour, Ginger Weiss had quite

unwittingly changed Jorja's life.  The doctor had been so very youngso

slender, pretty, feminine-it had been difficult to accept that she was

really a doctor, yet she'd been uncommonly selfassured and competent.

Deeply impressed by Ginger Weiss during that encounter, Jorja was later

motivated by the doctor's example.  She'd always thought of herself as a

born cocktail waitress, incapable of anything more challenging, but when

Alan walked out, she had remembered Dr.  Weiss and decided to make more

of herself than she had previously thought possible.

During the past eleven months, Jorja had taken business management

courses at UNLV, squeezing them into an already hectic schedule.  When

she finished paying the bills that Alan had left her, she would build a

nest egg so she could eventually open her own business, a dress shop.

She had worked out a very detailed plan, revising and honing it until it

was realistic, and she knew she would stick with it.

It was a shame that she would never have a chance to thank Ginger Weiss.

Of course, it was not any favor that Dr.  Weiss had performed that so

deeply affected Jorja; it was not so much what the doctor had done as

what she was.  Anyway, at twenty-seven Jorja's prospects were more

exciting than they had been previously.

Now, she turned off Desert Inn Road onto Pawnee Drive, a street of

comfortable homes behind the Boulevard Mall. She stopped in front of

Kara Persaghian's house and got out of the car.  The front door opened

before she reached it, and Marcie rushed out, into her arms, shouting

happily.  "Mommy!

Mommy!" And Jorja was at last able to forget about her job, the Texan,

the argument with the pit boss, and the dilapidated condition of the

Chevette.  She squatted down and hugged her daughter.  When all else

failed to cheer her, she could count on Marcie for a lift.

"Mommy," the girl said, "did you have a great day?"

"Yes, honey, I did.  You smell like peanut butter."

"Cookies!  Aunt Kara made peanut butter cookies!  I had a great day,

too.  Mommy, do you know why elephants came ...  ummm, why they came all

the way from Africa to live in this country?" Marcie giggled.  " 'Cause

we got orchestras here, and elephants just love to dance!" She giggled

again.  "Isn't that silly."

Even allowing for maternal prejudice, Jorja knew that Marcie was an

adorable child.  The girl had her mother's hair, so dark brown that it

was virtually black, and her mother's dusky complexion.  Her eyes were a

striking contrast to the rest of her, not brown like Jorja's but blue

like her father's.  She had an immensely appealing gamine quality.

Marcie's huge eyes opened wide.  "Hey, know what day it is?"

"I sure do.  Almost Christmas Eve."

"Will be soon as it's dark.  Aunt Kara's giving us cookies to take home.

You know, Santa's already left the North Pole, and he's started going

down chimleys already, but in other parts of the world, of course, where

it's dark, not chimleys here.  Aunt Kara says I been so bad all year

I'll only get a necklace made out of coal, but she's just teasing. Isn't

she just teasing, Mommy?"

"Just teasing," Jorja confirmed.

"Oh, no, I'm not!" Kara Persaghian said.  She came through the doorway,

onto the front walk, a grandmotherly woman in a housedress and apron. "A

coal necklace .  .  .  and maybe a set of matching coal earrings."

Marcie giggled again.

Kara was not Marcie's aunt, merely her after-school babysitter.  Marcie

called her "Aunt Kara" from the second week she knew her, and the sitter

was obviously delighted by that affectionately bestowed honorary title.

Kara was carrying Marcie's jacket, a big coloring-book picture of Santa

that they had been working on for a few days, and a plate of cookies.

Jorja gave the picture and jacket to Marcie, accepted the cookies with

expressions of gratitude and with some chatter about diets, and then

Kara said, "Jorja, could I speak with you a moment-just the two of us?"

"Sure." Jorja sent Marcie to the car with the cookies and turned

inquisitively to Kara.  "It's about .  .  .  Marcie.  What's she done?"

"Oh, nothing bad.  She's an angel, that one.  Couldn't misbehave if she

tried.  But today ...  well, she was talking about how the thing she

wants most for Christmas is that Little Ms. Doctor play kit-"

"It's the first time she's ever really nagged me about a toy," Jorja

said.  "I don't know why she's obsessed with it."

"She talks about it every day.  You are getting it for her?"

Jorja glanced at the Chevette, confirming that Marcie was out of

earshot, then smiled.  "Yes, Santa definitely has it in his bag."

"Good.  She'd be heartbroken if you didn't.  But the oddest thing

happened today, and it made me wonder if she'd ever been seriously ill."

'Serious illness?  No.  She's an exceptionally healthy kid."

'Never been in the hospital?"

"No.  Why?"

Kara frowned.  "Well, today she started talking about the Little Ms.

Doctor kit, and she told me she wanted to be a doctor when she grew up

because then she could treat herself when she got sick.  She said she

never wanted a doctor to touch her again because she was once hurt real

bad by doctors. I asked her what she meant, and she got quiet for a

while, and I thought she wasn't going to answer me.  Then finally, in

this very somber voice, she said some doctors had once strapped her down

in a hospital bed so she couldn't get out, and then they stuck her full

of needles and flashed lights in her face and did all sorts of horrible

things to her.  She said they hurt her real bad, so she was going to

become her own doctor and treat herself from now on."

" Really?  Well, it's not true," Jorja said.  "I don't know why she'd

make up such a story.  That is odd."

"Oh, that's not the odd part.  When she told me all this, I was

concerned.  I was surprised you'd never told me.  I mean, if she'd been

seriously ill, I ought to've been told in case there was a possibility

of a recurrence.  So I questioned her about it-just casually, the way

you coax things out of a childand suddenly the poor little thing just

burst into tears.  We were in the kitchen, making cookies, and she

started to cry .  .  .  and shake.  Just shaking like a leaf.  I tried

to calm her, but that only made her cry harder.  Then she pulled away

from me and ran.  I found her in the living room, in the corner behind

the big green Lay-Z-Boy, huddled down as if she were hiding from

someone."

"Good heavens," Jorja said.

Kara said, "Took me at least five minutes to get her to stop crying and

another ten to coax her out of her hidey-hole behind that chair.  She

made me promise, if those doctors ever came for her again, that I'd let

her hide behind the chair and not tell them where she was.  I mean,

Jorja, she was in a real state."

On the way home, Jorja said, "That was some story you told Kara."

"What story?" Marcie asked, looking straight ahead, barely able to see

over the dashboard.

"That story about the doctors."

"Oh."

"Being strapped in bed.  Why'd you make up a thing like that?"

"It's true," Marcie said.

"But it isn't."

"Yes, it is." The girl's voice was little more than a whisper.

"The only hospital you were ever in was the one where you were born, and

I'm sure you don't remember that." Jorja sighed.  "A few months ago we

had a little talk about fibbing. Remember what happened to Danny Duck

when he fibbed?"

"The Truth Fairy wouldn't let him go to the woodchuck's party."

"That's right."

"Fibbing's bad," Marcie said softly.  "Nobody likes fibbers-'specially

not woodchucks and squirrels."

Disarmed, Jorja had to bite back a laugh and struggle to keep a stern

tone in her voice.  "Nobody likes fibbers."

They stopped at a red traffic light, but Marcie still looked straight

ahead, refusing to meet Jorja's eyes.  The girl said, "It's 'specially

bad to fib to your mommy or your daddy."

"Or to anyone who cares about you.  And making up stories to scare

Kara-that's the same as fibbing."

"Wasn't tryin' to scare her," Marcie said.

"Trying to get sympathy, then.  You were never in a hospital."

"Was."

"Oh, yeah?" Marcie nodded vigorously, and Jorja said, "When?"

"Don't 'member when."

"You don't remember, huh?"

"Almost."

"Almost isn't good enough.  Where was this hospital?"

"I'm not sure.  Sometimes ...  I 'member it better than other times.

Sometimes I can hardly 'member it at all, and sometimes I 'member it

real good, and then I ...  I get scared."

"Right now you don't remember too well, huh?"

"Nope.  But today I 'membered real good ...  and scared myself."

The traffic light changed, and Jorja drove in silence, wondering how

best to handle the situation.  She had no notion what to make of it.  It

was foolish ever to believe that you understood your child.  Marcie had

always been able to surprise Jorja with actions, statements, big ideas,

musings, and questions that seemed not to have come from within herself

but which it seemed she had carefully selected from some secret book of

startling behavior that was known to all kids but not to adults, some

cosmic volume perhaps titled Keeping Mom and Dad Off-Balance.

As if she had just dipped into that book again, Marcie said, "Why were

all Santa Claus's kids deformed?"

"What?"

"Well, see, Santa and Mrs.  Claus had a whole bunch of kids, but all of

them was elves."

"The elves aren't their children.  They work for Santa."

"Really?  How much does he pay 'em?"

"He doesn't pay them anything, honey."

"How do they buy food, then?"

"They don't have to buy anything.  Santa gives them all they need." This

was certainly the last Christmas that Marcie would believe in Santa;

nearly all of her classmates were already doubters.  Recently, she had

been asking these probing questions.  Jorja would be sorry to see the

fantasy disproved, the magic lost.  "The elves are part of his family,

honey, and they work with him simply for the love of it."

"You mean the elves are adopted?  So Santa doesn't have real kids of his

own?  That's sad."

"No, 'cause he's got all the elves to love."

God, I love this kid, Jorja thought.  Thank you, God.  Thank you for

this kid, even if I did have to get tied up with Alan Rykoff to get her.

Dark clouds and silver linings.

She turned into the two-lane driveway that encircled Las Huevos

Apartments and parked the Chevette in the fourth carport.  Las Huevos.

The Eggs.  After five years in the place, she still couldn't understand

why anyone would name an apartment complex The Eggs.

The instant the car stopped, Marcie was out of it with the poster from

the coloring book and the plate of cookies, dashing up the walkway to

their entrance.  The girl had deftly changed the subject just long

enough to finish the ride and escape from the confines of the car.

Jorja wondered if she should press the issue farther.  It was Christmas

Eve, and she had no desire to spoil the holiday. Marcie was a good kid,

better than most, and this business about being hurt by doctors was an

extremely rare instance of fabrication.  Jorja had made the point that

fibbing was not acceptable, and Marcie had understood (even if she had

persisted a bit with her medical fantasy), and her sudden change of

subject had probably been an admission of wrongdoing. So it was an

aberration.  Nothing would be gained by harping on it, especially not at

the risk of ruining Christmas.

Jorja was confident she would hear no more about it.

5.

Laguna Beach , California

During the afternoon, Dominick Corvaisis must have read the unsigned

typewritten note a hundred times:

The sleepwalker would be well-advised to search the past for the source

of his problem.  That is where the secret is buried.

In addition to the letter's lack of signature and return address, the

postmark on the plain white envelope was doublestruck and badly smeared,

so he could not determine whether it had been mailed in Laguna Beach or

from another city.

After he paid for his breakfast and left The Cottage, he sat in his car,

the copy of Twilight in Babylon forgotten on the seat beside him, and

read the note half a dozen times.  It made him so nervous that he

withdrew a pair of Valiums from his jacket pocket and almost took one

without water.  But as he put the tablet to his lips, he hesitated.  To

explore all the ramifications of the note, he would need a clear mind.

For the first time in weeks, he denied himself chemical escape from his

anxieties; he returned the Valium to his pocket.

He drove to South Coast Plaza, a huge shopping mall in Costa Mesa, to

buy some last-minute Christmas gifts.  In each store he visited, while

he waited for the clerks to gift-wrap his purchases, he took the curious

message from his pocket and read it again and again.

For a while Dom had wondered if the note had come from Parker, if

perhaps the artist had sent it to jolt him and intrigue him and propel

him out of his drug-induced haze.  Parker might be capable of such

highly theatrical, amateur psychotherapy.  But finally Dom dismissed

that idea.  Machiavellian maneuvers were simply not aspects of the

painter's personality.  He was, in fact, almost excessively forthright.

Parker was not the author of the note, but he was certain to have some

original speculations about who might be behind it.  Together, they

might be able to decide just how the arrival of this letter changed

things and how they ought to proceed.

Later, back in Laguna, when Dom was within a block of Parker's house, he

was suddenly shaken by a previously unconsidered, profoundly troubling

possibility.  This new idea was so disconcerting that he pulled the

Firebird to the curb and stopped.  He got the note from his pocket, read

it again, fingered the paper.  He felt cold inside.  He looked into the

reflection of his own eyes in the rearview mirror, and he did not like

what he saw.

Could he have written the note himself?

He could have composed it on the Displaywriter while asleep. But it was

outlandish to suppose he'd dressed, gone to the mailbox, deposited the

note, returned home, and changed into pajamas again without waking up.

Impossible.  Wasn't it?  If he had done such a thing, his mental

imbalance was worse than he had thought.

His hands were clammy.  He blotted them on his trousers.

Only three people in the world were aware of his sleepwalking: himself,

Parker Faine, and Dr.  Cobletz.  He had already eliminated Parker.  Dr.

Cobletz had certainly not sent the note.  So if Dom himself had not sent

it-who had?

When he pulled away from the curb at last, he did not continue to

Parker's house but headed home instead.

Ten minutes later, in his study, he took the by-now rumpled note from

his pocket.  He typed those two sentences, which appeared on the

Displaywriter's dark screen in glowing green letters.  Then he switched

on the printer and instructed the computer to produce a hard copy of the

document.  He watched as it hammered out those twenty-three words.

The Displaywriter came with two printwheels in two typefaces.  He had

bought two more to provide options for different tasks.  Now, Dom used

the three additional printwheels to produce a total of four copies of

the note, and with a pencil he labeled each according to the style of

type used for it: PRESTIGE ELITE, ARTISAN 10, COURIER 10, LETTER GOTHIC.

He smoothed out the original rumpled note and placed each of the copies

beside it for comparison.  He hoped to eliminate all four type styles

that he possessed, disproving the theory that he had sent the note to

himself.  But the Courier 10 appeared to be a perfect match.

That did not conclusively prove he'd written the note.  In offices and

homes all over the country, there must be millions of printwheels and

printer elements in the Courier face.

He compared the paper of the original note to that of the copy he had

made.  They were both twenty-pound, 8 1/2 x 11", standard products sold

under a dozen labels in thousands of stores in all fifty states. Neither

sheet was of sufficient quality to contain fibers.  Dom held them up to

the light and saw that neither page featured a mill seal or brand-name

watermark, which might have proven that the original note had not been

typed on paper from his own stock.

He thought: Parker, Dr.  Cobletz, and me.  Who else could know?

And what was the note trying to tell him, exactly?  What secret was

buried in his past?  What suppressed trauma or forgotten event lay at

the root of his somnambulism?

Sitting at his desk, staring at the night beyond the big window,

straining blindly toward understanding, he grew tense.

Again, he felt a need for Valium, almost a craving, but he resisted.

The note engaged his curiosity, logic, and reason.  He was able to focus

his intellect on the search for a solution and concentrate with an

intensity of which he had not been capable recently, and thus he found

the will power to forsake the solace of tranquilization.

He was beginning to feel good about himself for the first time in weeks.

In spite of the helplessness in which he had been wallowing, he now

realized that, after all, he still had the power to shape and direct the

course of his own life.  All he had needed was something like the note,

something tangible on which he could focus.

He paced around the house, carrying the note, thinking. Eventually he

came to a front window from which he could see his curbside mailbox-a

brick column with a metal receptacle mortared into it-standing in the

bluish fall of light from a mercury-vapor streetlamp.

Because he kept the post office drawer in town, the only mail he got at

home was that addressed to "Occupant" and occasional cards or letters

from friends who had both his mailing and street address but who

sometimes forgot that all correspondence was to go to the former.

Standing at the window, staring at the curbside receptacle, Dom realized

that he had not picked up today's delivery.

He went outside, down the front walk to the street, and used a key to

unlock the receptacle.  Except for the breeze that rustled the trees,

the night was quiet.  The wind carried the scent of the sea, and the air

was chilly.  The overhead mercury-vapor lamp was sufficiently bright for

Dom to identify the mail as he withdrew it from the box: six advertising

flyers and catalogs, two Christmas cards .  .  .  and a plain white

business-size envelope with no return address.

Excited, fearful, he hurried back into the house, to his study, tearing

open the white envelope and extracting a single sheet of paper as he

went.  At his desk, he unfolded the letter.

The moon.

No other words could have shocked him as badly as those.

He felt as if he had fallen into the White Rabbit's hole and was

tumbling down into a fantastic realm where logic and reason no longer

applied.

The moon.  This was impossible.  No one knew he had awakened from bad

dreams with those words on his lips, repeating them in panic: "The moon,

moon.  .  .  ." And no one knew that, while sleepwalking, he had typed

those words on the Displaywriter.  He'd told neither Parker nor Cobletz,

because those incidents had transpired after he'd begun drug therapy and

after the drugs seemed to be working, and he had not wanted to appear to

be slipping backward.  Besides, although those two words filled him with

dread, he did not understand their significance.  He did not know why

they had the power to raise gooseflesh, and he instinctively felt that

it was unwise to mention this development to anyone until he had gotten

a better handle on it.  He had been afraid Cobletz would conclude that

the drugs were not helping him and would discontinue them in favor of

psychotherapy-and Dom had needed the drugs.

The moon.

No one knew, damn it.  No one but .  Dom himself.

In the streetlamp's dim glow, he had not checked for a postmark.  Now,

he saw that its point of origin was not a mystery, as was the case with

the letter that had come this morning.  It was clearly stamped NEW YORK,

N Y., and dated December 18.  Wednesday of last week.

He almost laughed out loud.  He was not insane, after all. He was not

sending these cryptic messages to himself-could not possibly be sending

them-because he had been in Laguna last week.  Three thousand miles

separated him from the mailbox in which this-and undoubtedly the

other-strange message had first been deposited.

But who had sent him the notes-and why?  Who in New York could know that

he was sleepwalking ...  or that he had repeatedly typed "the moon" on

his word processor?  A thousand questions crowded Dom Corvaisis' mind,

and he had no answers to any of them.  Worse, at the moment, he could

see no way even to seek answers.  The situation was so bizarre that

there was no logical direction for his inquiries to take.

For two months, he had thought that his sleepwalking was the strangest

and most frightening thing that had ever happened-or ever would

happen-to him.  But whatever lay

behind the somnambulism must be even stranger and more frightening than

the nightwalking itself.

He recalled the first message he had left for himself on the word

processor: I'm afraid.  What had he been hiding from in closets?  When

he had started to nail the windows shut while sound asleep, what had he

hoped to keep out of his house?

Dom saw now that his sleepwalking had not been caused by stress.  He was

not suffering anxiety attacks because he feared the success or failure

of his first novel.  It was nothing as mundane as that.

Something else.  Something very strange and terrible.

What did he know in his sleep that he did not know when awake?

6.

New Haven County, Connecticut

The sky had cleared before nightfall, but the moon had not yet risen.

The stars shed little light upon the cold earth.

With his back against a boulder, Jack Twist sat in the snow atop a

knoll, at the edge of pines, waiting for the Guardmaster armored truck

to appear.  Only three weeks after personally netting more than a

million dollars from the mafia warehouse job, he was already setting up

another heist.  He was wearing boots, gloves, and a white ski suit, with

the hood over his head and tied securely under his chin.  Three hundred

yards behind him and to the southwest, beyond the small woods, the

darkness was relieved by the light of a housing development; however,

Jack waited in utter blackness, his breath steaming.

In front of him, two miles of night-clad fields lay northeast, barren

but for a few widely spaced trees and some winterstripped brush.  In the

distance beyond the emptiness, there were electronics plants, then

shopping centers, then residential neighborhoods, none of which was

visible from Jack's position, though their existence was indicated by

the glow of electric lights on the horizon.

At the far edge of the fields, headlights appeared over a low rise.

Raising a pair of night binoculars, Jack focused on

the approaching vehicle, which was following the two-lane county road

that bisected the fields.  In spite of the leftward cast of his left

eye, Jack had superb vision, and with the help of the night binoculars,

he ascertained that the vehicle was not the Guardmaster truck, therefore

of no consequence to him.  He lowered the glasses.

In his solitude upon the snowy knoll, he thought back to another time

and a warmer place, to a humid night in a Central American jungle, when

he had studied a nocturnal landscape with binoculars just like these.

Then, he had been searching anxiously for hostile troops that had been

stalking and encircling him and his buddies.  .  .  .

His platoon-twenty highly trained Rangers under the leadership of

Lieutenant Rafe Eikhorn, with Jack as second in command-had crossed the

border illegally and gone fifteen miles inside the enemy state without

being detected.  Their presence could have been construed as an act of

war; therefore, they wore camouflage suits stripped of rank and service

markings, and they carried no identification.

Their target was a nasty little "re-education" camp, cynically named the

Institute of Brotherhood, where a thousand Miskito Indians were

imprisoned by the People's Army.  Two weeks earlier, courageous Catholic

priests had led another fifteen hundred Indians through the jungles and

out of the country before they could be imprisoned, too.  Those

clergymen had brought word that the Indians at the Institute would be

murdered and buried in mass graves if not rescued within the month.

The Miskitos were a fiercely proud breed with a rich culture that they

refused to forsake for the anti-ethnic, collectivist philosophy of the

country's latest leaders.  The Indians' continued loyalty to their own

traditions would ensure their extermination, for the ruling council did

not hesitate to call up the firing squads to solidify its power.

Nevertheless, twenty Rangers in mufti would not have been committed to

such a dangerous raid merely to save Miskitos. Both left- and right-wing

dictatorial regimes routinely slaughtered their citizenry in every

corner of the world, and the United States did not-could not-prevent

those state-sanctioned murders.  But in addition to the Indians at the

Institute,

there were eleven others whose rescue, along with the Indians, made the

risky operation worthwhile.

Those eleven were former revolutionaries who had fought the just war

against the now-deposed right-wing dictator, but who had refused to

remain silent when their revolution had been betrayed by totalitarians

of the left.  Undoubtedly, those eleven possessed valuable information.

The opportunity to debrief them was more important than saving the lives

of a thousand Indians-at least as far as Washington was concerned.

Undetected, Jack's platoon reached the Institute of Brotherhood in a

farming district at the edge of the jungle.  It was a concentration camp

in all but name, a place of barbed-wire fences and guard towers.  Two

buildings stood outside the fenced perimeter of the camp: a two-story

concrete-block structure from which the government administered the

district, and a dilapidated wooden barracks housing sixty troops.

Shortly after midnight, the platoon of Rangers stealthily took up

positions and launched a rocket attack on the barracks and the concrete

building.  The initial artillery barrages were followed by hand-to-hand

combat.  Half an hour after the last shot was fired, the Indians and

other prisoners-as jubilant a group as Jack had ever seen-were formed

into a column and moved out toward the border, fifteen miles away.

Two Rangers had been killed.  Three were wounded.

As first in command of the platoon, Rafe Eikhorn led the exodus and

oversaw security along the column's flanks, while Jack stayed behind

with three men to be sure the last of the prisoners got out of the camp

in orderly fashion.  It was also his responsibility to gather up files

relating to the interrogation, torture, and murder of Indians and

district peasants.  By the time he and his four men left the Institute

of Brotherhood, they were two miles behind the last of the Miskitos.

Though Jack and his men made good time, they never caught up with their

platoon and were still miles from the Honduran border when, at dawn,

hostile army helicopters, like giant black wasps, came in low over the

trees and began off-loading enemy troops wherever a clearing could be

found. The other Rangers and all the Indians reached freedom, but Jack

and his three men were captured and transported to a facility similar to

the Institute of Brotherhood.  However, the place was so much worse than

the concentration camp that

it had no official existence.  The ruling council did not admit that

such a hellhole existed in the new workers' paradiseor that monstrous

inquisitions were conducted within its walls. In true Orwellian

tradition, because the four-story complex of cells and torture chambers

had no name, it did not exist.

Within those nameless walls, in cells without numbers, Jack Twist and

the three other Rangers were subjected to psychological and physical

torture, relentless humiliation and degradation, controlled starvation,

and constant threats of death.  One of the four died.  One went mad.

Only Jack and his closest friend, Oscar Weston, held on to both life and

sanity during the eleven and a half months of their incarceration.  .  .

.

Now, eight years later, leaning against a boulder atop a knoll in

Connecticut, waiting for the Guardmaster truck, Jack heard sounds and

detected odors which were not of this wind-swept winter night.  The hard

footfalls of jackboots on concrete corridors.  The stench from the

overflowing slops bucket, which was the cell's only toilet.  The

pathetic cry of some poor bastard being taken from his cell to another

session with interrogators.

Jack took deep breaths of the clean, cold Connecticut air. He was seldom

troubled by bad memories of that time and nameless place.  He was more

often haunted by what had happened to him after his escape-and by what

had happened to his Jenny in his absence.  It was not his suffering in

Central America that turned him against society; rather, subsequent

events were what had soured him.

He saw other headlights out on the black fields and raised his night

binoculars.  It was the Guardmaster armored transport.

He looked at his watch.  Nine-thirty-eight.  It was right on schedule,

as it had been every night for a week.  Even with the holiday tomorrow,

the truck kept to its route.  Guardmaster Security was nothing if not

reliable.

On the ground beside Jack was an attache case.  He lifted the lid.  The

blue numerals of a digital scanner were locked on the Guardmaster's open

radio link to the company dispatcher.  Even with his state-of-the-art

equipment, he had needed three nights to discover the truck's frequency.

He turned the volume dial on his own receiver.  Static crackled, hissed.

Then he was rewarded by a routine exchange between the driver and the

distant dispatcher.

"Three-oh-one," the dispatcher said. "Reindeer," the driver said.

"Rudolph," the dispatcher said. "Rooftop," the driver said.

The hiss and crackle of static settled in once more.

The dispatcher had opened the exchange with the truck's number, and the

rest of it had been the day's code which served as confirmation that 301

was on schedule and in no trouble of any kind.

Jack switched off his receiver.  The lighted dials went dark.

The armored transport passed less than two hundred feet from his

position on the knoll, and he turned to watch its dwindling taillights.

He was confident of Guardmaster's schedule now, and he would not be

returning to these fields until the night of the stickup, which was

tentatively scheduled for Saturday, January 11.  Meanwhile, there was a

great deal more planning to be done.

Ordinarily, planning a job was nearly as exciting and satisfying as the

actual commission of the crime.  But as he left the knoll and headed

toward the houses to the southwest, where he had parked his car on a

quiet street, he felt no elation, no thrill.  He was losing the ability

to take delight in even the contemplation of a crime.

He was changing.  And he did not know why.

As he drew near the first houses to the southwest of the knoll, he

became aware that the night had grown brighter. He looked up.  The moon

swelled fat on the horizon, so huge it seemed to be crashing to earth,

an illusion of enormousness created by the odd perspective of the early

stages of the satellite's ascension.  He stopped abruptly and stood with

his head tilted back, staring up at the luminous lunar surface.  A chill

seized him, an inner iciness unrelated to the winter cold.

"The moon," he said softly.

Hearing himself speak those words aloud, Jack shuddered violently.

Inexplicable fear welled in him.  He was gripped by an irrational urge

to run and hide from the moon, as if its luminescence were corrosive and

would, like an acid, dissolve him as he stood bathed in it.

The compulsion to flee passed in a minute.  He could not understand why

the moon had so suddenly terrified him.  It was only the ancient and

familiar moon of love songs and romantic poetry.  Strange.

He headed toward the car again.  The looming lunar face still made him

uneasy, and several times he glanced up at it, perplexed.

However, by the time he got in the car, drove into New Haven, and picked

up Interstate 95, that curious incident had faded from his mind.  He was

once more preoccupied with thoughts of Jenny, his comatose wife, whose

condition haunted him more than usual at Christmastime.

Later, in his apartment, as he stood by a big window, staring out at the

great city, a bottle of Becks in one hand, he was sure that from 261st

Street to Park Row, from Bensonhurst to Little Neck, there could be no

one in the Metropolis whose Christmas Eve was lonelier than his.

7.

Christmas Day

Elko County, Nevada.

Sandy Sarver woke soon after dawn came to the high plains. The early sun

glimmered vaguely at the bedroom windows of the house trailer.  The

world was so still that it seemed time must have stopped.

She could turn over and go back to sleep if she so desired, for she had

eight more days of vacation ahead of her.  Ernie and Faye Block had

closed the Tranquility Motel and had gone to visit their grandchildren

in Milwaukee.  The adjacent Tranquility Grille, which Sandy operated

with her husband, Ned, was also closed over the holidays.

But Sandy knew she could not get back to sleep, for she was wide

awake-and horny.  She stretched like a cat beneath the blankets.  She

wanted to wake Ned, smother him with kisses, and pull him atop her.

Ned was merely a shadowy form in the dark bedroom, breathing deeply,

sound asleep.  Although she wanted him badly, she did not wake him.

There would be plenty of time for lovemaking later in the day.

She slipped quietly out of bed, into the bathroom, and showered.  She

made the end of it a cold shower.

For years she had been uninterested in sex, frigid.  Not long ago, the

sight of her own nude body had embarrassed her and filled her with

shame.  Although she did not know the reason for the new feelings that

had risen in her lately, she definitely had changed.  It had started the

summer before last, when sex had suddenly seemed .  .  .  well,

appealing.  That sounded silly now.  Of course sex was appealing.  But

prior to that summer, lovemaking had always been a chore to be endured.

Her late erotic blossoming was a delightful surprise and an inexplicable

mystery.

Nude, she returned to the shadowy bedroom.  She took a sweater and a

pair of jeans from the closet, and dressed.

In the small kitchen, she started to pour orange juice but stopped when

stricken by the urge to go for a drive.  She left a note for Ned, put on

a sheepskin-lined jacket, and went outside to the Ford pickup.

Sex and driving were the two new passions in her life, and the latter

was almost as important to her as the former.  That was another funny

thing: until the summer before last, she hated going anywhere in the

pickup except to work and back, and she seldom drove.  She'd not only

disliked highway travel but had dreaded it the way some people were

afraid of airplanes.  But now, other than sex, there was nothing she

liked better than to get behind the wheel of the truck and take off

journeying on a whim, without a destination, speeding.

She had always understood why sex repelled her-that had been no mystery.

She could blame her father, Horton Purney, for her frigidity.  Though

she had never known her mother, who had died giving birth, Sandy had

known her father far too well.  They had lived in a ramshackle house on

the outskirts of Barstow, on the edge of the lonely California desert,

just the two of them, and Sandy's earliest memories were of sexual

abuse.  Horton Purney had been a moody, brooding, mean, and dangerous

man.  Until Sandy escaped from home at fourteen, her father had used her

as if she had been an erotic toy.

Only recently had she realized that her strong dislike for highway

travel was also related to something else that her father had done to

her.  Horton Purney had run a motorcycle repair shop out of a sagging,

sun-scorched, unpainted barn on the same property as his house, but he

had never made much money from it.  Therefore, twice a year, he put

Sandy in the car and made the two-and-a-half-hour drive across the

desert to Las Vegas, where he knew an enterprising pimp, Samson Cherrik.

Cherrik had a list of perverts with a special interest in children, and

he was always happy to see Sandy. After a few weeks in Vegas, Sandy's

father packed, put Sandy in the car, and drove back to Barstow, his

pockets bulging with cash.  For Sandy, the long drive to Vegas was a

nightmare journey, for she knew what awaited her at their destination.

The trip back to Barstow was worse, for it was not an escape from Vegas

but a return to the grim life in that ramshackle house and the dark,

urgent, insatiable lust of Horton Purney. In either direction, the road

had led to hell, and she had learned to loathe the rumble of the car's

engine, the hum of tires on the pavement, and the unspooling highway

ahead.

Therefore, the pleasure she now took from driving and sex seemed

miraculous.  She could not understand where she'd found the strength and

will to overcome her horrible past. Since the summer before last, she

simply .  .  .  changed, was still changing.  And, oh, it was glorious

to feel the chains of self-loathing and the bonds of fear breaking

apart, to feel self-respect for the first time in her life, to feel

free.

, Now, she got into the Ford pickup and started the engine. Their house

trailer was set on an unlandscaped half-acre lot at the southern edge of

the tiny-almost nonexistent-town of Beowawe, along Route 21, a two-lane

blacktop.  As Sandy drove away from the trailer, there seemed to be

nothing but empty plains, rolling hills, scattered buttes, rocky

outcroppings, grass, brush, and waterless arroyos for a thousand miles

in every direction.  The intensely blue morning sky was immense, and as

she got the Ford up to speed, Sandy felt as if she might take flight.

If she headed north on 21, she would pass through Beowawe and soon come

to Interstate 80, which led east toward Elko or west toward Battle

Mountain.  Instead, she went south, into a beautifully barren landscape.

With skill and ease, she guided the four-wheel-drive pickup over the

badly weathered county road at seventy miles an hour.

In fifteen minutes, Route 21 petered out into a gravel roadbed that led

south through another eighty-three miles of uninhabited and desolate

territory.  She did not follow it, choosing instead to turn east on a

one-lane dirt track flanked by wild grass and scrub.

Some snow lay on the ground this Christmas morning, though not much.  In

the distance, the mountains were white, but down here, the annual

precipitation was less than fifteen inches a year, little of it in the

form of snow.  Here was an inch-deep skin of snow, there a small hillock

against which a shallow drift had formed, and here a sparkling bush on

which winddriven snow had hardened into a lacy garment of ice, but by

far the largest portion of the land was bare and dry and brown.

Sandy drove fast on the dirt, too, and behind her a cloud of dust plumed

up.  In time she left the track, headed overland-north, then west,

coming at last to a familiar place, though she had not set out with this

destination in mind.  For reasons she did not understand, her

subconscious often guided her to this spot during her solitary drives,

seldom in a direct line but by wandering routes, so her arrival was

usually a surprise to her.  She stopped, set the brake.  With the engine

idling, she stared for a while through the dusty windshield.

She came here because it made her feel better, though she did not know

why.  The slopes, the spines and teeth of rock, the grass and brush,

formed a pleasing picture, though the scene was no prettier and no

different from thousands of other places nearby.  Yet here she felt a

sublime peacefulness that could not be attained anywhere else.

She switched off the engine and got out of the pickup, and for a while

she strolled back and forth, hands jammed into the pockets of her

sheepskin-lined jacket, oblivious of the stingingly cold air.  Her drive

through the wildiands had brought her back toward civilization, and

Interstate 80 lay only a couple of hundred yards to the north.  The

occasional roar of a passing truck-echoed like a distant dragon's growl,

but the holiday traffic was light.  Beyond the highway, on the uplands

to the northwest, lay the Tranquility Motel and Grille, but Sandy

glanced just once in that direction.  She was more interested in the

immediate terrain, which exerted a mysterious and powerful attraction

for her, and which seemed to radiate peace the way a rock, in evening,

radiated the heat of the sun that it had absorbed during the day.

She wasn't trying to analyze her affinity for this patch of ground.

Evidently, there was some subtle harmony in the contours of the land, an

interplay of line, form, and shadow that defied definition. Any attempt

to decode its attraction would be as foolish as trying to analyze the

beauty of a sunset or the appeal of a favorite flower.

That Christmas morning, Sandy did not yet know that Ernie Block had been

drawn, as if possessed, to the same patch of ground on December 10, when

he had been on his way home from the freight office in Elko.  She did

not know that it aroused in Ernie an electrifying sense of pending

epiphany and more than a little fear-emotions quite unlike those that it

stirred in her.  Weeks would pass before she learned that her special

retreat had a strong attraction for others besides herself-both friends

and strangers.

Chicago, Illinois.

For Father Stefan Wycazik-that stocky Polish dynamo, rector of St.

Bernadette's, rescuer of troubled priests-it was the busiest Christmas

morning he had ever known.  And as the day wore on, it swiftly became

the most meaningful Christmas of his life.

He celebrated the second Mass at St.  Bernadette's, spent an hour

greeting parishioners who stopped by the rectory with fruit baskets and

boxes of homemade cookies and other gifts, then drove to University

Hospital to pay a visit to Winton Tolk, the policeman who had been shot

in an uptown sandwich shop yesterday afternoon.  Following emergency

surgery, Tolk had been in the intensive care unit yesterday afternoon

and all through the night.  Christmas morning he had been moved to a

semiprivate room adjacent to the ICU, for although he was no longer in

critical condition, he still needed to be monitored constantly.

When Father Wycazik arrived, Raynella Tolk, Winton's wife, was at her

husband's bedside.  She was quite attractive, with chocolate-brown skin

and stylish close-cropped hair.  "Mrs. Tolk?  I'm Stefan Wycazik."

"But-"

He smiled.  "Relax.  I'm not here to give anyone the last rites."

"Good," Winton said, , cause i'm sure not planning on dying."

of looming over me ...  calling my name ...  but I was still in a haze,

you see."

"It's a miracle Win survived," Raynella said in a tremulous voice.

"Now, now, honey," Winton said softly.  "I did make it, and that's all

that counts." When he was sure his wife would be all right, he looked at

Stefan and said, "Everyone's amazed that I could lose so much blood and

pull through.  From what I hear, I must've lost buckets."

"Did Brendan apply a tourniquet?"

Tolk frowned.  "Don't know.  Like I said, I was in a haze, a daze."

Father Wycazik hesitated, wondering how to find out what he needed to

know without revealing the extraordinary possibility that motivated this

visit.  "I know you're not very clear about what happened but .  .  .

did you notice anything peculiar about ...  Brendan's hands?"

:'Peculiar?  What do you mean?"

"He touched you, didn't he?"

"Sure.  I guess he felt for a pulse ...  then checked around to see

where the bleeding was coming from."

"Well, did you feel anything ...  anything unusual when he touched you

...  anything odd?" Stefan asked carefully, frustrated by the need to be

vague.

"I don't seem to be following your line of thought, Father."

Stefan Wycazik shook his head.  "Never mind.  The important thing is

that you're well." He glanced at his watch and, feigning surprise, said,

"Good heavens, I'm late for an appointment." Before they could respond,

he snatched his hat from the chair, wished them godspeed, and hurried

out, no doubt leaving them astonished by his behavior.

When people saw Father Wycazik walking toward them, they were usually

reminded of drill sergeants or football coaches.  His solid body and the

self-confident, aggressive way he used it were not what one expected of

a priest.  And when he was in a hurry, he was not so much like a drill

sergeant or a football coach as he was like a tank.

From Tolk's room, Father Wycazik blitzed down the hall, shoved through a

pair of heavy swinging doors, then through another pair, into the

intensive care unit, where the wounded policeman had been until just an

hour ago.  He asked to speak to the physician on duty, Dr.  Royce

Albright.  With the hope that God would forgive a few little white lies

told in a good cause, Stefan identified himself as the Tolk family's

priest and implied that Mrs.  Tolk had sent him to get the full story of

her husband's condition, about which she was not yet entirely clear.

Dr.  Albright looked like Jerry Lewis and had a deep rumbling voice like

Henry Kissinger, which was disconcerting, but he was willing to answer

whatever questions Father Wycazik wished to pose.  He was not Winton

Tolk's personal physician, but he was interested in the case.  "You can

assure Mrs.  Tolk that there's almost no danger of a setback.  He's

coming along marvelously.  Shot twice in the chest, pointblank, with a

.38.  Until yesterday, no one here would've believed that anyone could

take two shots in the chest from a large-caliber handgun and be out of

intensive care in twentyfour hours!  Mr.  Tolk is incredibly lucky."

"The bullets missed the heart, then .  .  .  and all vital organs?"

"Not only that," Albright said, "but neither round did major damage to

any veins or arteries.  A .38-caliber slug has lots of punch, Father.

Ordinarily, it chews up the victim.  In Tolk's case, one major artery

and vein were nicked, but neither was severed.  Very fortunate, indeed."

"Then I suppose the bullet was stopped by bone at some point."

"Deflected, yes, but not stopped.  Both slugs were found in soft tissue.

And that's another amazing thing-no shattered bones, not even a small

fracture.  A very lucky man."

Father Wycazik nodded.  "When the two slugs were removed from his body,

was there any indication they were underweight for .38-caliber

ammunition?  I mean, maybe the cartridges were faulty, with too little

lead in the bullets.  That would explain why, even though it was a .38

revolver, the shots did less damage than a pair of .22s."

Albright frowned.  "Don't know.  Could be.  You'd have to ask the police

.  .  .  or Dr.  Sonneford, the surgeon who took the slugs out of Tolk."

"I understand Officer Tolk lost a great deal of blood."

Grimacing, Albright said, "Must be a mistake about that on his chart.  I

haven't had a chance to talk to Dr.  Sonneford today, it being

Christmas, but according to the chart, Tolk received over four liters of

whole blood in the operating room. Of course, that can't be correct."

"Why not?"

"Father, if Tolk actually lost four liters of blood before they got him

to the hospital, there wouldn't be enough in him to maintain even

minimal circulation.  He'd have been dead. Stone cold dead."

Las Vegas, Nevada.

Mary and Pete Monatella, Jorja's parents, arrived at her apartment at

six on Christmas morning, bleary-eyed and grumpy from too little sleep,

but determined to take up their rightful posts by the brightly trimmed

tree before Marcie awoke.  Mary, as tall as Jorja, had once been almost

as shapely as her daughter too; now she was heavy, girdled.  Pete was

shorter than his wife, barrel-chested, a bantam rooster who seemed to

strut when he walked but was one of the most selfeffacing men Jorja had

ever known.  They came burdened with presents for their only grandchild.

They had a present for Jorja-plus the usual gifts they brought every

time they visited: well-meant but annoying criticism, unwanted advice,

guilt.  Mary was hardly through the door before she announced that Jorja

should clean the ventilation hood above the range, and she rummaged

under the sink until she found a spray bottle of Windex and a rag, with

which she performed the chore herself.  She also observed that the tree

looked underdecorated-"It needs more lights, Jorja!"-and when she saw

how Marcie's presents were wrapped, she professed despair.  "My God,

Jorja, the wrapping papers aren't bright enough.  The ribbons aren't big

enough.  Little girls like bright papers with Santa Claus on them and

lots of ribbons."

For his part, her father was content to focus all of his discontent upon

the huge tray of cookies on the kitchen counter. "These are all

store-bought, Jorja.  Didn't you make any homemade cookies this year?"

"Well, Dad, I've been working a little overtime lately, and then

there're the classes I'm taking at UNLV, and-"

"I know it's hard being a single mother, baby," he said, "but we're

talking fundamentals here.  Homemade cookies are one of the best parts

of Christmas.  It's an absolute fundamental."

"Fundamental," Jorja's mother agreed.

The Christmas spirit had been late in coming to Jorja this year, and

even now she had a tenuous grip on it.  Subject to her parents'

well-intentioned but infuriating nonstop commentary on her shortcomings,

she might have lost the holiday mood altogether if Marcie had not put in

a timely appearance at six-thirty, just after Jorja had slipped a

fourteen-pound turkey into the oven for the big meal later in the day.

The girl shuffled into the living room in her pajamas, as cute as any

idealized child in a Norman Rockwell painting.

"Did Santa bring my Little Ms.  Doctor kit?"

Pete said, "He brought you more than that, pumpkin.  Look here!  Just

look at all Santa brought."

Marcie turned and saw the tree-which "Santa" had put up during the

night-and the mountain of gifts.  She gasped.

"Wow!"

The child's excitement was transmitted to Jorja's parents, and for the

time being they forgot about such things as dusty ventilation hoods and

store-bought cookies.  For a while the apartment was filled with joyous,

busy sounds.

But by the time Marcie had opened half her gifts, the celebratory mood

began to change, and in crept a little of the darkness that would

reappear in a far more frightening form later in the day.  In a whiny

voice that was out of character, the girl grumped that Santa had not

remembered the Little Ms.  Doctor kit.  She discarded a much-wanted doll

without even taking it out of its box, moving to the next package in the

hope that it contained Little Ms.  Doctor, clawing at the wrappings.

Something in the child's demeanor, a queerness in her eyes, disquieted

Jorja.  Soon Mary and Pete noticed it as well.  They began urging Marcie

to take more time with each present, to get more pleasure out of each

before rushing on to the next, but their entreaties were not successful.

Jorja had not put the doctor play-kit under the tree; it was hidden in a

closet as a final surprise.  But with only three boxes left, Marcie was

pale and trembling in anticipation of Little Ms.  Doctor.

In God's name, what was so important about it?  Many of the toys already

unwrapped were more expensive and more interesting than the

play-doctor's bag.  Why was her attention so intently and unnaturally

focused on that single item?  Why was she so obsessed with it?

When the last of the gifts beneath the tree and the last of those from

Mary and Pete were opened, Marcie let out a sob of purest misery. "Santa

didn't bring it!  He forgot!  He forgot!"

Considering all the wondrous presents strewn across the room, the girl's

despondency was shocking.  Jorja was disconcerted and displeased by

Marcie's rudeness, and she saw that her own parents were startled,

dismayed, and impatient with this unexpected and unjustified tantrum.

Suddenly afraid that Christmas was collapsing into ruins around her,

Jorja ran to the bedroom closet, plucked the crucial gift from behind

the shoe boxes, and returned to the living room with it.

With frenzied desperation, Marcie snatched the box from her mother.

"What's gotten into the child?" Mary asked.

, 'Yeah," Pete said, "what's so important about this Little Doctor?"

Marcie tore frantically at the wrappings until she saw that the package

contained the item she most desired.  Immediately, she grew calm,

stopped trembling.  "Little Ms.  Doctor. Santa didn't forget!"

"Honey, maybe it's not from Santa," Jorja said.  She was relieved to see

the child she loved emerging from that strange and unpleasant mood. "Not

all your gifts came from Santa. Better look at the tag."

Marcie dutifully searched for the tag, read the few words on it, and

looked up with an uncertain smile.  "It's from .  .  .  Daddy."

Jorja felt her parents' staring at her, but she did not meet their eyes.

They knew that Alan had gone off to Acapulco with his latest bimbo, the

airhead blond named Pepper, and that he had not bothered to leave so

much as a card for Marcie, and they no doubt disapproved of Jorja

letting him off the hook like this.

Later, when Jorja was in the kitchen, squatting in front of the oven,

checking on the turkey, her mother stooped down beside her and said

softly, "Why'd you do it, Jorja?  Why'd you put that louse's name on the

gift she wanted most of all?"

Jorja slid the rack partway out of the oven, bringing the turkey into

the light.  With a ladle, she scooped the drippings from the pan and

basted the roasting bird.  Finally she said, "Marcie shouldn't have her

Christmas ruined just because her father's a jackass."

"You shouldn't protect her from the truth," Mary said quietly.

"The truth's too ugly for a seven-year-old."

"The sooner she knows what a louse her father is, the better.  You know

what your dad heard about this woman Alan's living with?"

"I sure hope this bird's going to be done by noon."

Mary would not drop the subject.  "She's on the call list of two

casinos, Jorja.  That's what Pete heard.  You know what I mean?  She's a

call girl.  Alan's living with a call girl.  What's wrong with him?"

Jorja closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Mary said, "Well, if he wants nothing to do with Marcie, that's fine.

God knows what diseases he's picked up living with that woman."

Jorja pushed the turkey back into the oven, closed the door, and stood

up.  "Could we not talk about this any more?"

"I thought you'd want to know what the woman is."

"So now I know."

Their voices dropped lower, became more intense: "What if he comes

around some day and says, 'Pepper and I want Marcie to go to Acapulco

with us,' or Disneyland, or maybe just stay at their place for a while?"

Exasperated, Jorja said, "Mother, he doesn't want anything to do with

Marcie because she reminds him of his responsibilities."

"But what if-"

"Mother, damn it!"

Although Jorja had not raised her voice, there was such anger in those

three words that the effect on her mother was immediate.  A hurt look

crossed Mary's face.  Stung, she turned away from Jorja.  She went

quickly to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked over the contents of

the overloaded shelves. "Oh, you made gnocchi."

"Not store-bought," Jorja said shakily.  "Homemade." She meant to be

conciliatory, but she realized that her comment might be misconstrued as

a snide reference to her father's dismay over store-bought cookies.  She

bit her lip, and fought back scathing tears.

Still looking into the refrigerator, a tremor still in her voice, Mary

said, "You're going to have potatoes, too?  And what's this-oh, you've

already grated the cabbage for coleslaw.  I thought you'd need help, but

I guess you've thought of everything." She closed the refrigerator door

and looked for something she could do to occupy her and get them through

this awkward moment.  Tears were visible in her eyes.

Jorja virtually flung herself away from the counter and threw her arms

around her mother.  Mary returned the hug, and for a while they clung to

each other, finding speech both unnecessary and impossible.

Holding fast, Mary said, "I don't know why I'm like this. My mother was

the same with me.  I swore I'd never be like this with you."

"I love you just the way you are."

"Maybe it's because you're my only.  If I'd been able to have a couple

others, I wouldn't be so tough on you."

"It's partly my fault, Mom.  I've been so touchy lately."

"And why shouldn't you be?" her mother said, holding her tight.  "That

louse walks out on you, you're supporting yourself and Marcie, going to

school.  .  .  .  You got every right to be touchy.  We're so proud of

you, Jorja.  It takes such courage to do what you're doing."

In the living room, Marcie began shrieking.

What now?  Jorja wondered.

When she got to the living room archway, she saw her father trying to

persuade Marcie to play with a doll.  "Look here," Pete said, "dolly

cries when you tilt her this way, giggles when you tilt her that way!"

"I don't want to play with the dumb doll"' Marcie pouted. She was

holding the make-believe plastic-and-rubber hypodermic syringe from the

Little Ms.  Doctor kit, and that unsettling intensity and urgency had

taken possession of her again.  "I want to give you another shot."

"But honey," Pete said, "you've already given me twenty shots."

"I've got to practice," Marcie said.  "I'll never grow up to be my own

doctor if I don't start practicing now."

Pete looked at Jorja with exasperation.

Mary said, "What is it with this Little Ms.  Doctor thing'?"

"I wish I knew," Jorja said.

Marcie grimaced -as she pushed the plunger of the fake hypodermic.

Perspiration glistened on her brow.

"I wish I knew," Jorja repeated uneasily.

Boston, Massachusetts.

It was the worst Christmas of Ginger Weiss's life.

Although Jewish, her beloved father had always celebrated Christmas in a

secular spirit, because he liked the harmony and good will that the

holiday promoted, and after his death, Ginger had continued to regard

December 25 as a special day, a time of joy.  Until today, Christmas had

never depressed her.

George and Rita did all they could to make Ginger feel a part of their

celebration, but she was acutely aware that she was an outsider.  The

Hannabys' three sons had brought their families to Baywatch for several

days, and the huge house was filled with the silvery laughter of

children.  Everyone made an effort to include Ginger in all the Hannaby

traditions, from popcorn-stringing to neighborhood caroling.

Christmas morning, she was there to watch the children attack the

mountain of gifts, and following the example of the other adults, she

crawled around on the floor with the kids, helping them assemble and

play with their new toys. For a couple of hours, her despair abated, and

she was assimilated by the Hannaby family in spite of herself.

However, at lunch-rich with holiday delicacies yet essentially a light

meal, just a hint of the extravagant dinner feast to come that

evening-Ginger felt out of place again.  Much conversation involved

reminiscences of previous holidays of which she'd not been a part.

After lunch, she pleaded a headache and escaped to her room.  The

splendid view of the bay calmed her but couldn't arrest her spiral into

depression.  She desperately hoped Pablo Jackson would call tomorrow and

say that he had studied the problem of memory blocks and was ready to

hypnotize her again.

Ginger's visit to Pablo had distressed George and Rita less than she had

expected.  They were upset that she had gone out alone, risking an

amnesic seizure with no friend to help

her, and they made her promise she would allow either Rita or one of the

servants to drive her to and from Pablo's apartment in the future, but

they did not attempt to argue against the unconventional treatment she

had sought from the magician.

The bay view's capacity to calm Ginger was limited.  She turned from the

window, got up, and went to the bed, where she was surprised to find two

books on the nightstand.  One was a fantasy by Tim Powers, an author she

had read before, the other a copy of something called Twilight in

Babylon and she had no idea where they had come from.

There were half a dozen other books in the room, borrowed from the

library downstairs, for during the past few weeks she had had little to

do but read.  But this was the first time she'd seen Powers' book and

Twilight in Babylon.  The former, a tale of time-traveling trolls

fighting their own secret war against British goblins during the

American revolution, looked delightful, the type of exotic story that

her father had enjoyed.  A slip of paper laid loosely in the front

identified it as a review copy.  Rita had a friend who was a reviewer

for the Globe, and who sometimes passed along intriguing books before

they were available in the stores.  Evidently, these had come within the

last day or two, and Rita, aware of Ginger's tastes in fiction, had put

them in her room.

She set the Powers book aside for later delectation, and she took a

closer look at Twilight in Babylon.  She had never heard of the author,

Dominick Corvaisis, but the brief summary of the story was intriguing,

and when she had read the first page, she was hooked.  However, before

continuing, she moved from the bed to one of the comfortable chairs and,

only then, glanced at the author's photograph on the back of the jacket.

Her breath caught in her throat.  Fear filled her.

For a moment she thought the photograph was going to be the kicker that

knocked her into another fugue.  She tried to fling the book aside but

could not, tried to stand up but could not.  She drew deep breaths,

closed her eyes, and waited for her pulse rate to sink toward normal.

When she opened her eyes and looked at the author's photograph again, it

still disturbed her, though not as badly as it had at first.  She knew

that she had seen this man before, had met him somewhere, and not in the

best of circumstances,

though she could not remember where or when.  His brief biography on the

jacket flap informed her that he had lived in Portland, Oregon, and now

resided in Laguna Beach, California.  As she had never been in either of

those places, she could not imagine when their paths might have crossed.

Dominick Corvaisis, about thirty-five, was a striking man who reminded

Ginger of Anthony Perkins when that actor had been younger.  His looks

were compelling enough that she could not imagine having forgotten where

she had met him.

Her instant reaction to the photo was strange, and some might have

dismissed it as a meaningless fillip of an overwrought mind.  But during

the past two months she had learned to respect strange developments and

to look for meaning in them, no matter how meaningless they seemed.

She stared at Corvaisis' photograph, hoping to nudge her memory.

Finally, with an almost clairvoyant sense that Twilight in Babylon would

somehow change her life, she opened it and began to read.

Chicago, Illinois.

From University Hospital, Father Stefan Wycazik drove across town to the

laboratory operated by the Scientific Investigation Division of the

Chicago Police Department.  Though it was Christmas Day, municipal

workers were still cleaning last night's snowfall from the streets.

Only a couple of men were on duty at the police lab, which was located

in an aging government building, and the old rooms had the deserted

feeling of an elaborate Egyptian tomb buried far beneath desert sands.

Footsteps echoed resoundingly back and forth between the tile floors and

the high ceilings.

Ordinarily, the lab did not share its information with anyone from

outside the police and judicial systems.  But half the police officers

in Chicago were Catholics, which meant that Father Wycazik had more than

a few friends on the force. Stefan had importuned some of those friends

to make petitions in his name and to pave the way for him at the SID.

He was greeted by Dr.  Murphy Aimes, a paunchy man with a perfectly bald

head and walrus mustache.  They'd spoken on the telephone earlier,

before Stefan left the rectory

for University Hospital, and now Murphy Aimes was ready for him.  They

settled on two stools at a laboratory bench.  A tall opaque window

loomed in front of them, decorated with dark streaks of pigeon dung.  On

the marble top of the bench, Aimes had laid out a file folder and

several other items.

"I must say, Father, I'd never compromise case information like this if

there were any possibility of a trial arising from the shootout at that

sandwich shop.  But I suppose, as both perpetrators are dead, there's no

one to be put on trial."

"I appreciate that, Dr.  Aimes.  I really do.  And I'm grateful for the

time and energy you've expended on my behalf."

Curiosity ruled Murphy Aimes's face.  He said, "I don't really

understand the reason for your interest in the case."

"I'm not entirely sure of it myself," Stefan said cryptically.

He had not revealed his purpose to the higher authorities who had made

him welcome at the lab, and he did not intend to enlighten Aimes,

either.  For one thing, if he told them what was on his mind, they would

think he was dotty and would be less inclined to cooperate with him.

"Well," Aimes said, miffed at not being taken into Stefan's confidence,

"you asked about the bullets." He opened a manila envelope of the type

that ties shut with a string, and he emptied its contents into his palm:

two gray lumps of lead. "The surgeon removed these from Winton Tolk. You

said you were particularly interested in them."

"certainly am," Stefan said, taking them in his own hand when Aimes

offered them.  "You've weighed these, I suppose. I understand that's

standard procedure.  And they weigh what .38 slugs should?"

"If you mean, did they fragment on impact-they did not. They're so

misshapen they must've impacted bone, so it's surprising they didn't

fragment a little-or a lot-but in fact they're both intact."

"Actually," Father Wycazik said, staring at the slugs in his hand, "I

meant were they underweight for .38s?  Malformed ammunition, factory

mistakes?  Or were they the right size?"

"Oh, the right size.  No doubt of that."

"Big enough to do plenty of damage, terrible damage," Father Wycazik

said thoughtfully.  "The gun?"

From a larger envelope, Aimes produced the revolver with which Winton

Tolk was shot.  "A snubnose Smith and Wesson .38 Chief's Special."

"You've examined it, test-fired it?"

"Yes.  Standard procedure."

"No indication that anything's wrong with it?  Specifically, is the bore

poorly machined or is there some other anomaly that'd result in the

bullet leaving the muzzle at a much slower velocity than it should?"

"That's a peculiar question, Father.  The answer is no.  It's a fine

Chief's Special, up to the usual high standards of Smith and Wesson."

Putting the two expended bullets back into the small envelope from which

he had seen Aimes take them, Father Wycazik said, "What about the

cartridges these bullets came from?  Is there any chance they were

filled with too little powder, that they carried an inadequate charge?"

The SID man blinked.  "I gather one thing you're trying to find out is

why two .38s in the chest didn't do more damage."

Stefan Wycazik nodded but offered no elaboration.  "Were there any

unexpended cartridges in the revolver?"

"A couple.  Plus spare ammunition in one of the gunman's jacket

pockets-another dozen."

"Did you cut open any of the unexpended shells to see if maybe they

carried an inadequate charge?"

"No reason to," Murphy Aimes said.

"Would it be possible for you to check one of them now?"

"Possible.  But why?  Father, what in the world is this all about?"

Stefan sighed.  "I know this is an imposition, Dr.  Aimes, and it

behooves me to repay your kindness with an explanation.  But I can't.

Not yet.  Priests, like physicians and attorneys, must sometimes respect

confidences, keep secrets. But if I'm ever at liberty to reveal what

lies behind my curiosity, you'll be the first to know."

Aimes stared and Stefan met his eyes forthrightly.  Finally the SID man

opened another envelope.  This contained the unexpended cartridges from

the dead gunman's .38 Chiefs Special.  "Wait here."

In twenty minutes, Aimes returned with a white enamel lab tray in which

were two dissected .38 Special cartridges. Using a pencil as a pointer,

he commented on the disassembled elements.  "This is the case head in

which the primer assembly is seated.  The firing pin strikes here.  This

opening on the other side of the case head is the flashhole that leads

from the primer packet to the powder compartment.  There's no problem

with this, no manufacturing errors.  At the other end of the cartridge,

you've got a lead semiwadcutter bullet with a copper gascheck crimped

onto its base to retard bore leading.  The tiny cannelures around the

bullet are packed with grease to ease its passage through the barrel.

Nothing out of order here, either.  And in between the case head and the

bullet is the powder compartment-or it's sometimes calldd the combustion

chamber-out of which I've taken this small pile of gray, flaky material.

This is nitrocellulose, a highly combustible material; it's ignited by

the spark that comes through the flashhole from the primer; it explodes,

ejecting the bullet from the cartridge.  As you can see, there's enough

nitrocellulose to fill the powder chamber.  Just to be sure, I opened

another round." Aimes pointed the pencil at the second disassembled

cartridge.  "There was nothing wrong with this, either.  The gunman was

using well-made, reliable, Remington ammunition.  Officer Tolk was just

a lucky man, Father, a very lucky man."

New York, New York.

Jack Twist spent Christmas in the sanitarium room with Jenny, his wife

of thirteen years.  Being with her on holidays was especially grim.  But

being anywhere else, leaving her alone, would have been grimmer.

Although Jenny had spent almost two-thirds of their marriage in a coma,

the years of lost communion had not diminished Jack's love for her. More

than eight years had passed since she had smiled at him or spoken his

name or been able to return his kisses, but in his heart, at least, time

was stopped, and she was still the beautiful Jenny Mae Alexander, a

freshfaced young bride.

Incarcerated in that Central American prison, he had been sustained by

the knowledge that Jenny waited at home for him, missed him, worried

about him, and prayed each night for his safe return.  Throughout his

ordeal of torture and periodic starvation, he had clung to the hope that

he would one day feel Jenny's arms around him and hear her marvelous

laugh.  That hope had kept him alive and sane.

Of the four captured Rangers, only Jack and his buddy Oscar Weston

survived and came home, though their escape was a near thing.  They had

waited almost a year to be rescued, confident that their country would

not leave them to rot. Sometimes they debated whether they would be

freed by commandos or through diplomatic channels. After eleven months,

they still believed their countrymen would bail them out, but they no

longer dared to wait.  They had lost weight and were dangerously thin,

undernourished.  They had also suffered unknown tropical fevers without

treatment, which had further debilitated them.

Their only opportunity for escape was during one of their regular visits

to the People's Center for Justice.  Every four weeks, Jack and Oscar

had been taken from their cells and driven to the People's Center-a

clean, well-lighted, unwalled, unbarred institution in the heart of the

capital-a model prison meant to impress foreign journalists with the

current regime's humanitarianism.  There, they were given showers,

deloused, put in clean clothes, handcuffed to prevent gesturing, and

seated before videotape cameras to be politely questioned.  Usually,

they answered questions with obscenities or wisecracks.  Their answers

did not matter because the tape was edited, and answers they had never

made were dubbed in by linguists who could speak unaccented English.

Once the propaganda film had been made, they were interviewed over

closed-circuit television by foreign reporters gathered in another room.

The camera never provided closeups of them, and their answers were not

heard by those who asked the questions; instead, once again, unseen

intelligence men, stationed at another microphone outside the camera's

range, answered for them.

At the start of their eleventh month in captivity, Jack and Oscar began

making plans to escape the next time they were transported to that far

less secure, less heavily guarded propaganda facility.

The once-formidable strength of their young bodies had been leached

away, and their only weapons were shivs and needles made of rat bones,

which they had painstakingly shaped and sharpened by rubbing them

against the stone walls of the cells.  Wickedly sharp, those instruments

nevertheless made pathetic weapons; yet Jack and Oscar hoped to triumph

over gun-toting guards.

Surprisingly, they did triumph.  Once- inside the People's Center, they

were remanded into the custody of a single guard who escorted them to

the showers on the second floor.  The guard kept his gun holstered,

probably because the facility was a detention center inside the larger

detention center of the capital city itself.  The guard was certain Jack

and Oscar were demoralized, weak, and unarmed, so he was surprised when

they suddenly turned on him and, with shocking savagery, stabbed him

with the bone shivs they had concealed in their clothes.  Pierced twice

in the throat, his right eye skewered, he succumbed without producing a

scream that might have drawn other police or soldiers.

Before their break was discovered, Jack and Oscar confiscated the dead

guard's handgun and ammunition, then made bold use of the hallways,

risking notice, alarm, and capture. But it was, after all, a minimum

security "reeducation" center, and they were able to make their way to a

stairwell and down to a dimly lighted basement, where they progressed

swiftly and stealthily through a series of musty storage rooms. At the

end of the building, they found the loading docks and a way out.

Seven or eight large boxes had just been off-loaded from a delivery

truck, which was backed up to the nearest of the two big bays, and the

driver was engaged in an argument with another man; both of them were

shaking clipboards at each other.  Those two were the only men in sight,

and as they turned and headed toward a glass-enclosed office, Jack and

Oscar raced silently to the recently unloaded boxes and from there into

the back of the delivery truck, where they made a nest for themselves

behind the as-yet-undelivered packages. In a few minutes the driver

returned, cursing, slammed the truck's cargo-bay door, and drove away

into the city before the alarm sounded.

Ten minutes and many blocks from the People's Center, the truck stopped.

The driver unbolted the rear doors, took out a single package without

realizing Jack and Oscar were inches from him behind a wall of boxes,

and went into the building before which he'd parked.  Extricating

themselves from their burrow, Jack and Oscar fled.

Within a few blocks they found themselves in a district of muddy streets

and dilapidated shanties, where the povertystricken residents were no

fonder of the new tyrants than they had been of the old and were willing

to hide two Yankees on the lam. After nightfall, supplied with what

little food the slum-dwellers could spare, they departed.  for the

outskirts. When they came to open farmland, they broke into a barn and

stole a sharp sickle, several withered apples, a leather blacksmith's

apron and some burlap bags which could be used to fashion makeshift

shoes when their shabby prison-issue eventually fell apart-and a horse.

Before dawn, they had reached the edge of the true jungle, where they

abandoned the horse and set out on foot once more.

Weak, poorly provisioned, armed only with the sickleand the gun they had

taken off the guard-without a compass and therefore required to plot a

course by the sun and the stars, they headed north through the tropical

forests toward the border, eighty miles away.  Throughout that nightmare

journey, Jack had one vital aid to survival: Jenny.  He thought of her,

dreamed of her, longed for her, and seven days later, when he and Oscar

reached friendly territory, Jack knew that he had made it as much

because of Jenny as because of his Ranger training.

At that point he thought the worst was behind him.  He was wrong.

Now, sitting beside his wife's bed, with Christmas music on the tape

deck, Jack Twist was suddenly overcome with grief.  Christmas was a bad

time because he could not help but remember how dreams of her had

sustained him through his Christmas in prison-when in fact she had

already been in a coma and lost to him.

Happy holidays.

Chicago, Illinois.

As Father Stefan Wycazik moved through the halls and wards of St.

Joseph's Hospital for Children, his spirits soared. That was no small

thing, for he was already in a buoyant and elevated state.

The hospital was crowded with visitors, and Christmas music issued from

the public address system.  Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters,

grandparents, other relatives, and friends of the young patients were on

hand with gifts, goodies, and good wishes, and there was more laughter

in that usually grim place than one might ordinarily hear echoing

through its chambers in an entire month.  Even most of the seriously

afflicted patients were smiling broadly and talking animatedly, their

suffering forgotten for the time being.

Nowhere in the hospital was there more hope or laughter than among those

people gathered around the bed of tenyear-old Emmeline Halbourg.  When

Father Wycazik introduced himself, he was greeted warmly by Emmy

Halbourg's parents, two sisters, grandparents, one aunt, and one uncle,

who assumed he was one of the hospital's chaplains.

Because of what he'd learned from Brendan Cronin yesterday, Stefan

expected to find a happily mending little girl; but he was unprepared

for Emmy's condition.  She was positively glowing.  Only two weeks ago,

according to Brendan, she had been crippled and dying.  But now her dark

eyes were clear, and her former pallor was gone, replaced by a wholesome

flush.  Her knuckles and wrists were not swollen, and she seemed to be

completely free of pain.  She looked not like a sick child valiantly

fighting her way back to health; rather, she seemed already cured.

Most startling of all, Emmy was not lying in bed but standing with the

aid of crutches, moving among her delighted and admiring relatives.  Her

wheelchair was gone.

"Well," Stefan said, after a brief visit, "I must be going, Emmy.  I

only stopped by to wish you a merry Christmas from a friend of yours.

Brendan Cronin."

"Pudge!" she said happily.  "He's wonderful, isn't he?  It was awful

when he stopped working here.  We miss him a lot."

Emmy's mother said, "I never met this Pudge, but from the way the kids

talked about him, he must've been good

medicine for them."

"He only worked here one week," Emmy said.  "But he comes back-did you

know?  Every few days he comes back to visit.  I was hoping he'd come

today, so I could give him a big Christmas kiss."

"He wanted to stop by, but he's spending Christmas with his folks."

"Oh, that's good!  That's what Christmas is for-isn't it, Gather?  Being

together with your folks, having fun, and loving each other."

"Yes, Emmy," Stefan Wycazik said, thinking that no theologian or

philosopher could have put it better.  "That's what Christmas is for."

If Stefan had been alone with the girl, he would have asked her about

the afternoon of December 11.  That was the day Brendan had been

brushing her hair while she sat in her wheelchair before this very

window.  Stefan wanted to know about the rings on Brendan's hands, which

had appeared for the first time that day, and which Emmeline had noticed

before Brendan himself spotted them.  He wanted to ask Emmy if she had

felt anything unusual when Brendan had touched her.  But there were too

many adults around, and they would surely ask awkward questions.  Stefan

was not yet prepared to reveal the reasons for his curiosity.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

After getting off to a rocky start, Christmas at the Monatelia apartment

improved dramatically.  Mary and Pete stopped hammering Jorja with their

well-meant but unwanted advice and criticism.  They loosened up and

involved themselves in Marcie's play the way grandparents should, and

Jorja was reminded of just why she loved them so much.  The holiday

dinner was on the table at twelve-fifty, only twenty minutes late, and

it was delicious.  By the time Marcie sat down to eat, she had worked

off her all-consuming interest in Little Ms.  Doctor, and she did not

rush through her meal.  It was a leisurely dinner with much chit-chat

and laughter, the Christmas tree twinkling in the background.  Those

were golden hours until, during dessert, the trouble started with

surprising suddenness.  With frightening speed, it escalated to total

disaster.

Teasing Marcie, Pete said, "Where does a little bitty thing like you put

so much food?  You've eaten more than the rest of us combined!"

"Oh, Grandpa."

"It's true!  You've been really shoveling it in.  One more bite of that

pumpkin pie, and you're going to explode."

Marcie lifted another forkful, held it up for all to see, and with great

theatricality, she moved it toward her mouth.

"No, don't!" Pete said, putting his hands in front of his face as if to

protect himself from the blast.

Marcie popped the morsel into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed.  "See? I

didn't explode."

"You will with the next bite," Pete said.  "I was just one bite too

soon.  You'll explode .  .  .  or else we'll have to rush you to the

hospital."

Marcie frowned.  "No hospital."

"Oh, yes," Pete said.  "You'll be all swollen up, ready to bUTSt, and

we'll have to rush you to the hospital and have them deflate you."

"No hospital," Marcie repeated adamantly.

Jorja realized that her daughter's voice had changed, that the girl was

no longer participating in the game but was, instead, genuinely if

inexplicably frightened.  She was not scared of exploding, of course,

but evidently the mere thought of a hospital had caused her to go pale.

"No hospital," Marcie repeated, a haunted look in her eyes.

"Oh, yes," Pete said, not yet aware of the change in the child.

Jorja tried to deflect him: "Dad, I think we-"

But Pete said, "Of course, they won't take you in an ambulance 'cause

you'll be too big.  We'll have to rent a truck to haul you."

The girl shook her head violently.  "I won't go to a h-h-hospital in a

million years.  I won't ever let those doctors touch me .

"Honey," Jorja said, "Grandpa's only teasing.  He doesn't really-"

Unplacated, the girl said, "Those hospital people will hhurt me like

they hurt me before.  I won't let them hurt me again."

Mary looked at Jorja, baffled.  "When was she in the hospital?"

"She wasn't," Jorja said.  "I don't know why she-"

"I was, I was, I was!  They t-tied me down in bed, stuck me full of

rmeedles, and I was scared, and I won't ever let them touch me again."

Remembering the strange tantrum that Kara Persaghian had reported

yesterday, Jorja moved swiftly to forestall a similar scene.  She put

one hand on Marcie's shoulder and said, "Honey, you were never-"

"I was!" The girl's anger and fear burgeoned into rage and terror.  She

threw her fork, and Pete ducked to avoid being hit by it.

"Marcie!" Jorja cried.

The girl slipped off her chair and backed away from the table,

white-faced.  "I'm going to grow up and be my own doctor, so nobody

else'll stick rmeedles in me." Words gave way to a pitiful moaning.

Jorja went after Marcie, reaching for her.  "Honey, don't."

Marcie held her hands out in front of her, as if warding off an attack,

although it was not her mother that she feared. She was looking through

Jorja, perhaps seeing some imaginary threat, though her terror was real.

She was not merely pale but translucent, as if the very substance of her

was evaporating in the tremendous heat of her terror.

"Marcie, what is it?"

The girl stumbled backward into a corner, shuddering.

Jorja gripped her daughter's defensively raised hands. "Marcie, talk to

me." But even as Jorja spoke, a sudden stench of urine filled the air,

and she saw a dark stain spreading from the crotch down both legs of

Marcie's jeans.  "Marcie!"

The girl was trying to scream, but could not. "What's happening?" Mary

asked.  "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Jorja said.  "God help me, I don't know."

With her eyes still focused on some figure or object that remained

visible only to her, Marcie began a wordless keening.

New York, New York.

The tape deck still played Christmas music, and Jenny Twist lay immobile

and insensate, but Jack no longer engaged in the frustrating one-way

communication with which he had filled the first few hours of his visit.

Now he sat in silence, and inevitably his thoughts drifted back through

the years to his homecoming from Central America.  .  .  .

Upon returning to the States, he had discovered that the rescue of the

prisoners at the Institute of Brotherhood had been misrepresented, in

some quarters, as a terrorist act, a mass kidnapping, a provocation

meant to spark a war.  He and every Ranger involved were painted as

criminals in uniform, and those taken prisoner were for some reason the

special focus of the opposition's anger.

In a political panic, Congress had banned all covert activities in

Central America, including a pending plan to rescue the four Rangers.

Their release was to be arranged strictly through diplomatic channels.

That was why they had waited in vain for rescue.  Their country had

abandoned them.  At first Jack had trouble believing it.  When at last

he believed, it was the second worst shock of his life.

Having won his freedom, home again, Jack was relentlessly pursued by

hostile journalists and subpoenaed to appear before a Congressional

committee to testify about his involvement in the raid.  He expected to

have a chance to set the record straight, but he quickly discovered that

they weren't interested in his viewpoint, and that the televised hearing

was merely an opportunity for politicians to do some grandstanding in

the infamous tradition of Joe McCarthy.

In a few months, most people had forgotten him, and when he regained the

pounds he had lost in prison, they ceased to recognize him as the

alleged war criminal they had seen on television.  But the pain and the

sense of betrayal continued to burn fiercely in him.

If being abandoned by his country was the second worst shock of his

life, the worst was what had happened to Jenny while he had been stuck

in that Central American prison.  A thug had accosted her in the hallway

of her own apartment building as she was coming home from work.  He put

a gun to her head, hustled her into her apartment, sodomized and raped

her, clubbed her brutally with his pistol, and left her for dead.

When Jack came home at last, he found Jenny in a state institution,

comatose.  The level of care she had been getting was abominable.

Norman Hazzurt, the rapist who attacked Jenny, had been tracked down

through fingerprints and witnesses, but a clever defense attorney had

managed to delay the trial.  Undertaking an investigation of his own,

Jack satisfied himself that Hazzurt, with a history of violent sex

offenses, was the guilty man.  He also became convinced that Hazzurt

would be acquitted on a technicality.

Throughout his ordeal with the press and politicians, Jack made plans

for the future.  There were two primary tasks ahead of him: First, he

would kill Norman Hazzurt in such a way as to avoid any suspicion

falling upon himself; second, he would get enough money to move Jenny to

a private sanitarium, though the only way to obtain so much cash in a

hurry was to steal it.  As an elite Ranger, he was trained in most

weapons, explosives, martial arts, and survival techniques.  His society

had failed him, but it had also provided him with the knowledge and the

means by which he could extract his revenge, and it had taught him how

to break whatever laws stood in his way without punishment.

Norman Hazzurt died in an "accidental" gas explosion two months after

Jack returned to the States.  And two weeks later, Jenny's transference

to a private sanitarium was financed by the proceeds from an ingenious

bank robbery executed with military precision.

The murder of Hazzurt did not satisfy Jack.  In fact, it depressed him.

Killing in a war was different from killing in civilian life.  He did

not have the detachment to kill except in self-defense.

Robbery, however, was enormously appealing.  After the successful bank

job, he'd been excited, exalted, exhilarated. Daring robbery had a

medicinal quality.  Crime gave him a reason to live.  Until recently.

Now, sitting at Jenny's bedside, Jack Twist wondered what would keep him

going, day after day, if not grand larceny. The only other thing he had

was Jenny.  However, he no longer needed to provide for her; he had

already piled up more than enough money for that.  So his only reason

for living was to come here several times a week, look upon her serene

face, hold her hand-and pray for a miracle.

It was ironic that a man like him-a hard-headed, selfreliant

individualist-should have no hope but mysticism.

As he brooded on that, he heard Jenny make a soft gurgling sound.  She

took two quick, deep breaths and produced a long, rattling sigh.  For

one crazy moment as he rose from his chair, Jack half-expected to find

her eyes open, filled with awareness for the first time in more than

eight years, the miracle having come to pass even as he had been

day-dreaming of it.  But her eyes were closed, and her face was slack.

He put a hand against her face, then moved it to her throat. He felt for

her pulse.  What had happened was not, in fact, miraculous but

anti-miraculous, mundane, and inevitable: Jenny Twist had died.

Chicago, Illinois.

Few physicians were on duty at St.  Joseph's that Christmas, but a

resident named Jarvil and an intern named Klinet were eager to talk to

Father Wycazik about Emmeline Halbourg's amazing recovery.

Klinet, an intense wiry-haired young man, escorted Stefan to a

consultation room to review Emmy's file and X rays. "Five weeks ago, she

was started on namiloxiprine-a new drug, just approved by the FDA."

Dr.  Jarvil, the resident, was soft-spoken, with heavy-lidded eyes, but

when he joined them in the consultation room, he too was visibly excited

by Emmeline Halbourg's dramatic turn for the better.

"Namiloxiprine has several effects in bone diseases like Emmy's," Jarvil

said.  "In many instances it puts a stop to the destruction of the

periosteunl, promotes the growth of healthy osteocytes, and somewhat

induces the accumulation of intercellular calcium.  And in a case like

Emmy's, where the bone marrow is the primary target of the disease,

namiloxiprine creates an unusual chemical environment in the marrow

cavity and in the haversian canals, an environment that's extremely

hostile to microorganisms but actually encourages the growth of marrow

cells, the production of blood cells, and hemoglobin formation."

"But it's not supposed to work this fast," Klinet said.

"And it's basically a stop-loss drug," Jarvil said.  "It can arrest the

progress of a disease, put a stop to bone deterioration.  But it doesn't

make regeneration possible.  Sure, it's supposed to promote some

reconstruction, but not the kind of rebuilding we're seeing in Emmy."

"Fast rebuilding," Klinet said, smacking his forehead with the heel of

his hand, as if to knock this amazing fact into his unwilling brain.

They showed Stefan a series of X rays taken over the past six weeks, in

which the changes in Emmy's bones and joints were obvious.

Klinet said, "She'd been on namiloxiprine for three weeks without

noticeable effect, and then suddenly, two weeks ago, her body not only

went into a state of remission but began rebuilding damaged tissues."

The timing of the girl's turnaround coincided perfectly with the first

appearance of the strange rings on Brendan Cronin's hands.  However,

Stefan Wycazik made no mention of that coincidence.

Jarvil produced more X rays and tests that showed a remarkable

improvement in the child's haversian canals, the elaborate network that

carried small blood vessels and lymphatics throughout the bone for the

purpose of maintenance and repair.  Many of these had been clogged with

a plaquelike substance that pinched off the vessels passing through

them. In the past two weeks, however, the plaque almost disappeared,

allowing the full circulation required for healing and regeneration.

"No one even knew that namiloxiprine could clean out the canals this

way," Jarvil said.  "No record of it.  Oh, yes, minor unclogging, but

only as a consequence of getting the disease itself under control.

Nothing like this.  Amazing."

"If regeneration continues at this rate," Klinet said, "Emmy could be a

normal, healthy girl in three months.  Really phenomenal."

Jarvil said, "She could be well again."

They grinned at Father Wycazik, and he did not have the heart to suggest

that neither their hard work nor the wonder drug was responsible for

Emmeline Halbourg's cure.  They were euphoric, so Stefan kept to himself

the possibility that Emmy's cure had been effected by some power far

more mysterious than modern medicine.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Christmas Day with Lucy, Frank, and the grandchildren was fun and

therapeutic for Ernie and Faye Block.  By the time they went out for a

walk (just the two of them) toward the end of the afternoon, they were

feeling better than they had in months.

The weather was perfect for walking: cold, crisp, but without wind.  The

most recent snowfall was four days old, so the sidewalks were clear.  As

twilight approached, the air shimmered with a purple radiance.

Bundled in heavy coats and scarves, Faye and Ernie strolled arm in arm,

talking animatedly about the day's events, enjoying the Christmas

displays that Lucy's and Frank's neighbors had erected on their front

lawns.  The years slipped away, and Faye felt as if she and Ernie were

still newlyweds, young and full of dreams.

From the moment they had arrived in Milwaukee on December 15, ten days

ago, Faye had reason to hope that everything was going to work out all

right.  Ernie had seemed bettera new bounciness in his step, more

genuine good humor in his smile.  Evidently, just basking in the love of

his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren was sufficient to burn away

some of the crippling fear that had become the central fact of his life.

The therapy sessions with Dr.  Fontelaine, six so far, had also been

remarkably beneficial.  Ernie was still afraid of the dark but far less

terrified than when they left Nevada.  Phobias, according to the doctor,

were easy to treat compared to many other psychiatric disorders.  In

recent years therapists had discovered that, in most cases, the symptoms

were the disease rather than merely shadows cast by unresolved conflicts

in the patient's subconscious.  It was no longer considered necessary-or

even possible or desirable-to seek the psychological causes of the

condition in order to treat it.  Long courses of therapy had been

abandoned in favor of teaching the patient desensitization techniques

that could eradicate the symptoms in months or even weeks.

Approximately a third of all phobics could not be helped by these

methods and, instead, required long-term treatment and even

panic-blocking drugs like alprazolam.  But Ernie had improved at a pace

that even Dr.  Fontelaine, an optimist by nature, found astonishing.

Faye had been reading extensively about phobias and had discovered she

could help Ernie by digging up amusing, curious facts that allowed him

to view his condition from a different-less fearsome-perspective.  He

was especially fond of hearing about bizarre phobias that made his

terror of the dark seem reasonable by comparison.  For example, knowing

there were pteronophobics out there, people who lived in constant and

unreasonable fear of feathers, made his abhorrence of nightfall seem not

only bearable but almost ordinary and logical, as well.  Ichthyophobes

were horrified by the prospect of encountering a fish, and pediophobes

ran screaming at the sight of a doll.  And Ernie's nyctophobia was

certainly preferable to coitophobia (the fear of sexual intercourse),

and not a fraction as debilitating as autophobia (the fear of oneself).

Now, walking through the twilight, Faye tried to keep Ernie's mind off

the descending darkness by telling him about the late author, John

Cheever, winner of the National Book Award, who'd been gephyrophobic.

Cheever had suffered from a crippling fear of crossing high bridges.

Ernie listened with fascination, but he was no less aware of the onset

of nightfall.  As the shadows lengthened across the snow, his hand

steadily tightened on her arm until it would have been painful if she

had not been wearing a thick sweater and heavy coat.

By the time they had gone seven blocks, they were too far from the house

to have any hope of returning to it before full darkness settled on the

land.  Two-thirds of the sky was black already, and the other third was

deep purple.  The shadows had spread like spilt ink.

The streetlamps had come on.  Faye halted Ernie in a cone of light,

giving him a brief reprieve.  His eyes had a wild look, and his steaming

exhalations rushed from him at a rate that indicated incipient panic.

"Remember to control your breathing," Faye said.

He nodded and began at once to take deeper, slower breaths.

When all the light in the sky had been extinguished, she said, "Ready to

go back?"

"Ready," he said hollowly.

They stepped out of the glow of the streetlamp, into darkness, heading

back toward the house, and Ernie hissed between clenched teeth.

What they were engaged upon, for the third time, was a dramatic

therapeutic technique called "flooding," in which the phobic was

encouraged to confront the thing he feared and to endure it long enough

to break its hold on him.  Flooding is based on the fact that panic

attacks are self-limiting. The human body cannot sustain a very high

level of panic indefinitely, cannot produce endless adrenaline, so the

mind must adapt to, and make peace-or at least a truce-with what it

fears.  Unmodified flooding can be a cruel, barbaric method of cracking

a phobia, for it puts the patient at risk of a breakdown.  Dr.

Fontelaine preferred a modified version of the technique involving three

stages of confrontation with the source of fear.

The first stage, in Ernie's case, was to put himself in darkness for

fifteen minutes, but with Faye at his side for support and with lighted

areas easily accessible.  Now, each time they arrived at the lighted

sidewalk beneath a streetlamp, they paused to let him gather his

courage, then went on into the next patch of darkness.

The second stage, which they would try in another week or two, after

more sessions with the doctor, would involve driving to a place where

there were no streetlamps, no easily reached lighted areas.  There, they

would walk together arm in arm across an unrelieved vista of darkness

until Ernie could tolerate no more, at which time Faye would switch on a

flashlight and give him a moment's respite.

In the third stage of treatment, Ernie would go for a stroll alone in a

completely dark area.  After a few outings like that, he would almost

certainly be cured.

But he was not cured yet, and by the time they covered six blocks of the

seven-block return journey to the house, Ernie was breathing like a

well-run racehorse, and he bolted for the safety of the light inside.

Not bad, though-six blocks. Better than before.  At this rate, he would

be cured in no time.

As Faye followed him into the house, where Lucy was already helping him

out of his coat, she tried to feel good about his progress to date.  If

this pace held, he would complete the third and final stage weeks-maybe

even a couple of months-ahead of schedule.  That was what worried Faye.

His rapid improvement was amazing; it seemed too rapid and too amazing

to be real.  She wanted to believe the nightmare would be put behind

them quickly, but the pace of his recuperation made her wonder if it was

lasting.  Striving always to think positive, Faye Block was nevertheless

plagued by the instinctive and unnerving feeling that something was

wrong. Very wrong.

Boston, Massachusetts.

Inevitably, given his exotic background as a godson of Picasso and a

once-famous European stage performer, Pablo Jackson was a star in Boston

social circles.  Furthermore, during World War II, he had been a liaison

between British Intelligence and the French Resistance forces, and his

recent work as a hypnotist with police agencies had only added to his

mystique.  He never lacked invitations.

On the evening of Christmas Day, Pablo attended a blacktie dinner party

for twenty-two at the home of Mr.  and Mrs. Ira Hergensheimer in

Brookline.  The house was a splendid brick Georgian Colonial, as elegant

and warmly welcoming as the Hergensheimers themselves, who had made

their money in real estate during the 1950s.  A bartender was on duty in

the library, and white-jacketed waiters circulated through the enormous

drawing room with champagne and canapes, and in the foyer a string

quartet played just loudly enough to provide pleasant background music.

Among that engaging company, the man of most interest to Pablo was

Alexander Christophson, former Ambassador to the Court of St.  James's,

one-term United States Senator from Massachusetts, later Director of the

Central Intelligence Agency, now retired almost a decade, whom Pablo had

known half a century.  Now seventy-six, Christophson was the second

eldest guest, but old age had been nearly as kind to him as to Pablo. He

was tall, distinguished, with remarkably few lines in his classic

Bostonian face.  His mind was as sharp as ever.  The true length of his

journey on the earth was betrayed only by a mild trace of Parkinson's

disease which, in spite of medication, left him with a tremor in his

right hand.

Half an hour before dinner, Pablo eased Alex away from the other guests

and led him to Ira Hergensheimer's oakpaneled study, adjacent to the

library, for a private conversation.  The old magician closed the door

behind them, and they carried their glasses of champagne to a pair of

leather wingback chairs by the window.  "Alex, I need your advice."

"Well, as you know," Alex said, "men our age find it especially

satisfying to give advice.  It compensates for no longer being able to

set a bad example ourselves.  But I can't imagine what advice I could

give on any problem that you wouldn't already have thought of yourself."

"Yesterday," Pablo said, "a young woman came to see me. She's an

exceedingly lovely, charming, and intelligent woman who's accustomed to

solving her own problems, but now she's bumped up against something very

strange.  She desperately needs help."

Alex raised his eyebrows.  "Beautiful young women still come to you for

help at eighty-one?  I am impressed, humbled, and envious, Pablo."

"This is not a coup defoudre, you filthy-minded old lizard. Passion

isn't involved." Without mentioning Ginger Weiss's name or occupation,

Pablo discussed her problem-the bizarre and inexplicable fugues-and

recounted the session of hypnotic regression that had ended with her

frightening withdrawal.  "She actually seemed about to retreat into a

deep self-induced coma, perhaps even into death, to avoid my questions.

Naturally, I refused to put her in a trance again and risk another

withdrawal of that severity.  But I promised to do some research to see

if any similar case was on record. I found myself poring through books

most of last evening and this morning, searching for references to

memory blocks with self-destruction built into them.  At last I found it

...  in one of your books.  Of course, you were writing about an imposed

psychological condition as a result of brainwashing, and this woman's

block is of her own creation; but the similarity is there."

Drawing on his experiences in the intelligence services during World War

II and the subsequent cold war, Alex Christophson had written several

books, including two that dealt with brainwashing.  In one, Alex had

described a technique he called the Azrael Block (naming it for one of

the angels of death) that seemed uncannily like the barrier that

surrounded Ginger Weiss's memory of some traumatic event in her past.

As distant string music came to them muffled by the closed study door,

Alex put down his champagne glass because his hands trembled too

violently.  He said, "I don't suppose you'd drop this matter and forget

all about it?  Because I'm telling you that's the wisest course."

"Well," Pablo said, a bit surprised by the ominous tone of his friend's

voice, "I've promised her I'll try to help."

"I've been retired eight years, and my instincts aren't what they once

were.  But I have a very bad feeling about this. Drop it, Pablo.  Don't

see her again.  Don't try to help her any more."

"But, Alex, I've promised her."

"I was afraid that'd be your position." Alex folded his tremulous hands.

"Okay.  The Azrael Block ...  It's not something that Western

intelligence services use often, but

the Soviets find it invaluable.  For example, let's imagine a topnotch

Russian agent named Ivan, an operative with thirty years' service in the

KGB.  In Ivan's memory there'll be an incredible amount of highly

sensitive information that, were it to fall into Western hands, would

devastate Russian espionage networks.  Ivan's superiors constantly worry

that, on some foreign assignment, he'll be identified and interrogated."

"As I understand it, with current drugs and hypnotic techniques, no one

can withhold information from a determined interrogator."

"Exactly.  No matter how tough he is, Ivan will spill all he knows

without being tortured.  For that reason, his superiors would prefer to

send younger agents who, if caught, would have less valuable information

to reveal.  But many situations require a seasoned man like Ivan, so the

possibility of all his knowledge falling into enemy hands is a nightmare

with which his superiors must live, whether they like it or not."

"The risk of doing business."

"Exactly.  However, let's imagine that, among all the sensitive

knowledge in his head, Ivan knows two or three things that're especially

sensitive, so explosive that their revelation could destroy his country.

These particular memories, less than one percent of his knowledge about

KGB operations, could be suppressed without affecting his performance in

the field.  We're talking here about the suppression of a very tiny

portion of his memories.  Then, if he fell into enemy hands, he'd still

give up a great deal of valuable stuff during interrogation-but at least

he would not be able to reveal those few most crucial memories."

"And this is where the Azrael Block comes in," Pablo said. "Ivan's own

people use drugs and hypnosis to seal off certain parts of his past

before sending him overseas on his next assignment."

Alex nodded.  "For example .  .  .  say that years ago Ivan was one of

the agents involved in the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II.

With a memory block in place, his awareness of that involvement could be

locked in his subconscious, beyond the reach of potential interrogators,

without affecting his work on new assignments.  But not just any block

will do.  If Ivan's interrogators discover a standard memory block,

they'll work diligently to unlock it, because they'll know that what

lies behind it is of enormous importance.  So the barrier must be one

that cannot be tampered with.  The Azrael Block is perfect. When the

subject is questioned about the forbidden topic, he's programmed to

retreat into a deep coma where he cannot hear the inquisitioner's

voice-and even into death.  In fact, it should more accurately be called

the Azrael Trigger.  because if the interrogator probes into the blocked

memories, he pulls that trigger, shooting Ivan into a coma, and if he

continues to pull the trigger he may eventually kill the subject."

Fascinated, Pablo said, "But isn't the survival instinct strong enough

to overcome the block?  When it comes to the point that Ivan must either

remember and reveal what he has forgotten or die .  .  .  well, surely

the repressed memory would surface."

"No." Even in the warm amber light of the floorlamp beside his chair,

Alex's face appeared to have gone gray.  "Not with the drugs and

hypnotic techniques we have these days. Mind control is a frighteningly

advanced science.  The survival instinct is the strongest we've got, but

even that can be overridden.  Ivan can be programmed to self-destruct."

Pablo found his champagne glass empty.  "My young ladyfriend seems to

have invented a sort of Azrael Block of her own to hide from herself

some extraordinarily distressing event

in her past."

"No," Alex said, "she didn't form the block herself."

"She must have.  She's in a bad state, Alex.  She just ...  slips away

when I try to question her.  So, as you know this field, I thought you

might have a few ideas about how I can deal with it."

"You still don't understand why I warned you to drop this whole thing,"

Alex said.  He pushed up from his chair, moved to the nearby window,

shoved his trembling hands in his pockets, and stared out at the

snow-covered lawn.  "A selfimposed, naturally generated Azrael Block?

Such a thing isn't possible.  The human mind will not, of its own

volition, put itself at risk of death merely to conceal something from

itself. An Azrael Block is always an externally applied control.  If

you've encountered such a barrier, then someone planted it in her mind."

"You're saying she's been brainwashed?  Ridiculous.  She's no spy."

"I'm sure she's not."

"She's no Russian.  So why would she've been brainwashed?  Ordinary

citizens don't become targets for that sort of thing."

Alex turned from the window and faced Pablo.  "This is just an educated

guess .  .  .  but perhaps she accidentally saw something she was not

supposed to see.  Something extremely important, secret.  Subsequently,

she was subjected to a sophisticated process of memory repression, to

make sure she never told anyone about it."

Pablo stared at him, astonished.  "But what could she possibly have seen

to've made such extreme measures necessary?"

Alex shrugged.

"And who could've tampered with her mind?"

Alex said, "The Russians, the CIA, the Israeli Mossad, Britain's MI6-any

organization with the knowledge of how such things are done." ..

"I don't think she's traveled outside the U S., which leaves the CIA."

"Not necessarily.  All the others operate in this country for their own

purposes.  Besides, intelligence organizations are not the only groups

whore familiar with mind-control techniques.  So are some crackpot

religious cults, fanatical political fringe groups .  .  .  others.

Knowledge spreads fast, and evil knowledge spreads faster.  If people

like that want her to forget something, you sure don't want to help her

remember. It wouldn't be healthy for either you or her, Pablo."

"I can't believe-"

"Believe," Alex said somberly.

"But these fugues, these sudden fears of black gloves and helmets .  . .

these would seem to indicate that her memory block is cracking.  Yet the

people you've mentioned wouldn't have done a half-baked job, would they?

If they'd implanted a block, it would be perfect."

Alex returned to his chair, sat, leaned forward, fixing Pablo with an

intense gaze, obviously striving to impress him with the gravity of the

situation.  "That's what worries me most, old friend.  Ordinarily, such

a firmly implanted mental barrier would never weaken on its own.  The

people capable of doing this to your lady-friend are absolutely expert

at it.  They wouldn't screw up.  So her recent problems, her

deteriorating psychological condition, can mean only one thing."

"Yes?"

"The forbidden memories, the secrets buried behind this Azrael Block,

are apparently so explosive, so frightening, so traumatic, that not even

an expertly engineered barrier can contain them.  Buried in this woman

is a shocking memory of immense power, and it's straining to break out

of its prison in her subconscious, into her conscious mind.  These

objects that trigger her blackouts-the gloves, the sink drain-are very

likely elements of those repressed memories.  When she fixates on one of

these things, she's close to a breakthrough, trembling on the edge of

remembrance.  Then her program kicks in, and she blacks out."

Pablo's heart quickened with excitement.  "Then, after all, it might be

possible to use hypnotic regression to probe at this Azrael Block, widen

the cracks already in it, without driving her into a coma.  One would

have to be extremely cautious, of course, but with-"

"You're not listening to me!" Alex said, bolting up again. He stood

between their chairs, looming over Pablo, pointing one trembling finger

at him.  "This is incredibly dangerous. You've stumbled into something

much too big for you to handle.  If you help her to remember, you're

going to make powerful enemies somewhere."

"She's a sweet girl, and her life is in ruins because of this."

"You can't help her.  You're too old, and you're just one man."

"Listen, maybe you don't understand enough of the situation.  I haven't

told you her name or profession, but I'll tell you now that-"

"I don't want to know who she is!" Alex said, his eyes widening.

"She's a physician," Pablo persisted.  "Or almost.  She's spent the past

fourteen years training herself for medical practice, and now she's

losing everything.  It's tragic."

"Think about this, damn it: she's almost certain to discover that

knowing the truth is even worse than not knowing.  If the repressed

memories are breaking through like this, then they must be so traumatic

that they could destroy her psychologically."

"Maybe," Pablo acknowledged.  "But shouldn't she be the one to decide

whether or not to keep digging for the truth?"

Alex was adamant.  "If the memory itself doesn't destroy her, then

she'll probably be killed by whoever implanted the block.  I'm surprised

they didn't kill her straightaway.  If it is an intelligence agency

behind this, ours or theirs, then you've got to remember that to them

civilians are entirely expendable.  She got a rare and amazing reprieve

when they used brainwashing instead of a bullet.  A bullet's quicker and

cheaper. They won't give her a second reprieve.  If they discover that

the Azrael Block has crumbled, if they learn that she's uncovered the

secret they've hidden from her, they'll blow her brains out."

"You can't be sure," Pablo said.  "Besides, she's a real gogetter, Alex,

an achiever, a mover and shaker.  So from her point of view, her current

situation is almost as bad as having her brains blown out."

Making no effort to conceal his frustration with the old magician, Alex

said, "You help her, and they'll blow your brains out as well.  Doesn't

that give you pause?"

"At eighty-one," Pablo said, "not much of interest happens.  You can't

afford to turn your back on that rare bit of excitement when it comes

along.  Vogue la galsreel must chance it."

"You're making a mistake."

"Maybe I am, my friend.  Maybe.  But .  .  .  then why do I feel so

good?"

Chicago, Illinois.

Dr.  Bennet Sonneford, who had operated on Winton Tolk yesterday

subsequent to the shooting at the sandwich shop, ushered Father Wycazik

into a spacious den, where the walls were covered with mounted fish:

marlin, an immense albacore, bass, trout.  More than thirty glass eyes

stared sightlessly down upon the two men.  A trophy case was filled with

silver and gold cups, bowls, medallions.  The doctor sat at a pine desk

in the shadow of a forever-swimming, open-mouthed marlin of startling

proportions, and Stefan sat beside the desk in a comfortable chair.

Although the hospital had provided only Dr.  Sonneford's office number,

Father Wycazik had been able to track down the surgeon's home address

with the aid of friends at the telephone company and police department.

He had arrived at Sonneford's doorstep at seven-thirty Christmas night,

effusively apologetic about interrupting holiday celebrations.

Now, Stefan said, "Brendan works with me at St.  Bernadette's, and I

think very highly of him, so I don't want to see him in trouble."

Sonneford, who looked a bit like a fish-pale, slightly protuberant eyes,

a naturally puckered mouth-said, "Trouble?" He opened a kit of small

tools, choosing a miniature screwdriver, and turned his attention to a

fly-casting reel that lay on the blotter.  "What trouble?"

"Interfering with officers in the performance of their duties."

"Ridiculous." Sonneford carefully removed tiny screws from the reel

housing.  "If he hadn't tended to Tolk, the man would be dead now.  We

gave him four and a half liters."

"Really?  That isn't a mistake on the patient's chart."

"No mistake." Sonneford removed the metal case from the automatic reel,

peered intently into its mechanical guts.  "An adult has seventy

milliliters of blood per kilogram of body weight.  Tolk is a big man-one

hundred kilos.  He'd normally contain seven liters.  So when I first

ordered blood in the ER, he'd lost over sixty percent of his own." He

put down the screwdriver and picked up an equally small wrench.  "And

they gave him another liter in the ambulance before I saw him."

"You mean he'd actually lost over seventy-five percent of his blood by

the time they got him out of that sandwich shop?

But .  .  .  can a man lose so much blood and survive?"

"No," Sonneford said quietly.

A pleasant shiver passed through Stefan.  "And both bullets lodged in

soft tissue but damaged no organs.  Deflected by ribs, other bones?"

Sonneford was still squinting at the reel but had stopped tinkering with

it.  "If those .38s had hit bone, the impact would've resulted in

chipping, splintering.  I found nothing like that.  On the other hand,

if they were not deflected by bone, they should've passed through him,

leaving massive exit wounds.  But I found them lodged in muscle tissue."

Stefan stared at the surgeon's bent head.  "Why do I have the feeling

there's something more you want to tell me, but that it's something

you're afraid to talk about?"

At last Sonneford glanced up.  "And why do I get the feeling that you've

not told the truth about your reasons for coming here, Father?"

"Touchd," Stefan said.

Sonneford sighed and put the tools away in the kit.  "All right.  The

entry wounds make it clear that one bullet hit Tolk in the chest,

impacted with the lower portion of the sternum, which should've snapped

off or fractured; splinters like shrapnel should've pierced organs,

vital blood vessels.  Apparently, none of that happened."

"Why do you say 'apparently'?  Either it happened, or it didn't."

"From the entry wound in the flesh, I know that bullet hit the sternum,

Father, and I found it lodged harmlessly in tissue on the other side of

the sternum; therefore .  .  .  somehow ...  it passed through that bone

without damaging it.  Impossible, of course.  Yet I found just an entry

wound over the sternum, the undamaged bone directly under the woundand

then the bullet lodged inside behind the sternum, with no indication how

it had gotten from one place to the other. Furthermore, the entry wound

of the second slug was over the base of the fourth rib, right side, but

that rib was undamaged as well.  The bullet should have shattered it.  ,

"Maybe you're wrong," Stefan said, playing devil's advocate.  "Maybe the

bullet entered just slightly off the rib, between ribs."

"No." Sonneford raised his head but did not look at Stefan. The

physician's uneasiness still seemed peculiar and was not explained by

what he had said thus far.  "I don't make diagnostic errors.  Besides,

inside the patient, those bullets were lodged where you'd expect them to

be if they had hit bone, had punched through, and had had the last of

their energy absorbed by the muscle.  But there were no damaged tissues

between the point of entry and the expended slugs.  Which is impossible.

Bullets can't pass through a man's chest and leave no trail at all!"

"Almost seems as if we have a minor miracle."

"More than minor.  Seems like a pretty damn major miracle to me."

"If only one artery and vein were injured, and if both were only nicked,

how did Tolk lose so much blood?  Were those nicks big enough to account

for it?"

"No.  He couldn't have hemorrhaged so massively from those traumas."

The surgeon said nothing more.  He seemed gripped in the talons of some

dark fear that Stefan could not understand. What had he to fear?  If he

believed that he had witnessed a miracle, should he not be joyous?

"Doctor, I know it's difficult for a man of science and medicine to

admit he's seen something that his education can't explain, something

that in fact is in opposition to everything he had believed to be true.

But I beg you to tell me everything you saw.  What are you holding back?

How did Winton Tolk lose so much blood if his injuries were so small?"

Sonneford slumped back in his chair.  "In surgery, after beginning

transfusions, I located the bullets on the X rays and made the necessary

incisions to remove them.  In the process, I found a tiny hole in the

superior mesenteric artery and another small tear in one of the superior

intercostal veins. I was certain there must be other severed vessels,

but I couldn't locate them immediately, so I clamped off both the

superior mesenteric and the intercostal for repair, figuring to search

further when those were attended to.  It only took ' a few minutes, an

easy task.  I sewed the artery first, of course, because the bleeding

was in spurts and was more serious. Then .  .  ."

"Then?" Father Wycazik urged gently.

"Then, when I had quickly finished stitching the artery, I turned to the

torn intercostal vein ...  and the tear was gone."

"Gone," Stefan said.  A quiver of awe passed through him, for this was

the thing he had expected-yet it was also a revelation of such

astounding importance that it seemed too much to have hoped for.

"Gone," Sonneford repeated, and at last he met Stefan's gaze.  In the

surgeon's watery gray eyes, a shadow moved like the half-perceived

passage of a leviathan through the depths of a murky sea, the shadow of

fear, and Stefan confirmed that for some inexplicable reason the miracle

occasioned dread in the doctor.  "The torn vein healed itself, Father. I

know the tear had been there.  Clamped it off myself.  My technician saw

it.  My nurse saw it.  But when I was ready to sew it up, the rent was

gone.  Healed.  I removed the clamps, and the blood flowed again through

the vein, and there was no leakage.  And later ...  when I excised the

bullets, the muscle tissue appeared to .  .  .  knit up before my eyes."

"Appeared to?"

"No, that's an evasion," Sonneford admitted.  "It did knit before my

eyes.  Incredible, but I saw it.  Can't prove it, Father, but I know

those two slugs did smash Tolk's sternum and shatter his rib.  They did

send bone fragments through him like shrapnel.  Major, mortal damage was

done, had to have been.  But by the time he was on the table in surgery,

his body had almost entirely healed itself.  The shattered bones had . .

.  reformed.  The superior mesenteric artery and the intercostal vein

were severed to begin with, which is why he lost blood so fast, but by

the time I opened him, both vessels had knitted up except for a small

tear in each.  Sounds crazy, but if I hadn't moved to repair the artery,

I'm sure it would've finished closing on its own .  .  .  just as the

vein did."

"What did your nurse and other assistants think of this?"

"Funny thing is .  .  .  we didn't talk much about it.  I can't account

for how little we discussed it.  Maybe we didn't talk about it because .

.  .  we're living in a rational age when the miraculous is

unacceptable."

"How sad if true," Stefan said.

With the shadow of dread still shimmering anemone-like in the depths of

his eyes, Sonneford said, "Father, if there is a God-and I'm not

admitting there is-why would He save this particular cop?"

"He's a good man," Father Wycazik said.

"So?  I've seen hundreds of good men die.  Why should this one be saved

and none of the others?"

Father Wycazik pulled a chair around from the side of the desk in order

to be able to sit near the surgeon.  "You've been frank with me, Doctor,

so I'll be upfront with you.  I sense a force behind these events that's

more than human. A Presence.  And that Presence isn't primarily

concerned with Winton Tolk but with Brendan, the man .  .  .  the priest

who first reached Officer Tolk in that sandwich shop."

Bennet Sonneford blinked in surprise.  "Oh.  But you wouldn't have

gotten such a notion unless .  .  ."

"Unless Brendan was linked to at least one other miraculous event,"

Stefan said.  Without using Emmy Halbourg's

name, he told Sonneford about the girl's mending limbs that had once

been crippled by disease.

Instead of taking hope from what Stefan told him, Bennet Sonneford

shriveled farther in the heat of his strange despair.

Frustrated by the physician's relentless gloominess, Father Wycazik

said, "Doctor, maybe I'm missing something, but it seems to me you've

got every reason to be joyous.  You were privileged to witness what-I

personally believe-was the hand of God at work." He held one hand out to

Sonneford and was not surprised when the doctor gripped it tightly.

"Bennet, why're you so despondent?"

Sonneford cleared his throat and said, "I was born and raised a

Lutheran, but for twenty-five years I've been an atheist.  And now .

.."

"Ah," Stefan said, "I see.

Happily, Stefan began angling for Bennet Sonneford's soul in the

fish-lined den.  He had no suspicion that, before the day was done, his

current euphoria would be dispelled and that he would experience a

bitter disappointment.

Reno, Nevada.

Zeb Lomack had never imagined that his life would end in bloody suicide

on Christmas, but by that night he had sunk so low that he longed to end

his existence.  He loaded his shotgun, put it on the filthy kitchen

table, and promised himself that he would use it if he was unable to get

rid of all the goddamned moon stuff before midnight.

His bizarre fascination with the moon had begun the summer before last,

though at first it had seemed innocent enough. Toward the end of August

that year, he had taken to going out on the back porch of his cozy

little house and watching the moon and stars while sipping Coors.  In

mid-September, he purchased a Tasco 10VR refracting telescope and bought

a couple of books on amateur astronomy.

Zebediah was surprised by his own sudden interest in stargazing.  For

most of his fifty years, Zeb Lomack, a professional gambler, had shown

little interest in anything but cards.  He worked Reno, Lake Tahoe,

Vegas, occasionally one of the smaller gambling towns like Elko or

Bullhead City, playing poker with the tourists and local would-be poker

champs.  He was not only good at card games: He loved cards more than he

loved women, booze, food.  Even the money was not important to Zeb; it

was just a handy by-product of playing cards.  The important thing was

staying in the game.

Until he got the telescope and went crazy.

For a couple of months he used the scope on a casual basis, and he

bought a few more books on astronomy, and it was just a hobby.  But by

last Christmas he began to focus his attention less on the stars than on

the moon, and thereafter something strange happened to him.  The new

hobby soon became as interesting as card games, and he found himself

canceling planned excursions to the casinos in order to study the lunar

surface.  By February, he was glued to the eyepiece of the Tasco every

night that the moon was visible.  By April he built a collection of

books about the moon that numbered more than one hundred, and he went

out to play cards only two or three nights a week.  By the end of June,

his book collection had grown to five hundred titles, and he had begun

to paper the bedroom walls and ceiling with pictures of the moon clipped

from old magazines and newspapers.  He no longer played cards, but began

living off his savings, and thereafter his interest in things lunar

ceased to bear any resemblance to a hobby and became a mad obsession.

By September, his book collection had grown to more than fifteen hundred

volumes stacked throughout his small house. During the day, he read

about the moon or, more often, sat for hours staring intently at

photographs of it, unable either to understand or to resist its allure,

until its craters and ridges and plains became as familiar to him as the

five rooms of his own house.  On those nights when the moon was visible,

he studied it through the telescope until he could no longer stay awake,

until his eyes were bloodshot and sore.

Before this obsession took control of him, Zeb Lomack had been a

ruggedly hewn and relatively fit man.  But as his preoccupation with

things lunar tightened its grip, he stopped exercising and began eating

junk food-cake, ice cream, TV dinners, bologna sandwiches-because he no

longer had time to prepare good meals.  Furthermore, the moon not only

fascinated him but also made him uneasy, filled him not only with wonder

but with dread, so he was always nervous; and he tranquilized himself

with food.  He became softer, flabbier,

though he was only minimally aware of the physical changes he was

undergoing.

By early October, he thought about the moon every hour of every day,

dreamed of it, and could go nowhere in his house without seeing hundreds

of images of the lunar face. He had not stopped repapering the walls

when he had finished his bedroom in June, but had carried that project

throughout. The full-color and black-and-white moon pictures came from

astronomy journals, magazines, books, and newspapers.  On one of his

infrequent ventures out of the house, he had seen a three-by-five-foot

poster of the moon, a color photograph taken by astronauts, and he had

bought fifty copies, enough to paper the ceiling and every wall in the

living room; he had even taped the poster over the windows, so every

square inch of the room was decorated with that repeating image, except

for doorways.  He moved the furniture out, transforming the empty

chamber into a planetarium where the show never changed.  Sometimes he'd

lie on his back on the floor and stare up and around at those fifty

moons, transported by an exhilarating sense of wonder and an

inexplicable terror, neither of which he could understand.

Christmas night, as Zeb was sprawled on the floor with half a hundred

bloated moons hanging over him, bearing down on him, he suddenly noticed

writing on one of them, a single word scrawled across the lunar image

with a felt-tip pen, where there had never been a word before.  The

picture had been defaced with a name: Dominick.  He recognized his own

handwriting, but he could not remember having scrawled that name across

the moon.  Then his eye was caught by another name written on another

poster: Ginger.  And then a third name on a third poster: Faye.  And a

fourth: Ernie.  Suddenly anxious, Zeb stumbled around the room, checking

the other posters, but he found no more names.

In addition to being unable to recall writing those words, he could not

think of anyone he knew named Dominick, Ginger, or Faye.  He knew a

couple of Ernies, though neither was a close friend, and the appearance

of that name on one of the moons was no less mysterious than the three

others. Staring at the names, he grew increasingly uneasy, for he had

the odd feeling that he did know them, that they had played a terribly

important role in his life, and that his very sanity and survival

depended on remembering who they were.

Some long-forgotten memory swelled in him like a steadily inflating

balloon, and intuitively he knew that when the balloon popped he would

recollect everything, not only the identities of these four people, but

also the origins of his fevered fascination with-and underlying fear

of-the moon. But as the memory balloon swelled within him, his fear grew

as well, and he began to sweat and then to shake uncontrollably.

He turned from the posters, suddenly terrified of remembering, and

lurched out to the kitchen, driven by that gnawing hunger that was

always occasioned by thoughts that made him nervous.  He wrenched open

the refrigerator door and was startled to discover that the shelves were

bare.  They held dirty bowls and empty plastic containers in which food

had been kept, two empty milk cartons, an egg carton with one broken and

dried egg.  He looked in the freezer, found only frost.

Zeb tried to remember when he had last been to the supermarket.  It

might have been days or weeks since his most recent shopping expedition.

He could not remember because, in his moon-filled world, time no longer

had any meaning. And how much time had passed since his last meal?  He

vaguely remembered having some canned pudding, but he was not clear

whether that had been earlier today or yesterday or even two days ago.

Zebediah Lomack was so shocked by this development that his mind cleared

for the first time in weeks, and when he looked around the kitchen, he

made a strangled sound of disgust and fear.  For the first time he

saw-really saw-the mess in which he'd been living, a situation

previously masked by his all-encompassing fascination with the moon.

Garbage covered the floor: discarded cans sticky with fruit juice, slimy

with traces of rancid gravy; empty cereal boxes and a score of drained

milk cartons; dozens of wadded-up and discarded potato-chip bags and

candy wrappers.  And roaches.  They squirmed, scuttled, and jigged

through the garbage, raced across the floor, climbed walls, crouched on

counters, and lurked in the sink.

"My God," Zeb said in a voice that was hardly more than a croak, "what's

happened to me?  What've I been doing?

What's wrong with me?"

He put one hand to his face and twitched with surprise

when he felt a beard.  He had always been clean-shaven, and he had

thought he shaved just this morning.  The wiry hair on his face sent him

in a panic to the bathroom, where he could look in the mirror.  He saw a

stranger: filthy, matted hair hanging in tangled clumps; pale, soft,

sickly-looking skin; a two-week beard crusted with food and dirt; wild

eyes.  He became aware of his body odor: His stink was so rank that he

gagged on his own aroma.  Apparently, he had not bathed in days, weeks.

He needed help.  He was sick.  Confused and sick.  He could not

understand what had happened to him, but he knew that he must go to the

telephone and call for help.

But he did not go immediately to the phone because he was afraid they'd

say he was hopelessly insane and would lock him away forever.  Like they

had locked away his father. When Zebediah was eight, his father pitched

a terrible fit, ranting and raving about lizard-things that were

crawling out of the walls, and the doctors took him to the hospital to

dry him out.  But that time, unlike before, the DTs had not gone away,

and Zeb's dad had been institutionalized for the rest of his life.  Ever

after, Zeb had been afraid his own mind might be flawed, too.  Staring

at his pale face in the mirror, he knew he could not call for help until

he made himself presentable and straightened up the house; otherwise,

they would lock him up and throw away the key.

He could not bear to look at his reflection long enough to shave, so he

decided to deal with the house first.  Keeping his head down to avoid

seeing the moons, which exerted a tidal force on him as real as the true

moon's effect on the seas, he scurried into the bedroom, opened the

closet, shoved the clothes aside, located his Remington .12-gauge and a

box of shells.  Head bowed, fighting the urge to look up, he made his

way to the kitchen, where he loaded the shotgun and put it on the

garbage-strewn table.  Speaking aloud, he made a bargain with himself:

"You get rid of the moon books, tear down the pictures so this place

don't look so crazy, clean the kitchen, shave, bathe.  Then maybe you'll

get your head clear enough to figure what the hell's wrong with you.

Then you can get help-just not while things are like this."

The shotgun was the unspoken part of the bargain.  He had been fortunate

to rise briefly out of the moon-dream in which he had been living,

shocked to his senses by the lack of food in the refrigerator, but if he

drifted back into that nightmare, he could not count on being jolted

awake again.  Therefore, if he could not resist the siren song of the

moons on the walls, he would quickly return to the kitchen, pick up the

shotgun, put it in his mouth, and pull the trigger.

Death was better than this.

And death was better than being locked up forever like his father.

Now, in the living room once more, keeping his eyes on the floor, he

began to gather up the books.  Some had once boasted jackets with photos

of the moon, but he had clipped those pictures.  He hefted an armload of

them and went outside to the snow-covered back yard, where there was a

barbecue pit lined with concrete blocks.  Shivering in the crisp winter

air, he dumped the books into the pit and headed back to the house for

more, not daring to look at the night sky for fear of the great luminous

body suspended in it.

As he worked, the urge to return to the study of the moon was as intense

and demanding as the hideous need that forced a heroin addict to return

again and again to the needle, but Zeb fought it.

Likewise, as he made trip after trip to the barbecue pit, he felt that

memory of some long-forgotten event continuing to swell within him:

Dominick, Ginger, Faye, Ernie ...  Instinctively, he knew that he would

understand the cause of his fascination with the moon if only he could

recall who those four people were.  He concentrated on the names, trying

to use them to block out the alluring summons of the moon, and it seemed

to work because soon he had disposed of two or three hundred volumes in

the barbecue pit and was ready to set them ablaze.

But when he struck a match and leaned down to light the pages of a book,

he discovered the pit was empty.  He stared in shock and horror.

Dropping the matches, he raced back to the house, threw open the kitchen

door, stumbled inside, and saw what he had been most afraid of seeing.

The books were piled there, damp with snow, smeared with wet ashes from

the pit.  He had indeed disposed of them, but then the lunacy had taken

him again; under its spell and without knowing what he was doing, he had

carried every volume back into the house.

He began to cry, but he was still determined he would not wind up in a

padded room.  He picked up a score of books and headed back toward the

barbecue pit, feeling as if he were in hell and condemned, for eternity,

to the performance of this frantic ritual.

When he figured he had filled the pit again, he suddenly realized he was

not carrying books to the place of burning but away from it.  Again, he

had drifted off into his moondream and, instead of destroying the

objects of his obsession, he was re-collecting them.

As he headed back toward the house, he noticed how the crust of snow

glimmered with a scintillant, reflected light. Against his will, his

head came up.  He looked into the deep and nearly cloudless sky.

He said, "The moon."

He knew then that he was a dead man.

Laguna Beach, California.

For Dominick Corvaisis, Christmas was usually not much different from

other days.  He had no wife or children to make it special.  Raised in

foster homes, he had no relatives with whom he could share a turkey and

mincemeat pie.  A couple of friends, including Parker Faine, always

invited him to join in their festivities, but he declined, for he knew

he would feel like the proverbial fifth wheel.  However, Christmas was

not sad or lonely.  He was never bored by his own company, and his home

overflowed with good books that could fill the day with delight.

But this Christmas Dom could not concentrate to read, for he was

preoccupied by the mysterious mail he had received the previous day and

by the need to resist the urge to pop a Valium.  Though he had been

afraid that he would dream and walk in his sleep, he had taken no Valium

yesterday and no Dalmane last night.  He was determined to avoid any

further reliance on chemicals, though he continued to crave them.

In fact, the craving became so bad that he emptied the pills into the

toilet and flushed them away, because he did not trust himself.  As the

day wore on, his anxiety rose to the level he had experienced before he

had begun drug therapy.

At seven o'clock Christmas night, Dom arrived at Parker's rambling

hillside contemporary and accepted a glass of homemade eggnog with a

cinnamon stick in it.  The burly painter's beard, usually bushy and

untamed, was neatly trimmed, and his mane of hair was newly cut and

combed in honor of the holiday.  Though he was more conservatively

groomed and more subdued in dress than was his habit, he was every bit

as ebullient as one expected him to be.  "What a Christmas!

Peace and love reigned in this house today, I tell you!  My cherished

brother made only forty or fifty nasty and envious remarks about my

success, which is not half as many as he lets loose with on a less

blessed occasion.  My sainted halfsister, Carla, only once called her

sister-in-law Doreen a bitch, and even that might be considered

justified in light of the fact that Doreen started it by calling Carla a

'brainless New Age crackpot full of psychobabble." Ah, truly a day of

fellowship and caring!  Not one punch thrown this year, if you can

believe it.  And Carla's husband, though he got plastered as usual, did

not throw up or fall down a flight of stairs, as in past years, though

he did insist on doing his Bette Midler imitation at least a dozen

times."

As they moved toward a grouping of chairs by the windowwall overlooking

the sea, Dom said, "I'm going on a trip, a long drive.  I'll fly to

Portland and rent a car up there.  Then I'll retrace the journey I took

the summer before last, from Portland down to Reno, across Nevada and

half of Utah on Interstate 80, then to Mountainview."

Dom sat down as he spoke, but Parker remained on his feet, very still.

The announcement pleasantly electrified him. "What's happened?  That's

no vacation.  That's not a route you'd take for pleasure.  Are you

sleepwalking again?  Must be.  And something's happened to convince you

this is related to the changes you underwent that summer."

"I haven't begun sleepwalking again, but I'm sure I will, probably

tonight, because I've thrown the damn drugs away. They weren't curing

me.  I lied.  I was getting hooked, Parker. I didn't care because it

seemed that being hooked was better than enduring the things I did while

sleepwalking.  But now all that's changed because of these." He held up

the two notes from his unknown correspondent.  "The problem's not just

within me, not just psychological.  There's something stranger at work

here." He gave the first note to Parker.  His fearful state of mind was

betrayed by the sheet of paper, which shook in his hand.

When the painter read it, he looked baffled.

Dom said, "It came in the mail yesterday at the post office. No return

address.  There was another note delivered to the house." He explained

about having typed the words "the moon" on his word processor hundreds

of times in his sleep and about waking from a dream with those same

words on his lips, then passed the second note to Parker.

"But if I'm the first one you've told about this moon thing, how could

anyone have known enough to send such a note?"

"Whoever he is," Dom said, "he knows about my sleepwalking, maybe

because I've gone to a doctor about it-"

"You're saying you're being watched?"

"Apparently, to a degree.  Periodically monitored if not constantly

watched.  But while the monitor knows about my sleepwalking, he probably

doesn't know about my typing those words on the Displaywriter, or that I

woke up repeating them in the night.  Not unless he was standing beside

my bed, which he wasn't.  However, he indisputably does know that I'll

react to "the moon," that those words'll frighten me.  So he must know

what lies behind this whole crazy mess."

At last Parker sat down on the edge of a chair.  "Find him, and you'll

know what's going on."

"New York is a big place," Dom said.  "I have no starting point there.

But when I got this first note-this business about the answer to my

sleepwalking lying in the past I realized you must be right about this

personality crisis being tied to the previous one.  The dramatic change

I went through on the trip from Portland to Mountainview is somehow

connected.  If I make that trip again, stop at the same motels, eat in

the same roadside restaurants, try to recreate it as exactly as I can .

.  .  something might turn up.  My memory might be jogged."

"But how could you have forgotten something so major?"

"Maybe I didn't forget it.  Maybe the memory was taken from me."

Leaving that possibility for later exploration, Parker said, "Whoever

the hell this guy is-what reasons would he have for sending these notes?

I mean, you've imagined a situation where it's you against Them, some

unknown Them, and so this guy is on their side, not yours."

"Maybe he doesn't agree with everything that's been done to me-whatever

it is that I've forgotten was done to me."

"Done to you?  What're we talking about here?"

Dom nervously turned his glass of eggnog around and around in his hands.

"I don't know., But this correspondent ...  he obviously wants me to

know my problem's not psychological, that there's something more behind

it.  I think maybe he wants to help me find the truth."

"So why doesn't he just call you up and tell you the truth?"

, "The only thing I can figure is that he doesn't dare risk telling me.

He must be part of some conspiracy, God knows what, but part of some

group that doesn't want the truth to come out.  If he approaches me

directly, the others will know, and he'll be in deep shit."

As if it helped him think, Parker ran one hand through his hair several

times, mussing it badly.  "You make this sound like some all-knowing

secret society is on your ass-like the Illuminatus Society,

Rosicrucians, CIA, and the Fraternal Order of Masons all rolled into

one!  You actually think you've been brainwashed?"

"If you want to call it that.  Whatever traumatic episode I've

forgotten, I didn't forget it without assistance.  Whatever I saw or

experienced was apparently so shocking, so traumatic, that it's still

festering in my subconscious, trying to reach me through sleepwalking

and through the messages I leave on the Displaywriter.  It was so damned

big that even brainwashing hasn't been able to wipe it out, so big that

one of the conspirators is risking his own neck to send me hints."

After reading them one more time, Parker returned the two notes to Dom,

chugged down his own eggnog.  "Shit.  I think you've got to be right,

which upsets me.  I don't want to believe it.  It sounds too much as if

you've let your novelistic imagination run wild, as if you're trying out

the plot of a new book on me, something a bit more colorful than you

should write.  But crazy as the whole thing sounds, I can't think of any

other answer."

Dom realized he was squeezing the eggnog glass so tightly that he was in

danger of shattering it.  He put it on a small table and blotted his

hands on his slacks.  "Me neither.  There's nothing else that explains

both the crazy damn sleepwalking, and my personality change between

Portland and Mountainview, and those two notes."

His face lined with worry, Parker said, "What could it have been, Dom?

What did you stumble into when you were out there on the road?"

"I don't have the foggiest."

"Have you considered that it might be something so bad ...  so damn

dangerous that you'd be better off not knowing?"

Dom nodded.  "But if I don't learn the truth, I won't be able to stop

the sleepwalking for good.  In my sleep I'm running from the memory of

whatever happened to me out there on the road, the summer before last,

and to stop running I've got to find out what it was, face up to it.

'Cause if I don't stop the sleepwalking, it'll eventually drive me mad.

That might sound a bit melodramatic, too, but it's true.  If I don't

learn the truth, then the thing I fear in my dreams is going to start

haunting the waking hours as well, and I'm not going to have a moment's

peace, waking or sleeping, and eventually the only solution will be to

put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger."

"Jesus."

:,I mean it."

'I know you do.  God help you, my friend, I know you do.

Reno, Nevada.

A cloud saved Zeb Lomack ' It drifted across the moon before the grip of

the lunar obsession had completely reclaimed him.  With the empyreal

lantern briefly dimmed, Zebediah abruptly became aware that he was

standing coatless in the freezing December night, gaping up at the sky,

mesmerized by moonbeams.  If the cloud had not broken the trance, he

might have stood there until the object of his grim fascination had

descended past the horizon.  Then, having sunk back into his lunacy, he

might have returned to one of the rooms papered with the ancient

god-face that the Greeks called Cynthia, that the Romans called Diana,

there to lie in a stupor until, days hence, he had starved to death.

Reprieved, he let out a wretched cry and ran to the house. He slipped

and fell in the snow, fell again on the porch steps, but immediately

scrambled up, desperately seeking the safety of the indoors, where the

face of the moon could not work its charms on him.  But of course there

was no safety inside, either.  Though he closed his eyes and began at

once to tear blindly at the moon pictures, ripping them from the kitchen

walls and casting them on the garbage-covered floor, he began to succumb

to his obsession yet again. Eyes tightly shut, he could not see the

cratered images, but he could feel them. He could feel the pale light of

a hundred moons upon his face, and he could feel the roundness of the

moons in his hands as he tore them off the wall, which was crazy because

they were only pictures that could not produce light or warmth and could

not convey by touch the roundness of the lunar globe, yet he

nevertheless felt those things strongly.  He opened his eyes and was

instantly captured by the familiar celestial body.

Just like my dad.  Asylum-bound.

Like a distant crackle of lightning, that thought flickered through Zeb

Lomack's rapidly dimming mind.  It jolted him and allowed him to recover

just long enough to turn away from the living room door and fling

himself toward the kitchen table, where the loaded shotgun waited.

Chicago, Illinois.

Father Stefan Wycazik, descendant of strong-willed Poles, rescuer of

troubled priests, was not accustomed to failure, and he did not handle

it well.  "But after everything I've told you, how can you still not

believe?" he demanded.

Brendan Cronin said, "Father Stefan, I'm sorry.  But I simply don't feel

any stronger about the existence of God than I did yesterday."

They were in a bedroom on the second floor of Brendan's parents'

gingersnap brick house in the Irish neighborhood called Bridgeport,

where the young priest was spending the holiday according to Father

Wycazik's orders, issued yesterday after the Uptown shootout.  Brendan,

dressed in gray slacks and a white shirt, was sitting on the edge of a

double bed that was covered by a worn, yellow chenille spread.  Stefan,

choosing to feel needled by his curate's stubbornness, moved constantly

around the room from dresser to highboy to window to bed to dresser

again, as if trying to avoid the prickling pain of his failure.

"Tonight," Father Wycazik said, "I met an\atheist who was half-converted

by Tolk's incredible recovery.  But you're unimpressed."

"I'm happy for Dr.  Sonneford," Brendan said mildly, "but his renewed

belief doesn't rekindle my own."

The curate's refusal to be properly impressed by recent miraculous

events was not the only thing that irritated Father Wycazik.  The young

priest's pacific demeanor was also bothersome.  If he could not find the

will to believe in God again, then it seemed he should at least be

disheartened and downcast by his continued lack of faith.  Instead,

Brendan appeared untroubled by his miserable spiritual condition, which

was quite different from his attitude when Father Wycazik had seen him

last.  He had changed dramatically; for reasons that were not at all

clear, a great peace seemed to have settled over Brendan.

Still determinedly pressing his argument, Stefan said, "It was you,

Brendan, who cured Emmy Halbourg and healed Winton Tolk.  It was you,

through the power of those stigmata on your hands.  Stigmata that God

visited upon you as a sign."

Brendan rooked at his palms, now unmarked.  "I believe ...  somehow I

did heal Emmy and Winton.  But it wasn't God acting through me."

"Who else but God could've granted you such curing power?"

"I don't know," Brendan said.  "Wish I did.  But it wasn't God.  I felt

no divine presence, Father."

"Good grief, how much more strongly do you expect Him to make His

presence felt?  Do you expect Him to thump you on the head with His

great Staff of Justice, tip His diadem to you, and introduce Himself?

You've got to meet Him halfway, Brendan."

The curate smiled and shrugged.  "Father, I know these amazing events

seem to have no explanation other than a religious one.  But I feel very

strongly that something other than God lies behind it."

"Like what?" Stefan challenged.

"I don't know.  Something tremendously important, something really

wonderful and magnificent ...  but not God.  Look, you've said that the

rings were stigmata.  But if that's what they were, why wouldn't they

have been in a form that had some Christian significance?  Why

rings-which seem to have no relation to the message of Christ?"

When Brendan began Stefan's unconventional course of psychological

therapy at St.  Joseph's Hospital for Children three weeks ago, the

young priest had been so troubled by his loss of faith that he'd been

growing rapidly thinner.  Now he had stopped losing weight.  He was

still thirty pounds lighter than usual, but he was no longer as wan and

haggard as he had been following his shocking outburst during Mass on

the first of December.  In spite of his spiritual fall, there was a glow

to his skin and a light in his eyes that was almost ... beatific.

"You feel splendid, don't you?" Stefan asked. "Yes, though I'm not sure

why."

"Your soul's no longer troubled."

"No."

"Even though you've still not found your way back to God."

"Even though," Brendan agreed.  "Maybe it has something to do with the

dream I had last night."

"The black gloves again?"

"No.  Haven't had that one in a while," Brendan said.  "Last night I

dreamed that I was walking in a place of pure golden light, beautiful

light, so bright I could see nothing around me, and yet it didn't hurt

my eyes." A peculiar note, perhaps Of reverence, (intered the curate's

voice.  "In the dream, I keep walking and walking, not knowing where I

am or where I'm going, but with the sense that I'm approaching a thing

or a place of monumental importance and unbearable beauty. Not just

approaching but .  .  .  being called to it.  Not an audible call but a

summons that just ...  reverberates in me. My heart is pounding, and I'm

a little afraid.  But it isn't a bad fear, Father, what I feel in that

bright place, not bad at all.  So I just keep walking through the light,

toward something magnificent that I can't see but that I know is there."

Drawn by Brendan's hushed voice as if by a magnet, Father Wycazik moved

to the bed and sat upon the corner of it. "But surely this is a

spiritual dream, the call of God coming to you in sleep.  He's calling

you back to your faith, back to the duties of your office."

Brendan shook his head.  "No.  There was no religious quality to the

dream, no sense of a divine presence.  It was a different kind of awe

that filled me, a joy unlike the joy I knew in Christ.  I woke up four

times during the night, and each time I woke, the rings were on my

hands.  And each time that I fell back to sleep, I dropped into the same

dream again.  Something very strange and important is happening, Father,

and I'm a part of it; but whatever it is, it's not anything that my

education, experiences, or previous beliefs have prepared me for."

Father Wycazik wondered if the call that had come to Brendan in the

dream had been from Satan instead of God.  Perhaps the devil, aware that

a priest's soul was in jeopardy, had dressed his hateful form in this

deceptively attractive golden light, the better to lead the curate from

the righteous path.

Still firmly determined to bring his curate back into the fold, but

temporarily out of winning strategies, Stefan Wycazik decided to call a

truce.  He said, "So .  .  .  what now?

You aren't ready to put on your Roman collar and resume your duties, as

I thought you'd be by now.  Do you want me to contact Lee Kellog, the

Illinois Provincial, and ask him to authorize psychiatric counseling?"

Brendan smiled.  "No.  That doesn't appeal to me any more. I don't

believe it'd do any good.  What I'd like to do-if it's all right with

you, Father-is move back into my room in the rectory and wait this out,

see what happens.  Of course, as I remain a fallen-away priest, I can't

hear confessions or say Mass.  But while I'm waiting to see what

happens, I could do some cooking, help you catch up on the filing."

Father Wycazik was relieved.  He had expected Brendan to express the

intention of returning to a secular life.  "You're welcome, of course.

There's much you can do.  I'll keep you busy; no need to worry about

that.  But tell me, Brendan .  .  .  you do think there's a possibility

that you'll find your way back?"

The curate nodded.  "I don't feel alienated from God any more.  Just

empty of Him.  As this situation develops, perhaps it'll lead me back to

the Church, as you're convinced it will. I just don't know."

Still frustrated and disappointed by Brendan's refusal to see the

miraculous presence of God in the healing of Emmy and Winton, Father

Wycazik was nonetheless glad that he would have the curate close and be

provided the opportunity to continue guiding him back to salvation.

Brendan went downstairs with Father Wycazik, and at the front door the

two men embraced in such a way that a stranger, without any knowledge of

their occupation, would have thought them father and son.

Accompanying Father Wycazik as far as the front stoop, where a blustery

wind gave a howl more suited to Halloween than to Christmas, Brendan

said, "I don't know why or how, Father Stefan, but I feel we're about to

embark upon an amazing adventure."

"The discovery-or rediscovery-of faith is always an amazing adventure,

Brendan," Father Wycazik said.  Then, having gotten in the last clean

jab, as a good fighter for souls should always do, he left.

Reno, Nevada.

Whimpering, gasping for breath, struggling valiantly against the

narcotizing effect of his lunar obsession, Zeb Lomack clambered through

the garbage and squirming roaches that carpeted the kitchen, grabbed the

shotgun that lay upon the table, jammed the barrel between his teeth and

suddenly realized that his arms were not long enough to reach the

trigger.  The urge to look up at the bewitching moons on the walls was

so overpowering that he felt as if someone had hold of him by the hair

and was pulling his head back to force his gaze up from the floor.  And

when he closed his eyes defensively, it seemed as if some invisible

adversary began to pry insistently at his.  eyelids.  In his horror of

being committed to a madhouse like his father, he found the strength to

resist the mesmeric moon-call.  Eyes still closed, he collapsed into a

chair, kicked off one shoe, stripped away the sock, braced the shotgun

with both hands, put the barrel in his mouth, raised his unshod foot,

and touched one bare toe to the cold trigger.  Imagined moonlight on his

skin and imagined lunar tides in his blood (no less forceful for being

imaginary) demanded his attention with such sudden power that he opened

his eyes, saw the many moons on the walls, and cried "no!"

into the barrel of the gun.  Even as the spellbinding mooncall pulled

him back toward a trance, even as he pressed his foot down upon the

trigger, the swelling memory balloon at last burst in his mind, and he

remembered everything that had been taken away from him: the summer

before last, Dom inick, Ginger, Faye, Ernie, the young priest, the

others, Interstate 80, the Tranquility Motel, oh, God, the motel, and

oh, God, the moon!

Perhaps Zebediah Lomack was unable to check the downward motion of his

bare foot or perhaps, instead, the suddenly revealed memory was so

terrible that it encouraged suicide. Whichever the case, the .12-gauge

went off with a roar, and the back of his head blew out, and for him

(though for no one else) the terror ended.

Boston, Massachusetts.

All Christmas afternoon, Ginger Weiss read Twilight in Babylon, and at

seven o'clock that evening, when it was time to go downstairs for drinks

and dinner with the Hannaby family, she resented the interruption and

did not want to put the book aside.  She was a willing captive of the

engrossing story, but she was more captivated by the photo of the

author. Dominick Corvaisis' commanding eyes and dark good looks

continued to arouse in her an uneasiness bordering on fear, and she

could not overcome the peculiar feeling that she knew him.

Dinner with her hosts, their children and grandchildren, might have been

pleasurable if Dominick Corvaisis had not exerted a mysteriously

powerful claim on her attention.  At ten o'clock, when she could at last

gracefully withdraw without offending anyone, she cast out and gathered

in a final series of Christmas wishes for happiness and health, then

returned to her room.

She began reading where she had left off, and with a minimum of

interruptions to scrutinize the author's photograph again, she finished

the book at three-forty-five A. M.  In the deep post-midnight silence

that had settled over Baywatch, Ginger sat with the book in her lap, the

jacket photo turned up, her eyes fixed on Dominick Corvaisis' hauntingly

familiar face.  Minute by minute, as she sat in her strange, silent,

onesided communion with the writer's image, Ginger became increasingly

convinced that she had met the man somewhere and that he was, in some

unimaginable fashion, part of her recent troubles.  Although her

steadily growing conviction was tempered by the realization that this

intuition might be part of the same mental disturbance that generated

her fugues, and might therefore be unreliable, her agitation and

excitement increased until, shaky and distraught, she was finally driven

to action.

Leaving her room with exaggerated stealth, she went downstairs, through

the dark and untenanted rooms of the great slumbering house, into the

kitchen.  She switched on the light and used the wall phone to call

information in Laguna Beach. It was one o'clock in the morning in

California, too rude an hour to wake Corvaisis.  But if she could get a

number for him, she would sleep better, knowing that she could get in

touch with him in the morning.  To her dismay, though not to her

surprise, his number was unlisted.

Switching off the kitchen light and creeping quietly back to her room,

Ginger made up her mind to write Corvaisis in the morning, care of his

publisher.  She would dispatch the message by express mail, with an

urgent plea to the publisher to forward the letter immediately.

Perhaps attempting to contact him was precipitate and irrational.

Perhaps she had never met him, and perhaps he had nothing to do with her

bizarre affliction.  Perhaps he'd think she was a crackpot.  But if this

million-to-one shot proved a good bet, the payoff might be her very

salvation, which was sufficient reward to risk making a fool of herself.

Laguna Beach, California.

As yet unaware that an advance review copy of his book had made a vital

link between himself and a deeply troubled woman in Boston, Dom remained

at Parker Faine's house until midnight, discussing the possible nature

of the conspiracy that he had theorized.  Neither he nor Parker had

enough information to put together a detailed or even slightly useful

picture of the conspirators, but the very process of sharing and

exploring the mystery with a friend made it less frightening.

They agreed that Dom should not fly to Portland and begin his odyssey

until he saw how bad his sleepwalking became now that he had thrown away

the Valium and Dalmane. Maybe somnambulism would not recur, as he

expected it would, in which case he could travel without fear of losing

control of himself in a distant place.  But if he resumed his night

rambling, he would need a couple weeks to decide on the best way of

restraining himself during sleep, before heading to Portland.

Besides, by waiting awhile, he might receive additional letters from his

unknown correspondent.  Those clues might make the trek from Portland to

Mountainview unnecessary or might target a specific area along that

route as the place where Dom would encounter some sight or experience

that would free his imprisoned memories.

By midnight, when Dom rose to leave Parker's hillside house, the artist

had become so intrigued by the situation that he looked as if he would

be up for hours yet, his mind spinning.  "You're sure it's wise to be

alone tonight?" he asked at the front door.

Dom stepped outside onto a walkway patterned with spikey geometric forms

of darkness and wedge-shaped slices of yellow light, which were formed

by the beams of a decorative iron lantern half obscured by

shadow-casting palm fronds. Looking back at his friend, he said, "We've

been through this before.  It might not be wise, but it's the only way."

"You'll call if you need help?"

"I'll call," Dom said.

,,And take those precautions we talked about."

Dom attended to those precautions a short while later at home.  He

removed the pistol from his nightstand, locked it in a drawer of his

office desk, and buried the desk key under a package of ice cream in the

freezer.  Better to be unprepared for a burglar than to risk firing the

gun while sound asleep. Next, from a coil of rope in the garage, he cut

a ten-foot length.  After brushing his teeth and undressing, he knotted

one end of the line securely around his right wrist in such a way that

he could escape only by untying four difficult knots, He secured the

other end of the rope to one post of the headboard, taking care to

fasten it tightly.  With one foot of the line's length used for the

knots, he was left with nine feet of play, enough to assure his comfort

while keeping him tethered within a safe distance of the bed.

In previous somnambulistic episodes, he had performed complex tasks that

had required some concentration, though nothing quite so tedious as the

unraveling of well-made knots, which were often a challenge to him when

he was awake.  In his sleep, he would surely lack the coordination and

mental focus to free himself and the effort to do so would be

frustrating enough to wake him.

Being thus hampered involved some danger.  If a fire broke out in the

night or if the house were damaged in an earthquake, he might be so

delayed by the need to untie himself that he would perish in the smoke

or beneath a collapsing wall.  He had to risk it.

When he turned out the bedside light and slipped under the blanket,

trailing the rope from one arm, the glowing red numerals of the digital

clock read twelve-fifty-eight.  Staring at the dark ceiling, wondering

what in the name of God he had become involved in out there on the road

the summer before last, he waited for sleep to creep upon him.

On the nightstand, the telephone was silent.  If his number had not been

unlisted, he might have received, at that moment, a long-distance call

from a lonely and frightened young woman in Boston, a call that would

have radically changed the course of the next few weeks and might have

saved lives.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

In the guest room of her only daughter's house, where a nightlight

burned in consideration of Ernie's phobia, Faye Block listened to her

husband as, asleep and dreaming, he mumbled into his pillow.  A few

minutes ago, she had been awakened when he had let out a soft cry and

had thrashed for a moment in the sheets.  Now she raised herself on one

elbow, cocked her head, and listened intently, trying to decipher his

muffled speech.  He was saying the same thing again and again into the

pillow.  The almost panicky urgency in his voice made Faye nervous.  She

leaned closer to him, straining to understand.

Suddenly he shifted his head just enough to turn his mouth from the

pillow, and his words became clear though no less mysterious than when

they had been muffled: "The moon, the moon, the moon, the moon .

Las Vegas, Nevada.

Jorja took Marcie into her own bed that night, because it did not seem

like a good idea to leave the girl alone after the disturbing events of

the day.  She did not get much rest because all night Marcie seemed to

phase in and out of nightmares, frequently kicking at the sheets,

squirming vigorously as if to free herself from restraining hands, and

talking in her sleep about doctors and needles. Jorja wondered how long

this had been going on.  Their bedrooms were separated by back-to-back

closets insulated by hanging clothes, and the child's sleep-talk was

very soft, so it was possible that she had passed a lot of nights in

unconscious terror without Jorja being aware of it. Her voice raised

gooseflesh on Jorja's arms.

In the morning, she would take Marcie to the doctor.  Given her

unexplained dread of all physicians, the girl might cause a hell of a

scene.  But as much as Marcie feared going to a doctor, Jorja feared not

going.  If it had not been so hard to locate the right physician on

Christmas Day, Jorja would have gone for help already.  She was scared.

Following Marcie's outburst, when her grandfather's teasing about taking

her to a hospital had driven her away from the table in a mad panic, the

day had gone downhill.  The girl was so overcome by fear that she peed

her pants, and for ten or fifteen hideously embarrassing and terrifying

minutes, she resisted all Jorja's efforts to get her cleaned up.  She

screamed, scratched, and kicked.  The tantrum passed at last, and she

submitted to a bath.  But she was like a little zombie, slackfaced and

empty-eyed, as if the terror, in passing out of her, had taken with it

all her strength and her mind as well.

That quasicatatonic state lasted almost an hour while Jorja made a dozen

telephone calls in an attempt to track down Dr.  Besancourt, the

pediatrician who treated Marcie on those rare occasions when she was

sick.  As Mary and Pete tried unsuccessfully to get a smile or at least

a word of response from the stricken girl, and as Marcie continued to

act as if she were deaf and mute, Jorja's mind was increasingly filled

with half-remembered magazine articles about autistic children.  She

couldn't recall whether autism was a condition that began in infancy or

whether it was possible for a perfectly normal little girl of seven to

suddenly withdraw into a private place and close out the rest of the

world forever.  Not being able to remember made her a little crazy.

Gradually, however, Marcie came out of her daze.  She began to answer

Mary and Pete, though in one-word replies delivered in a flat,

emotionless voice nearly as unsettling as her screams had been earlier.

Sucking on her thumb as she had not done in at least two years, she went

into the living room to play with her new toys.  Most of the afternoon,

she played without any visible pleasure, a faint scowl having taken

unchallenged possession of her small face.  Jorja was no less worried

because of this change, but she was relieved to see that Marcie showed

no further interest in the Little Ms.  Doctor kit.

By four-thirty, the girl's scowl had faded, and she had become sociable

once more.  In a good mood again, she was such a natural charmer that

she almost made it seem as if her outburst at the table had been no

worse than any child's temper tantrum.

In fact, on the outside stairs of the apartment complex, beyond Marcie's

hearing, Jorja's mother paused on the way down to the car and said,

"She's just trying to let us know that she's hurt and confused.  She

doesn't understand why her father left, and right now she needs a lot of

special attention, Jorja, a lot of love.  That's all."

Jorja knew the problem was worse than that.  She had no doubt that

Marcie was still disturbed by her father's behavior, deeply hurt by his

abandonment, and full of unresolved conflicts.  But something else was

eating the girl, something that seemed disturbingly irrational, and

Jorja was scared of it.

Not long after Pete and Mary left, the girl began playing Little Ms.

Doctor with the same unnerving intensity she had exhibited earlier, and

when bedtime came she wanted to take the kit with her.  Now, some of the

Little Ms.  Doctor things lay on the floor at Marcie's side of the bed,

some on the nightstand.  And in the dark bedroom the child dreamed and

whimpered about doctors, nurses, needles.

Jorja would have been unable to sleep even if Marcie had been perfectly

still and quiet.  Worry induced insomnia even more effectively than a

dozen cups of coffee.  Since she was awake anyway, she listened

attentively to her daughter's every dreamy utterance, hoping that she

would hear something that would help her understand or that would assist

the doctor in arriving at his diagnosis.  It was after two o'clock in

the morning when Marcie mumbled something different from what she had

mumbled before, something that had nothing to do with doctors and nurses

and big sharp needles.  With a flurry of violent kicks, the girl flopped

from her stomach onto her back,

gasped, and went rigid, perfectly still.  "The moon, moon, the moon,"

she said, in a voice that was filled with both amazement and fear, "the

moon," a voice of such chilling whispery urgency that Jorja knew it was

not just meaningless sleeptalk.  "The moon, moon, oooooonnn .

Chicago, Illinois.

Brendan Cronin, priest on probation, slept warmly under a blanket and

patchwork quilt, smiling at something in a dream.  The winter wind

sighed through the giant pine tree outside, fluted and soughed in the

caves, and moaned at his window, exerting itself in evenly spaced gusts

as if nature were ventilating the night with a huge mechanical bellows

that faithfully produced eight exhalations to the minute.  Even lost in

his dream, Brendan must have been aware of the wind's slow pulse, for

when he began to talk in his sleep, the words issued from him in a

sympathetic rhythm: "The moon .  .  .  the moon .  .  .  the moon .  . .

the moon.........

Laguna Beach, California.

"The moon!  The moon!"

Dominick Corvaisis was awakened by his own fearful shouting and by a

burning pain in his right wrist.  He was on his hands and knees in the

darkness beside his bed, wrenching frantically at something that had a

grip on his arm.  He continued to struggle for a few seconds until the

mists of sleep cleared, whereupon he realized that he was being held by

nothing more sinister than the rope with which he had tethered himself.

Breathing raggedly, heart pounding, he fumbled for the lamp switch and

winced as the sudden light stung his eyes. A quick look at the

restraining rope showed that in his sleep (and in the dark) he had

completely untied one of the four tightly drawn knots and partially

unraveled a second before losing patience for the task.  Then, in the

panic that always accompanied his sleepwalking, he evidently had begun

to pull and tug and twist against the belaying line as if he were a dumb

animal protesting a leash, painfully abrading his right wrist.

Dom got off the floor and, pushing aside the tangled blankets, sat on

the edge of the bed.

He knew he had been dreaming, though he could not recall anything about

the dream.  However, he was pretty sure that it was not the nightmare he

had endured on other occasions during the past month, for that one had

had nothing to do with the moon.  This was another dream, equally

terrifying but in a different way.

His shouts, which had been partly responsible for waking him, had been

so importunate, so haunted, so fright-filled that he could even now

summon them in memory as clearly as he had first heard them: "The moon!

The moon!" He shuddered and raised his hands to his throbbing head.

The moon.  What did it mean?

Boston, Massachusetts.

Ginger sat straight up in bed with a shrill cry.

Lavinia, the Hannabys'housekeeper, said, "Oh, I'm sorry, Dr.  Weiss.

Didn't mean to scare you.  You were having a nightmare."

"Nightmare?" Ginger had no recollection of a dream.

"Oh, yes," Lavinia said, "and a really bad one from the sound of it.  I

was passing in the hall when I heard you crying out.  I almost came in

right away, until I realized you must be dreaming.  I hesitated then,

but you went on and on, shouting it over and over again, until I thought

I'd better wake you."

Blinking, Ginger said, "Shouting?  What was I shouting?"

"Over and over again," the housekeeper said."

"The moon, the moon, the moon." You sounded so frightened."

"I don't remember."

"The moon,' " Lavinia assured her, "

"the moon,' over and over again, in such a voice that I half-thought

someone was killing you."

Days of Discovery Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear-not

absence of fear.

_MARK TWAIN

Is there some -meaning to this life?

What purpose lies behind the strife?

Whence do we come, where are we bound?

These cold questions echo and resound through each day, each lonely

night. We long to find the splendid light that will cast a revelatory

beam upon the meaning of the human dream.

-THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS

A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of Nature.

-RALPH WALDO EMERSON

December 26-January 11

1.

Boston, Massachusetts

Between December 27 and January 5, Dr.  Ginger Weiss went to Pablo

Jackson's Back Bay apartment six times.  On six of those visits he used

hypnotic therapy to probe cautiously and patiently at the Azrael Block

that sealed off a portion of her memory.

To the old magician, she grew more beautiful each time she arrived at

his door-more intelligent, charming, and appealingly tough-minded, too.

Pablo saw in her the kind of woman he would have wanted as a daughter.

Ginger had stirred in him protective fatherly feelings that he had never

known before.

He told her nearly everything he had learned from Alexander Christophson

at the Hergensheimers' Christmas party. She resisted the idea that her

memory block had not developed naturally but had been implanted by

persons unknown. "Too bizarre.  Things like that don't happen to

ordinary people like me.  I'm just afarmishteh from Brooklyn, not

someone who gets involved in international intrigue."

The only thing about his conversation with Alex Christophson that he did

not tell her was that the retired espionage officer had warned against

becoming involved with her.  If Ginger knew Alex had been deeply

disturbed, she might decide that the situation was too dangerous to

justify Pablo's involvement.  Out of concern for her and out of a

selfish desire to be part of her life, he withheld that information.

At their first meeting on December 27, prior to the session of hypnosis,

he prepared a lunch of quiche and salad.  As they ate, Ginger said,

"But, I've never been around a sensitive military installation, never

been involved in any defense research, never associated with anyone who

could conceivably be part of a spy ring.  It's ludicrous!"

"If you stumbled on some dangerous bit of knowledge, it wasn't in a high

security area.  It was someplace you had every right to be .  .  .

except you just happened to be there at the wrong time."

"But listen, Pablo, if they brainwashed me, that would've taken time.

They'd have had to hold me in custody somewhere.  Right?"

"I imagine it would take a few days."

"So you can't be right," she said.  "Of course, I realize that while

they were forcing me to forget the thing I'd accidentally seen, they'd

also repress the memory of the place where they held me for the

brainwashing.  But there'd be a blank spot in my past somewhere, an

empty time when I couldn't remember where I'd been or what I'd done."

"Not at all.  They'd implant a set of false recollections to cover the

missing days, and you'd never know the difference."

"Good God!  Really?  They could do that?"

"One thing I hope to do is locate those false memories," Pablo explained

as he finished his quiche.  "It'll take a long time, slowly regressing

you back through your life week by week, but when I find the phony

memories, I'll recognize them tout de suite because they won't have the

detail, the substance, of genuine memories.  Mere stage sets, you see.

If we find two or three days of tissue-thin memories, we'll have

pinpointed the origin of your problem because those will be the dates

when you were in the hands of these people .  .  .  whoever they may

be."

"Yes, yes, I see," she said, suddenly excited.  "The first day of the

mushy memories will be the day that I saw something I shouldn't have

seen.  And the last day will be the day they finished brainwashing me.

It's terribly difficult to believe.  .  .  .  But if someone really did

implant this memory block, and if all my symptoms-the fugues-are a

result of those repressed memories struggling to the surface, then my

problem isn't really psychological.  There's a chance I could practice

medicine again.  All I've got to do is dig out the memories, bring them

into the light, and then the pressure will be relieved."

Pablo took her hand and gave it a squeeze.  "Yes, I believe there's real

hope.  But it's not going to be easy.  Every time I probe at the block,

I risk plunging you into a coma .  .  .  or worse.  I intend to be

oh-so-careful, but the risk remains."

The first two sessions of deep hypnosis were conducted in armchairs by

the huge bay window, one on December 27, one on Sunday the 29th, each

lasting four hours.  Pablo regresse'd her day by day through the

previous nine months but found no obviously artificial memories.

Also on Sunday, Ginger suggested he question her about Dominick

Corvaisis, the novelist whose picture affected her in such a peculiar

manner.  When Pablo hypnotized her and established that he was speaking

to the inner Ginger, to her deep subconscious self, he asked if she had

ever met Corvaisis, and after a brief hesitation she said, "Yes." Pablo

pursued the point cautiously and diligently, but he could get almost

nothing more out of her.  At last a thin vapor of memory escaped her:

"He threw salt in my face."

"Corvaisis threw salt on you?" Puzzled, Pablo asked, "Why?"

"Can't .  .  .  quite .  .  .  remember."

"Where did this happen?"

Her frown deepened, and when he continued to pursue the subject, she

withdrew, sinking into that frightening comatose state.  He quickly

retreated before she had spiraled down as deep as she had done before.

He assured her that he would ask no further questions about Corvaisis if

only she would return, and gradually she responded to that promise.

Clearly, Ginger had at one time met Corvaisis.  And her encounter with

him was associated with the memories of which she had been robbed.

In the next two sessions-Monday the 30th and Wednesday, the first day of

the New Year-Pablo regressed Ginger yet another eight months, to the end

of July, two summers ago, without discovering any tissue-thin memories

that would indicate the work of mind-control specialists.

Then on Thursday, January 2, Ginger asked him to question her about her

previous night's unremembered dream. For the fourth time since

Christmas, she had cried out in her sleep-"The moon!"-with such

insistence that she woke others in Baywatch.  "I think the dream's about

the place and time that's been stolen from me.  Put me in a trance, and

maybe we'll learn something."

But when hypnotized and returned to last night's dream, she refused to

answer questions and drifted into a deeper sleep than a mere hypnotic

trance.  He had pulled the Azrael Trigger once more, which was positive

proof that her dreams involved those forbidden memories.

On Friday they did not meet.  Pablo needed the day to read further about

memory blocks of all kinds and to think about how best to proceed.

In addition, he had recorded all five post-Christmas sessions, so he sat

at the reproduction Sheraton desk in his booklined study and listened to

portions of those tapes for hours. He was searching for a single word or

a change in Ginger's voice that might make a particular answer seem more

important on rehearing than it had seemed at the time.

He found nothing startling, though he noticed that, during hypnotic

regression, a subtle note of anxiety had entered her voice when their

backward journey through time had reached August 31 of the year before

last.  It was nothing dramatic that would have caught his attention at

the time the recordings were made.  But by telescoping all the sessions

into one afternoon, using the fast-forward control to skip from day to

day, he saw the pattern of steadily building anxiety, and he suspected

they were getting close to the event now hidden behind the Azrael Block.

Therefore, during their sixth post-Christmas session on Saturday,

January 4, Pablo was not surprised when the breakthrough came.  As

usual, Ginger was sitting in one of the armchairs by the bay window,

beyond which a fine snow was falling.  Her silver-blond hair glowed with

spectral light.  As he regressed her back through July of the previous

year, her brows knitted, and her voice became whispery and tense, and

Pablo knew she was drawing closer to the moment of her forgotten ordeal.

Since they were going backward in time, he had already taken her through

her busy months as a surgical resident at Memorial Hospital, back to the

moment when she first reported to George Hannaby for duty on Monday,

July 30,

more than seventeen months ago.  Her memories remained sharp and richly

detailed as Pablo conveyed her into Sunday, July 29, when she still had

been settling into her new apartment.  July 28, 27, 26, 25, 24 ...

through those days she had been unpacking and shopping for furniture ...

all the way back to July 21, 20, 19.  .  .  .  On July 18, the moving

van arrived with her household goods, which she had shipped from Palo

Alto, California, where she had lived the previous two years while

taking an advanced course of study in vascular surgery.  Farther back ..

.

On July 17, she arrived in Boston by car and booked a room overnight at

the Holiday Inn Government Center, as close to Beacon Hill as possible,

not yet able to stay at her new apartment because she had no bed there.

"By car?  You drove cross-country from Stanford?"

"It was the first vacation I ever really had.  I like to drive, and it

was a chance to see a little of the country," Ginger said, but in such

an ominous voice that she might have been talking about a journey

through hell rather than a transcontinental holiday.

So Pablo began to regress her through the days of her journey, back

across the midwestern heartland, around the northernmost horn of the

Rocky Mountains, through Utah, into Nevada, until they came to Tuesday

morning, July 10. She had stayed the previous night at a motel, and when

he asked for the name of it, a shudder passed through her.

"T-Tranquility."

"Tranquility Motel?  Where is this place?  Describe it, too."

On the arms of her chair, her hands curled into fists.  "Thirty miles

west of Elko, on Interstate 80." Haltingly, reluctantly, she described

the twenty-unit Tranquility Motel and Grille. Something about the place

terrified her.  Every muscle in her body went rigid.

Pablo said, "So you stayed the night of July ninth at the motel.  That

was a Monday.  All right, so now it's Monday, July ninth.  You're just

arriving at the motel.  You haven't stayed there yet; you're just

driving up to it.  .  .  .  What time of the day is it?"

She did not answer, and her tremors grew more pronounced, and when he

asked again, she said, "I didn't arrive on Monday.  F-Friday."

Startled, Pablo said, "The previous Friday?  You stayed at the

Tranquility Motel from Friday, July sixth, through Monday, July ninth?

Four nights at this small motel in the middle of nowhere?" He leaned

forward in his chair, sensing that they had found the time when her mind

had been tampered with.  "Why would you want to stay so long?"

In a slightly wooden voice, she said, "Because it was peaceful.  I was

on vacation, after all." Her strangely stilted voice became more flat

and devoid of nuance with each word she spoke.  "I needed to relax, you

see, and this was a perfect place to relax."

The old magician looked away from her, watched the faintly luminous snow

slanting down through the dreary gray afternoon beyond the window, and

carefully considered his next question.  "You said this motel has no

swimming pool.  And the rooms you've described aren't luxurious.  Not

resort-style rooms for long-term visits.  What on earth did you do for

four days out there in the middle of nowhere, Ginger?"

"Like I said, I relaxed.  Just relaxed.  Napped.  Read a couple of

books.  Watched some TV.  They have good TV even way out there on the

plains because they've got their own little satellite receiver dish on

the roof." Her manner of speech was now entirely altered, and she

sounded as if she were reading from a script.  "After two intense years

at Stanford, I needed a few days of doing absolutely nothing."

"What books did you read while at the motel?"

" I ...  I don't remember." Her hands were still fisted, and she was

still rigid.  Fine pearly beads of sweat popped out along her hairline.

" Ginger, you're there now, in the motel room, reading. Understand?  You

are reading whatever you were reading then.  Now look at the title of

the book and tell me what it is."

"I .  .  .  no .  .  .  no title."

"Every book has a title."

"No title."

"Because there really is no book-is there?" he said.

"Yes.  I just relaxed.  Napped.  Read a couple of books. Watched some

TV," she said in a soft, dead, emotionless voice.  "They have good TV

even way out there on the plains because they've got their own little

satellite receiver dish on the roof."

"What TV shows did you watch?" Pablo asked.

"News.  Movies."

"What movies?"

She flinched.  "I ...  don't remember."

Pablo was quite sure that the reason she did not remember these things

was precisely because she had never done them. She had been at that

motel, all right, because she could describe it in minute detail, but

she could not recall the books and the TV programs because she had never

passed any of that time in those pursuits.  Through clever post-hypnotic

suggestions, she had been instructed to say that she had done those

things, and she had actually been made to remember vaguely having done

them, but they were merely artificial memories designed to cover what

had really transpired at that motel.  A specialist in brainwashing could

insert false memories in a subject's mind, but even if he worked very

hard at it and built an intricate web of interlocking details, he could

not make the phony memories as convincing as real ones.

Pablo said, "Where did you eat dinner each night?"

"The Tranquility Grille.  It's a small place, and it doesn't have much

of a menu, but the food is reasonably good." That response was, once

again, delivered in a flat and hollow voice.

Pablo said, "What did you eat at the Tranquility Grille?"

She hesitated.  "I .  .  .  I don't remember."

"But you told me the food was good.  How could you make that judgment if

you don't remember what you ate?"

"Uhhh .  .  .  it's a small place, and it doesn't have much of a menu."

The more insistently he pressed for details, the more tense she became.

Her voice remained emotionless as she spewed out her programmed

responses, but her face twisted and hardened with anxiety.

Pablo could have told her that her apparent memories of those four days

at the Tranquility Motel were false.  He could have ordered her to blow

them out of her mind the way one might blow dust from an old book, and

she would have done it.  Then he could have told her that her true

memories were locked behind an Azrael Block, and that she must hammer it

into more dust.  But if he had done so, she would have plunged, as

programmed, into a coma-or worse.  He would have to spend many days,

possibly weeks, looking for tiny cracks to exploit cautiously.

For today, he contented himself with identifying the precise number of

hours of her life that had been stolen from her. He took her back to

Friday, July 6, of the summer before last, and asked exactly when she

signed the register at the Tranquility Motel.

"A little after eight o'clock." She no longer spoke in a wooden voice

because these were real memories.  "It was still an hour before sunset,

but I was exhausted.  All I wanted was dinner, a shower, and bed." She

described the man and woman behind the check-in counter in detail.  She

even recalled their names: Faye and Ernie.

Pablo said, "Once you had checked in, you ate at the Tranquility Grille

next to the motel.  So describe the place."

She did so, and in convincing detail.  But when he jumped her ahead to

the moment at which she left the restaurant, her recollections were

phony again, thin and without color. Clearly, her memories had been

altered from some point after she had gone into the Tranquility Grille

on that Friday evening until she had left the motel and had headed

toward Utah the following Tuesday morning.

Pablo backtracked, returning Ginger to the small restaurant once more,

searching for the exact moment at which the genuine memories ended and

the false began.  "Tell me about your dinner from the moment you went

into Tranquility Grille that Friday evening.  Minute by minute."

Ginger sat up straight in her chair.  Her eyes were still closed, but

under the shuttered lids, they moved visibly, as if she were looking

left and right upon entering the Tranquility Grille.  She unfisted her

hands and got up, much to Pablo's surprise.  She walked away from her

chair, toward the center of the room.  He walked beside her to prevent

her from bumping into furniture.  She did not know she was in his

apartment but imagined herself to be making her way between the tables

in the restaurant.  As she moved, the tension and fear left her, for now

she was wholly in that time, prior to all her trouble, when she had had

nothing about which to be tense or afraid.

In a quiet, anxiety-free voice she said, "Took me a while to freshen up

and get over here, so it's almost twilight.  Outside, the plains are

orange in the late sunlight, and the inside of the diner is full of that

glow.  I think I'll take that booth over in the corner by the window."

Pablo went with her, guiding her past the Picasso painting toward one of

the sofas that was decorated with colorful pastel accent pillows.

She said, "Mmmm.  Smells good.  Onions .  .  .  spices .  .  .  French

fries .  .  ."

"How many people in the diner, Ginger?"

She paused and turned her head, surveying the room with closed eyes.

"The cook behind the counter and a waitress. Three men.....  truck

drivers, I guess.....  on stools at the counter.  And.....  three at

that table.....  and the chubby priest .  .  .  another guy over at that

booth .  .  ." Ginger continued pointing and counting.  "Oh, eleven in

all, plus me."

"All right," Pablo said, "let's go to that booth by the windows."

She began walking again, smiled vaguely at someone, sidestepped an

obstacle that only she could see, then suddenly twitched in surprise,

jerked one hand to her face.  "Oh!" She stopped.

"What is it?" Pablo asked.  "What's happened?"

She blinked furiously for a moment, smiled, and spoke to someone in the

Tranquility Grille back there on July 6 of last year.  "No, no, I'm all

right.  It's nothing.  I've already brushed it off." She wiped her face

with one hand.  "See?" She had been looking down, as if the other person

was seated, and now she raised her eyes as he got up.

Pablo waited for her to continue the conversation.

She said, "Well, when you spill salt you'd better throw some over your

shoulder, or God knows what'll happen.  My father used to throw it three

times, so if you'd been him, you'd have buried me in the stuff."

She started walking again, and Pablo said, "Stop.  Wait, Ginger.  The

man who threw salt over his shoulder-tell me what he looks like."

"Young," she said.  "Thirty-two or thirty-three.  About five-ten.  Lean.

Dark hair.  Dark eyes.  Sort of handsome.  Seems shy, sweet."

Dominick Corvaisis.  No doubt about it.

She began to move again.  Pablo stayed at her side until, realizing she

was about to sit in the restaurant booth, he guided her gently to the

sofa.  She sat back on it and looked out a window, smiling at her

private panorama of Nevada plains washed in the light of a dying sun.

Pablo watched and listened while Ginger exchanged pleasantries with the

waitress and ordered a bottle of Coors.  The beer was served, and Ginger

pantomimed sipping it while she watched the sun fade.  Seconds ticked

past, but Pablo didn't speed her through the scene because he knew they

were approaching the crucial moment when her real memories gave way to

phony ones.  The event-the thing that she saw and should not have

seen-had transpired around this time, and Pablo wanted to learn

everything he could about the minutes leading up to it.

Twilight arrived back there in the past.

When the waitress returned, Ginger ordered a bowl of the homemade

vegetable soup and a cheeseburger with all the trimmings.

Night fell out there in Nevada.

Abruptly, before her food had been served, Ginger frowned and said,

"What's that?" She looked out the imagined window, scowling.

"What do you see?" Pablo asked, chained to his inconvenient vantage

point in present-day Boston.

A worried look came over her face, and she stood up. "What the devil is

that noise?" She looked toward other people in the restaurant with a

puzzled expression, and she spoke to them: "I don't know.  I don't know

what it is." She suddenly tottered sideways and nearly fell.  "Gevalt!"

She reached out as if supporting herself against the side of a booth or

table.  "Shaking.  Why's everything shaking?" She jumped in surprise.

"It's knocked over my beer glass.  Is it an earthquake?  What's

happening?  What is that sound?" She stumbled again.  Now she was

frightened.  "The door!" She started to run across the living room,

though in her mind she was heading toward the exit from the restaurant

that, in reality, she had long ago departed.  "The door," she cried

again, but then she stopped abruptly, swaying, gasping, shuddering.

When Pablo caught up with her, she dropped to her knees and hung her

head.  "What's happening, Ginger?"

"Nothing." She had changed in an instant.

"What's that noise?"

"What noise?" The robot voice again.

"Ginger, damn it, what's happening in the Tranquility Grille?"

Horror was on her face, but she merely said, "I'm having dinner."

"That's a false memory"Having dinner."

He tried to make her continue with the crucial memory of the frightening

thing that had been about to happen.  But at last he had to accept that

the Azrael Block, behind which her memories were repressed, took form

when she had been running for the restaurant door, and it did not end

until the following Tuesday morning, when she drove east toward Salt

Lake City.  In time, he might be able to chip it down to smaller

dimensions, but enough had been accomplished for one day.

At last they were making real headway.  They knew that on the night of

Friday, July 6, the year before last, Ginger had seen something she had

not been meant to see.  Having seen it, she had almost certainly been

detained in a room at the Tranquility Motel, where someone had used

sophisticated brainwashing techniques to conceal the memory of that

event from her and thereby prevent her from carrying word of it to the

world.  They had worked on her for three days-Saturday, Sunday, and

Monday-releasing her, with sanitized recollections, on Tuesday.

But, in God's name, who were these omnipotent strangers?

And what had she seen?

2.

Portland, Oregon

Sunday, January 5, Dominick Corvaisis flew to Portland and took a hotel

room near the apartment house in which he had once lived.  Rain was

falling hard, and the air was cold.

Except for dinner in the hotel restaurant, he spent the remaining hours

of Sunday afternoon and evening at a table by the window of his room,

alternately staring out at the rainlashed city and studying the

roadmaps.  Again and again, he mentally reviewed the trip he had taken

the summer before last (and would take again starting tomorrow).

As he had told Parker Faine on Christmas, he was convinced that he had

stumbled into a dangerous situation out there on the road, and that

(paranoid as it sounded) the memory of it had been wiped from his mind.

The mail from his unknown correspondent pointed to no other conclusion.

Two days ago, he had received a third envelope without a return address,

postmarked New York.  Now, when Dom tired of looking at the maps and

staring thoughtfully out at the Oregon rain, he picked up that envelope,

shook out the contents, and studied them.  This time there had been no

note, just two Polaroid photographs.

The first picture had the least effect on him, although it made him

tense-unaccountably tense, considering that it was a photograph of

someone who, as far as he knew, was a stranger to him.  A young, pudgy

priest with unruly auburn hair, freckles, and green eyes.  He was facing

the camera, sitting in a chair near a small writing desk, a suitcase at

his side.  He was very erect, head up and shoulders squared off, hands

limp in his lap, knees together.  The picture disturbed Dom because the

expression on the priest's face was only one step removed from the

lifeless, sightless stare of a corpse. The man was alive; that much was

evident from his rigid posture, yet his eyes were chillingly empty.

The second photograph hit Dom much harder than the first, and its

powerful effect did not diminish with familiarity.  A young woman was

the subject of this snapshot, and she was no stranger.  Although Dom

could not recall where they had met, he knew they were acquainted.  The

sight of her made his heart quicken with a fear similar to that which

filled him when he woke from one of his episodes of sleepwalking.  She

was in her late twenties.  Blue eyes.  Silver-blond hair.  Exquisitely

proportioned face.  She would have been exceptionally beautiful if her

expression had not been precisely that of the priest: slack, dead,

empty-eyed.  She had been photographed from the waist up, lying in a

narrow bed, sheets pulled up chastely to her neck.  Restraining straps

held her down.  One arm was partially bared to allow clearance for an IV

needle in her wrist vein.  She looked small, helpless, oppressed.

The photograph instantly brought to mind his own nightmare in which

unseen men were shouting at him and forcing his face into a sink.  A

couple of times, that bad dream had not begun at the sink itself but in

a bed in a strange room, where his vision was blurred by a saffron mist.

Looking at the young woman, Dom was convinced that somewhere there was a

Polaroid shot of him in similar circumstances: strapped to a bed, an IV

needle in his arm, his face without expression.

When he had shown the two photographs to Parker Faine on Friday, the day

they came in the mail, the artist jumped to similar conclusions.  "If

I'm wrong, roast me in hell and make sandwiches for the devil, but I

swear this is a snapshot of a woman in a trance or drug-induced stupor,

undergoing the brainwashing that you evidently underwent.  Christ, this

situation gets more bizarre and fascinating day by day!  It's something

you ought to be able to go to the cops aboutbut you can't, because who's

to say which side they'd be on?

It may have been a branch of our own government you ran afoul of out

there on the road.  Anyway, you weren't the only one who got in trouble,

good buddy.  This priest and this woman also stumbled into it.  Whoever

went to this much trouble is hiding something damned big, a lot bigger

than I thought before."

Now, sitting at the table by his hotel room window, Dom held one picture

in each hand, side by side, and let his gaze travel back and forth from

the priest to the woman.  "Who are you?" he asked aloud.  "What're your

names?  What happened to us out there?"

Outside, lightning cracked whiplike in the night over Portland, as if a

cosmic coachman were urging the rain to fall faster.  Like the drumming

hooves of a thousand harried horses, fat, hard-driven raindrops hammered

against the wall of the hotel and galloped down the window.

Later, Dom fastened himself to the bed with a tether that he had

improved considerably since Christmas.  First he wrapped a length of

surgical gauze around his right wrist and secured it with adhesive tape,

a barrier between rope and flesh to prevent abrasion.  He was no longer

using an ordinary allpurpose line but a hawser-laid nylon rope, only a

quarterinch in diameter but with a breaking strength of twenty-six

hundred pounds.  It was expressly made for rock- and mountain-climbing.

He had switched to the sturdier rope because, on the night of December

28, he had slipped his previous tether by chewing all the way through it

while asleep.  The mountaineering rope was fray-resistant and nearly as

impervious to teeth as copper cable would have been.

That night in Portland, he woke three times, wrestling fu riously with

the tether, perspiring, panting, his racing heart's accelerator floored

beneath a heavy weight of fear.  "The moon!  The moon!"

3.

Las Vegas, Nevada

The day after Christmas, Jorja Monatella took Marcie to Dr. Louis

Besancourt, and the examination turned into an ordeal that frustrated

the physician, frightened Jorja, and embarrassed them both.  From the

moment Jorja took her into the doctor's waiting room, the girl screamed,

screeched, wailed, and wept.  "No doctors!  They'll hurt me!"

On those rare occasions when Marcie misbehaved (and they were rare,

indeed), one hard slap on the bottom was usually all that was required

to restore her senses and induce contrition.  But when Jorja tried that

now, it had the opposite effect of what she intended.  Marcie screamed

louder, wailed more shrilly, and wept more copiously than before.

The assistance of an understanding nurse was required to convey the

shrieking child from the waiting area into an examination room, by which

time Jorja was not only mortified but worried sick by Marcie's complete

irrationality.  Dr.  Besancourt's good humor and bedside manner were not

enough to quiet the girl, and in fact she became more frightened and

violent the moment he appeared.  Marcie pulled away from him when he

tried to touch her, screamed, struck him, kicked him, until it became

necessary for Jorja and a nurse to hold her down.  When the doctor used

an ophthalmoscope to examine her eyes, her terror reached a crescendo

indicated by a sudden loosening of her bladder that was dismayingly

reminiscent of the fiasco on Christmas Day.

Her uncontrolled urination marked an abrupt change in her demeanor.  She

became sullen, silent, just as she had for a while on Christmas.  She

was shockingly pale, and she shivered constantly.  She had that eerie

detachment that made Jorja think of autism.

Lou Besancourt had no simple diagnosis with which to comfort Jorja.  He

spoke of neurological and brain disorders,

and psychological illness.  He wanted Marcie to check into Sunrise

Hospital for a few days of tests.

The ugly scene at Besancourt's office was just a warmup for a series of

fits Marcie threw at the hospital.  The mere sight of doctors and nurses

catapulted her into panic, and invariably the panic became outright

hysteria that escalated until, exhausted, the child fell into that

semicatatonic trance from which she needed hours to recover.

Jorja took a week of sick-leave from the casino and virtually lived at

Sunrise for four days, sleeping on a rollaway bed in Marcie's room.  She

didn't get much rest.  Even in a drugged sleep, Marcie twitched, kicked,

whimpered, and cried out in her dreams: "The moon, the moon .  .  ." By

the fourth night, Sunday, December 29, worried and weary, Jorja almost

needed medical attention for herself.

Miraculously, on Monday morning, Marcie's irrational terror simply went

away.  She still did not like being hospitalized, and she pleaded

aggressively to go home.  But she no longer appeared to feel that the

walls were going to close in and crush her.  She remained uneasy in the

company of doctors and nurses, but she did not shrink from them in

horror or strike them when they touched her.  She was still pale,

nervous, and watchful.  But for the first time in days, her appetite was

normal, and she ate everything on her breakfast tray.

Later in the day, after the final testing had been completed, while

Marcie was sitting in bed eating lunch, Dr.  Besancourt spoke with Jorja

in the hall.  He was a hound-faced man with a bulbous nose and moist,

kind eyes.  "Negative, Jorja.  Every test, negative.  No brain tumors,

no cerebral lesions, no neurological dysfunction."

Jorja almost burst into tears.  "Thank God."

"I'm going to refer Marcie to another doctor," Besancourt said.  "Ted

Coverly.  He's a child psychologist, and a good one.  I'm sure he'll

ferret out the cause of this.  Funny thing is .  .  .  I have a hunch we

may have cured Marcie without realizing we were doing it."

Jorja blinked.  "Cured her?  What do you mean?"

"In retrospect I can see that her behavior had all the earmarks of a

phobia.  Irrational fear, panic attacks .  .  .  I suspect she'd begun

to develop a severe phobic aversion to all things medical.  And there's

a treatment called "flooding," wherein the phobic patient is

purposefully, even ruthlessly exposed to the thing he fears for such a

long time-hours and hoursthat the power of the phobia is shattered.

Which is what we might've inadvertently done to Marcie when we forced

her into the hospital."

"Why would she have developed such a phobia?" Jorja asked.  "Where would

it've come from?  She's never had a bad experience with doctors or

hospitals.  She's never been seriously ill."

Besancourt shrugged, sidled out of the way of some nurses pushing a

patient on a gurney.  "We don't know what causes phobias.  You don't

have to crash in a plane in order to be afraid of flying.  Phobias just

.  .  .  spring up.  Even if we accidentally cured her, there'll be a

residual apprehension that Ted Coverly can identify.  He'll root out any

remaining traces of phobic anxiety.  Don't worry, Jorja."

That afternoon, Monday, December 30, Marcie was released from the

hospital.  In the car on the way home, she was almost her old self,

happily pointing out animal shapes in the clouds.  At home, she dashed

into the living room and settled down immediately among the piles of new

Christmas toys which she had not yet had much opportunity to enjoy. She

still played with the Little Ms.  Doctor kit, though not exclusively or

with that disturbing intensity that she had exhibited on Christmas Day.

Jorja's parents raced over to the apartment.  Jorja had kept them away

from the hospital by arguing that they might disturb Marcie's delicate

condition.  Marcie remained in a splendid mood at dinner, sweet and

amusing, leaving Jorja's parents disarmed.

For the next three nights, Marcie slept in Jorja's bed in case she

suffered an anxiety attack, but none materialized. The nightmares came

with less frequency and less power than before, and Marcie's sleeptalk

awakened Joria only twice in three nights.  "The moon, moon, the moon!"

But now it was a soft and almost forlorn call rather than a shout.

In the morning, at breakfast, she asked Marcie about the dream, but the

girl could not remember it.  "The moon?" she said, frowning into her

bowl of Trix.  "Didn't dream about the moon.  Dreamed about horses.  Can

I have a horse someday?"

"Maybe, when we don't live in an apartment any more."

Marcie giggled.  "I know that.  You can't keep a horse in an apartment.

The neighbors would complain."

Thursday, Marcie saw Dr.  Coverly for the first time.  She liked him. If

she still had an abnormal fear of doctors, she hid it well.

That night Marcie slept in her own bed, with only the company of a teddy

bear named Murphy.  Jorja got up three times between midnight and dawn

to look in on her daughter. Once she heard the now-familiar chant-"moon,

moon, moon"-in a whisper that, because it was an eerie blend of fear and

delight, made the hair prickle on her scalp.

And on Friday, with three days of school vacation still ahead for

Marcie, Jorja put her in Kara Persaghian's care once more and returned

to work.  It was almost a relief to get back to the noise and smoke of

the casino.  Cigarettes, stale beer, and the occasional blast of

halitosis were infinitely more pleasing than the antiseptic stink of the

hospital.

She picked up Marcie at Kara's place, and on the way home the girl

excitedly showed her the product of a day spent drawing on butcher's

paper: scores of pictures of the moon in every imaginable hue.

On Sunday morning, January 5, when Jorja got out of bed and went to brew

coffee, she found Marcie at the dining room table, engaged in a curious

task.  The girl, still in her pajamas, was taking all the photographs

out of their picture album and making neat stacks of them.

"I'm putting the pictures in a shoebox, because I need the .  .  .

album," the girl said, frowning over the hard word. "I need it for my

moon collection." She held up a picture of the moon clipped from a

magazine.  "I'm going to make a big collection."

"Why?  Baby, why're you so interested in the moon?"

"It's pretty," Marcie said.  She put the picture on a blank page of the

photo album and stared at it.  In her fixed gaze, in the intensity of

her fascination with the photograph, there was an echo of the

single-mindedness with which she had played Little Ms.  Doctor.

With a quiver of apprehension, Jorja thought, This is how the damn

doctor phobia started.  Quietly.  Innocently.  Has Marcie merely traded

one phobia for another?

She had the urge to run to the telephone and somehow get hold of Dr.

Coverly, even if it was Sunday and his day off.

But as she stood by the table, studying her daughter, Jorja decided she

was overreacting.  Marcie certainly had not traded one phobia for

another.  After all, the girl wasn't afraid of the moon.  Just .  .  .

well, strangely fascinated by it.  A temporary enthusiasm.  Any parent

of a bright seven-year-old was accustomed to these short-lived but

fiercely burning fascinations and infatuations.

Nevertheless, Jorja decided she would tell Dr.  Coverly about it when

she took Marcie to his office for a second session on Tuesday.

At twelve-twenty A M.  Monday, before she turned in for the night, Jorja

looked in on Marcie to see if she was sleeping soundly.  The girl was

not in bed.  In her dark room, she had drawn a chair up to the window

and was sitting there, staring out.

"Honey?  What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong.  Come see

Marcie said softly, dream ily.

Heading toward the girl, Jorja said, "What is it, Peanut?"

"The moon," Marcie said, her eyes fixed on the silvery crescent high in

the black vault of the sky.  "The moon."

4.

Boston, Massachusetts

On Monday, January 6, the wind from the Atlantic was bitterly cold and

unrelenting, and all of Boston was humbled by it.  On the blustery

streets, heavily bundled and bescarfed people hurried toward sanctuary

with their shoulders drawn up and heads tucked down.  In the hard gray

winter light, the modern glass office towers appeared to be constructed

of ice, while the older buildings of historic Boston huddled together,

presenting a drab and miserable face utterly unlike their charm and

stateliness in better weather.  Last night, sleet had fallen.

The barren trees were jacketed in glittering ice, bare black branches

poking through the white crust like the marrow core revealed beneath the

outer layers of shattered bones.

Herbert, the efficient major domo who kept the Hannaby household

functioning smoothly, drove Ginger Weiss to her seventh post-Christmas

meeting with Pablo Jackson.  The wind and the previous night's ice-storm

had brought down power lines and disrupted the traffic lights at more

than half the intersections.  They finally reached Newbury Street at

eleven-oh-five A. M., just five minutes past Ginger's eleven o'clock

appointment.

After the breakthrough during Saturday's session, Ginger had wanted to

contact the people at the Tranquility Motel in Nevada and broach the

subject of the unremembered event that had transpired there on the night

of July 6, the summer before last.  Either the owners of that motel were

accomplices of those who had tampered with Ginger's memory, or they were

victims like her.  If they had been subjected to brainwashing, perhaps

they also were experiencing anxiety attacks of one sort or another.

Pablo was firmly opposed to immediate confrontation.  He felt the risks

were too great.  If the owners of the motel were not victims but

associates of the victimizers, Ginger might be putting herself in grave

danger.  "You've got to be patient. Before approaching them, you must

have as much information as you can possibly obtain."

She had suggested they go to the police, seeking protection and an

investigation, but Pablo had convinced her that the police would not be

interested.  She had no proof that she had been the victim of a mental

mugging.  Besides, the local constabulary could not unravel a crime

across state lines. She'd have to go to the federal authorities or local

Nevada police, and in either case she might be unwittingly seeking help

from the very people responsible for what had been done to her.

Frustrated but unable to find a hole in Pablo's arguments, Ginger had

agreed to continue following his program of treatment.  He had wanted

Sunday to himself, so he could review the crucial tape of Saturday's

session, and he had said he was not available Monday morning because he

intended to see a friend in the hospital.  "But you come back at, say,

one o'clock Monday afternoon, and we'll begin chipping away at the edges

of that memory block-en pantoufles, 'in slippers' as they say, in a

relaxed manner."

This morning he had called her from the hospital to say that his friend

was being discharged sooner than expected, and that he, Pablo, would be

home by eleven o'clock if she would like to come earlier than planned.

"You can help me make lunch."

Now, disembarking from the elevator and stepping quickly along the short

hall to Pablo's apartment, Ginger decided that she would make every

effort to control her natural impatience and to settle for making

progress en pantoufles, as the magician was determined they would.

The front door was ajar.  Assuming he had left it open for her, she

stepped into the foyer.  Closing the door, she said, "Pablo?"

In another room, someone grunted.  Something clattered softly. Something

thudded to the floor.

"Pablo?" He did not answer.  Moving into the living room, she called out

louder than before.  "Pablo?"

Silence.

One of the library's double doors was open, and a light was on.  Ginger

entered-and saw Pablo lying face-down on the floor near the Sheraton

desk.  He had evidently just returned from his visit to his hospitalized

friend, for he was still wearing galoshes and an overcoat.

As she rushed to him and knelt at his side, grim possibilities occurred

to her-cerebral hemorrhage, thrombosis, or embolism; massive heart

attack-but she was not prepared for what she found when she eased him

onto his back.  Pablo had been shot high in the chest, and bright red

arterial blood welled from the bullet hole.

His eyes fluttered open, and although they looked unfocused, he seemed

to know who she was.  Blood bubbled over his lower lip.  He got out a

single word in an urgent whisper: "Run."

Her instinctive reaction upon seeing him prone before the desk had been

that of a friend and physician: Anguished, she had gone immediately to

his aid.  But until Pablo said, "Run, Ginger did not understand that her

own life might be in jeopardy.  Suddenly she realized that she had heard

no gunfire, which meant a silencer-equipped pistol.  The assailant was

no ordinary burglar.  Someone infinitely more dangerous.  All those

considerations flashed through her mind in an instant.

Her heart pounding, she rose and turned toward the door. The gunman-tall

and broad-shouldered, wearing a leather topcoat belted tightly at the

waist-came out from behind the door, holding the silencer-equipped

pistol.  He was big, but surprisingly less threatening in appearance

than she had expected.  He was her age, clean-cut, with innocent blue

eyes and a face unsuited for menace.

When he spoke, the disparity between his unremarkable appearance and his

murderous actions was even greater, for his first words were a tremulous

apology of sorts.  "Shouldn't have happened.  Didn't have to happen, for

Christ's sake.  I just .  .  .  I was duping those tapes on a high-speed

recorder. That's all I wanted-dupes of the tapes."

He was pointing to the desk, and for the first time Ginger noticed an

open attachs case in which was nestled a compact piece of electronic

equipment.  Tape cassettes were scattered across the top of the desk,

and she knew at once what tapes they were.

"Let's call an ambulance," she said.  She edged toward the phone, but he

stopped her by gesturing pointedly and angrily with the gun.

"High-speed duplication," he said, torn between rage and tears.  "I

could've made copies of all six of your sessions and been out of here.

He wasn't supposed to be home for another fucking hour at least!"

Ginger grabbed a chair cushion and used it to prop up Pablo's head, so

he would not choke on the blood and phlegm in his throat.

Obviously stunned by what had happened, the gunman said, "He just comes

in so quiet, gliding in here like a goddamned ghost."

Ginger remembered how gracefully and elegantly the magician carried

himself, as if each movement was prelude to an act of prestidigitation.

Pablo coughed, closed his eyes.  Ginger wanted to do more for him, but

the only remedy was heroic surgery.  At the moment, she could only keep

a hand on his shoulder in a feeble attempt to reassure him.

She looked up entreatingly, but the gunman only said, "And what the

hell's he doing packing a gun?  A fucking eighty-year-old man, a gun in

his fist, as if he knows how to handle something like this."

Until now, Ginger had not noticed the pistol on the carpet, a few feet

from Pablo's out-flung hand.  When she saw it, a cripplingly sharp pang

of horror went through her, and she nearly passed out, for in that

instant she knew Pablo had been aware all along that it was dangerous to

help her.  She had not suspected that the mere attempt to probe at the

memory block would quickly draw the unwanted attentions of men like this

one in the leather topcoat.  Because this meant she was being watched.

Maybe not hour by hour or even every day.  But they were keeping tabs on

her.  The moment she first called Pablo, she unwittingly endangered his

life.  And somehow he had known, for he had been packing a gun. Now,

Ginger felt the weight of guilt.

"If he hadn't pulled that stupid .22," the gunman said miserably, "and

if he hadn't insisted on calling the cops, I'd have walked away without

laying a hand on him.  I didn't want to hurt him.  Shit."

" For God's sake," Ginger said beseechingly, "let me call an ambulance.

If you didn't mean to hurt him, then let's get help."

The gunman shook his head, and his gaze moved to the crumpled magician.

"Too late anyway.  He's dead."

Those last two words, like a pair of hard punches, knocked the breath

out of her and drew the shadowy curtain of unconsciousness to the edges

of her vision.  One glance at the old man's glassy eyes was enough to

confirm what the gunman had said, yet she resisted the truth.  She

lifted his left hand and put her fingertips to his thin black wrist,

feeling for a pulse.  Finding none, she searched along the carotid

artery in his throat, but in spite of the remaining warmth of the flesh,

there was only an awful stillness where once had been the throb of life.

"No," she said.  "Oh, no." She touched Pablo's dark brow, not with the

diagnostic intent of a physician but tenderly, lovingly.  Her heart was

so painfully constricted with grief that it was difficult to believe she

had known the magician only two weeks.  Like her father, she was quick

to give her heart, and because Pablo was the man he was, the gift of

affection and love was even more easily bestowed than usual. "I'm

sorry," the killer said shakily.  "I'm really sorry.  If he hadn't tried

to stop me, I'd have walked right out of here. Now, I've killed someone,

haven't I?  And .  .  .  you've seen my face."

Blinking back her tears, suddenly aware that she could not afford to

grieve right now, Ginger rose slowly to her feet and faced him.

As if thinking aloud, the gunman said, "You've got to be dealt with now,

too.  I'll have to ransack the place, empty out drawers, take a few

things of value, and make it look like you two walked in on a burglar."

He chewed worriedly on his lower lip.  "Yeah, it'll work.  Instead of

copying the tapes, I'll just take them, so they won't be here to raise

suspicions."

He looked at Ginger and winced.  "I'm sorry.  Jesus, I really am, but

that's the way it'll have to be.  I wish it didn't.  It's partly my

fault.  Should've heard the old bastard coming in. Shouldn't have let

him surprise me." He moved toward her. "Should I maybe rape you, too?  I

mean, would a burglar just shoot a good-looking girl like you?  Wouldn't

he rape you first?  Wouldn't that make this look more real?" He came

closer, and she began to back away.  "God, I don't know if I can do it.

I mean, how can I get a hard-on and do it to you when I know I've got to

kill you afterward?" He kept coming toward her, and she backed up

against the bookshelves.  "I don't like this.  Believe me, I don't. This

shouldn't have to happen.  I really hate this."

His apparently genuine pity, repeated apologies, and sorrowful

self-recriminations gave Ginger the creeps.  He would have been less

frightening if he had been pitiless and bloodthirsty.  The fact that he

had scruples but could set them aside long enough to commit one rape and

two murders .  .  .  that made him more of a monster.

He stopped six feet from her and said, "Please take off your coat."

It was useless to beg, but she hoped to make him overconfident.  "I

won't give a good description of you.  I swear. Please let me go."

"Wish I could." His face defined remorse.  "Take off your coat."

Buying time while she arrived at a course of action, Ginger slowly

unbuttoned the coat.  Her hands were shaking, but she exaggerated those

genuine tremors and fumbled with the buttons.  At last she shrugged out

of the coat and let it drop to the floor.

He stepped closer.  The pistol was only inches from her chest.  He was

more relaxed, holding the gun less rigidly than before, thrusting it

forward less aggressively, though he was by no means lax with it.

"Please don't hurt me." She continued to beg because, if he thought she

was nearly paralyzed with abject fear, he might slip up and give her an

opportunity for escape.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, as if deeply offended by the

implication that he had any choice in the matter.  "Didn't want to hurt

him, either.  That old fool was responsible for this.  Not me.  Listen,

I'll make it as painless as I can.  I promise you that."

Still holding the gun in his right hand, he used his left hand to touch

her breasts through her sweater.  She endured his fondling because he

might become careless as he grew aroused. In spite of his claims that

his empathy would render him impotent, Ginger was certain he'd have no

difficulty raping her.  Beneath his regret and sympathy, beneath the

sensitivity he wished to project more for his own benefit than for hers,

he was taking an unconscious savage pleasure in what he had done and

would do.  In spite of his gentle voice, violence burned in every word

he spoke; he stank of violence.

He said, "Very pretty.  Petite yet so nicely built." He slipped his hand

under her sweater, gripped her bra, gave it a hard yank that broke it.

As elastic snapped, the bra straps dug painfully into her shoulders; the

metal clasp at her back bit the skin.  He grimaced as if her pain was

transmitted to him. "I'm sorry.  Did I hurt you?  I didn't mean it. I'll

be more careful." He pushed aside the ruined brassiere and put his cool,

clammy hand on her bare breasts.

Filled equally with terror and revulsion, Ginger pressed back even

harder against the bookshelves, which jabbed painfully into her back.

The gunman was less than an arm's length away from her now, but he kept

the pistol between them. The muzzle was pressed coldly against her bare

midriff, leaving her no room to maneuver.  If she tried to twist free of

him, she would be gut-shot for her temerity.

Fondling her, he continued to speak soerly and to express great sadness

at the necessity of raping and killing her, as though she simply must

understand, as though it would be unthinkably cruel of her not to bestow

upon him full absolution for the sin of taking her life.

With nowhere to run, with his monotonous self-justifications washing

over her in numbing waves of words, subjected to his groping hand,

Ginger was gripped by a claustrophobia so intense she felt the urge to

claw at him and force him to pull the trigger, just to end it.  His

Certs-scented breath had a cloying minty aroma that, by its

pervasiveness, gave her the feeling she was closed up in a bell-jar with

him.  She whimpered, pleaded with wordless sounds, turned her head from

side to side as if trying to deny the reality of the assault. The

picture of demoralization and terror that she presented could not have

been more convincing if she'd had days to practice, but there was

unfortunately little calculation in it.

Further inflamed by her distress, he pawed at her more roughly than

before.  "I think I can do it, baby.  I think I can do it to you.  Feel

me, baby.  Just feel me." He pressed his body to hers and ground his

pelvis against her.  Incredibly, he seemed to think that, under such

stressful and tragic circumstances, his rampant timescence was a tribute

to her erotic appeal and that somehow she ought to be flattered.

Her reaction could only have been a disappointment for him.

When he pressed and rubbed himself against her, he was obliged to stop

jamming the gun into her belly.  Swept away by his own excitement,

convinced that Ginger was weak and helpless, he did not even keep the

weapon pointed at her but held it to one side with the muzzle aimed at

the floor.  Ginger's terror was exceeded by her loathing and anger, and

the moment the pistol swung away from her, she translated those pent-up

emotions into action.  Turning her head to the side, she slumped against

him as if about to faint in fear or in a swoon of reluctant passion, an

action that brought her mouth to his throat.  In swift succession, she

bit him hard in the Adam's apple, slammed one knee into his crotch, and

clawed at his gun hand to keep the pistol away from her.

He partially blocked the knee, limiting the damage to his privates, but

he was unprepared for the bite.  Shocked, horrified, and reeling from

the devastating pain in his throat, the gunman pushed away from her and

stumbled backward two steps.

She had bitten deep, and now she gagged on the taste of his blood,

though she did not permit her revulsion to delay her counterattack.  She

grabbed his gun hand, brought it to her mouth, and bit his wrist.

A sharp cry of pain and astonishment burst from him.  Because she was

delicate, waiflike, he had not taken her seriously.

As she bit him again, he dropped the gun, but simultaneously he made a

fist of his other hand and with tremendous force slammed it into her

back.  She was driven to her knees and thought for a moment that he had

broken her spine.  Pain as bright and scintillant as an electric current

shot up her back into her neck, flashed through her skull.

Stunned, her vision briefly blurred, Ginger almost did not see him

bending to retrieve the gun.  Just as his fingers touched the butt, she

frantically threw herself at his legs.  Seeing her coming and hoping to

jump out of her reach, he whipped upright as if he were a lashed-down

sapling suddenly cut loose.  When she hit him a fraction of a second

later, he windmilled his arms in a brief attempt to keep his balance.

Falling backward, he crashed into one of the library's chairs, knocked

over a small table and a lamp, and rolled onto Pablo Jackson's corpse.

Equally breathless, staring warily at each other, they were both

petrified for a moment.  They were on their sides on the floor, curled

fetally in reaction to their pains, gasping for breath.

To Ginger, the gunman's eyes seemed as wide and round as clock faces,

proof that he was filled with fevered thoughts of his own mortality

ticking close.  The bite would not kill him.  She had not bitten through

the jugular vein or the carotid artery, had merely pierced the thyroid

cartilage, mangling tissue, severing a few small vessels.  However, it

was easy to understand why he might be convinced it was a mortal wound;

the pain must be excruciating.  He put his unbitten hand to his damaged

throat, then pulled it away and stared aghast at his own gore dripping

off his fingers.  The killer thought he was dying, and that might make

him either less or more dangerous.

Simultaneously, they saw that his pistol had been kicked halfway across

the library during their tussle.  It was closer to him than to Ginger.

Bleeding from throat and wrist, making a strange wheezing-gurgling

noise, he scrambled across the floor toward the weapon, and Ginger had

no option but to get up and run.

She fled from the library into the living room, hobbling more than

running, slowed by the pain in her back, which pulsed through her in

diminishing but still debilitating waves. She intended to leave the

apartment by the front door, but then she realized there was no escape

in that direction because the only exits from the public corridor were

the elevator and the stairs.  She could not wait for the elevator, and

in the stairwell she could easily be trapped.

Instead, hunched because of her aching back, she scurried crablike

across the living room, down a long hall, into the kitchen, where the

swinging door softly swished shut behind her.  She went directly to the

utensils rack on the wall by the stove and took down a butcher's knife.

She became aware that a shrill, eerie keening was issuing from her.  She

held her breath, cut off the sound, and got a grip on herself.

The gunman did not immediately burst into the kitchen, as Ginger

expected.  After a few seconds she realized that she was lucky he had

not yet appeared, because the butcher's knife was of no use against a

pistol at a distance of ten feet. Silently cursing herself for almost

having made a fatal error, she quickly and light-footedly returned to

the door and took up a position to one side of it.  Her back still

ached, but the sharpest pain was gone.  Now she was able to stand

straight and flat against the wall.  Her heart was pounding so loud that

it seemed as if the wall against which she leaned was a drumhead,

responding to her heartbeat, amplifying it until the hollow booming of

atrium and ventricle must be echoing throughout the entire apartment.

She held the knife low, ready to swing it up and into him in a deadly

arc.  However, that desperate scenario depended on his slamming through

the kitchen door in a fit of hysteria and rage, reckless, crazed by the

conviction that he was dying from his throat wound, bent on blind

revenge.  If instead he came slowly, cautiously, nudging the swinging

door open inch by inch with the barrel of the gun, Ginger would be in

trouble. But every second that passed without his appearance made it

less likely that he would play the drama out in the way she hoped.

Unless the throat wound was far worse than she had realized.  In that

case, he might be still in the library, bleeding to death on the Chinese

carpet.  She prayed that was what had happened to him.

But she knew better.  He was alive.  And he was coming.

She could scream and perhaps alert a neighbor who would call the police,

but the gunman would not be driven off in time.  He would not run until

he killed her.  Screaming was a waste of energy.

She pressed harder against the wall, as if trying to melt into it.  The

swinging door, just inches from her face, riveted her as a blacksnake

might command the full attention of a fieldmouse.  She was tense, poised

to react to the first sign of movement, but the door remained still,

maddeningly still.

Where the hell was he?

Five seconds passed.  Ten.  Twenty.

What was he doing?

The taste of blood in her mouth became more rather than less acrid as

the seconds ticked past, and nausea worked its greasy fingers in her. As

she had more time to consider what she'd done to him in the library, she

grew acutely aware of the bestiality of her actions, and she was shaken

by her own potential for savagery.  She had time, as well, to think

about what she still intended to do to him.  She had a mental image of

the wide blade of the butcher's knife spearing deep into his body, and a

shudder of revulsion shook her.  She was not a killer.  She was a

healer, not merely by education but by nature as well.  She tried to

stop thinking about stabbing him. It was dangerous to think too much

about it, dangerous and confusing and enervating.

Where was he?

She could not wait any longer.  Afraid that her inaction was damping the

animal cunning and savage ferocity that she needed if she were to

survive, uneasily certain that each passing second was somehow giving

him a greater advantage, she eased to the doorway and put one hand on

the edge of the door.  But as she was about to pull it open a crack and

peer out at the hallway and into the living room, she was chilled by the

sudden feeling that he was there, inches away, on the other side of the

portal, waiting for her to make the first move.

Ginger hesitated, held her breath, listened.

Silence.

She brought her ear to the door, still could not hear anything.

The handle of the knife had grown slippery in her sweaty hand.

At last, she took hold of the edge of the door and cautiously pulled it

inward, until a half-inch gap opened.  No shots rang out, so she put one

eye to the crack.  The gunman was not right in front of her, as she had

feared, but at the far end of the hall where it met the foyer; he was

just reentering the apartment from the public corridor, pistol in hand.

Evidently, he had first looked for her at the elevator and on the

stairs. Not finding her, he had returned.  Now, by the way he closed the

door, locked it, and engaged the chain to delay her exit, it was clear

that he had decided she was still in the apartment.

He held his bitten hand to his bitten throat.  Even at a distance she

could hear his wheezy breathing.  However, he was clearly no longer

panicked.  Having survived this long, he was gaining confidence by the

second.  He had begun to realize that he would live.

Moving to the edge of the foyer, he looked left toward the living room

and right toward the bedroom.  Then he looked straight back down the

long shadowy hall, and Ginger's heart stumbled through a flurry of

irregular beats as, for a moment, he seemed to be staring directly at

her.  But he was too far away to see that the door was being held half

an inch ajar. Instead of coming straight toward her, he went into the

bedroom.  He moved with a quiet purposefulness that was disheartening.

She let the kitchen door go shut, unhappily aware that her plan would no

longer work.  He was a professional, accustomed to violence, and

although he was initially thrown off balance by the unexpected ferocity

of her attack, he was rapidly regaining his equilibrium.  By the time he

searched the bedrooms and the closets in there, he would be completely

cool and calculating once more.  He would not come charging into the

kitchen and make an easy target of himself.

She had to get out of the apartment.  Fast.

She had no hope of reaching the front door.  He might already be

finished in the bedroom and on his way back into the hall.

Ginger put the knife down.  She reached under her sweater, pulled off

her ruined bra, and dropped it on the floor.  She stepped silently

around the kitchen table, pulled the curtains

away from the window, and looked out at the fire-escape landing in front

of her.  Quietly, she twisted the latch.  She slid up the lower sash,

which unfortunately was not quiet. The wooden frame, swollen by the

winter dampness, moved with a squeak and squeal and scrape.  When it

abruptly loosened and slid all the way up with a solid thump and a

rattle of glass, she knew she had alerted the gunman.  She heard him

coming at a run along the hallway.

She climbed hastily out of the window, onto the iron fire escape, and

started down.  The bitter wind lashed her, and the piercing subzero cold

penetrated to her bones.  The metal steps were crusted with ice from

last night's storm, and icicles hung from the handrails.  In spite of

the treacherous condition of those switchback stairs, she had to descend

quickly or risk a bullet in the back of her head.  Repeatedly, her feet

almost slipped out from under her.  She could not get a secure grip on

the icy railing with her ungloved hands, but it was even worse when she

took hold of the bare metal, for she stuck to the frigid iron, pulling

loose only by sacrificing the top layer of skin.

When she was still four steps from the next landing, she heard someone

curse above her, and she glanced back.  Pablo Jackson's killer was

coming out of the kitchen window in frantic pursuit of her.

Ginger took the next step too fast, and the ice did its work. Her feet

flew out from under her, and she fell over the final three steps onto

the landing, crashing down on her side, reigniting the pain in her back.

Her fall shattered the ice that coated the metal grid, and chunks fell

through lower levels of the fire escape, making brittle music,

disintegrating as they struck the steps below.

In the wind's maniacal howling, the whisper of the silenced pistol was

lost altogether, but Ginger saw sparks leap off the iron inches from her

face, and she knew a shot had narrowly missed her.  She looked up in

time to see the gunman taking aim-and to see him slip and stumble down

several treads. He pitched forward, and she thought he was going to fall

atop her.  He grabbed at the railing three times before he was able to

halt his uncontrolled descent.

He was sprawled on his back across several risers, clutching a step with

one hand, one leg shot out into space between two of the narrow iron

balusters.  His other arm was hooked around a baluster, which was how he

had arrested his fall; that was the hand holding the pistol, which was

why he could not immediately take another shot at her.

Ginger scrambled to her feet, intent upon making as rapid a descent as

possible.  But when she cast one last quick look at the gunman, she was

arrested by the sight of the buttons on his topcoat, which were the only

colorful objects in that wintry gloom.  Bright brass buttons, each

decorated with the raised image of a lion passant, the familiar cadence

mark from English heraldry.  She had seen nothing special about the

buttons before; they were similar to those on many sports jackets,

sweaters, coats.  But now her eyes fixed on them, and everything else

faded away, as if only the buttons were real. Even the gabbling-hooting

wind, which filled the day and blustered coldly in every corner of it,

could not keep a grip on her awareness.  The buttons.  Only the buttons

held her attention, and they generated in her a terror far more powerful

than her fear of the gunman.

"No," she said, uselessly denying what was happening to her.  The

buttons.  "Oh, no." The buttons.  This was the worst possible time and

place to lose control of herself.  The buttons.

She could not forestall the attack.  For the first time in three weeks,

Ginger was overwhelmed by a crushing, irrational terror.  It made her

feel small, doomed.  It plunged her into a strange and lightless

interior landscape through which she was compelled to run blindly.

Turning from the buttons, she fled down the fire escape, and as total

blackness claimed her, she knew that her reckless flight would terminate

in a broken leg or fractured spine. Then, while she lay paralyzed, the

killer would come to her, put the gun to her head, and blow her brains

out.

Darkness.

Cold.

When the world returned to Ginger-or she to the worldshe was huddled in

dead leaves and snow and shadows at the foot of a set of exterior cellar

steps behind a townhouse, an unguessable distance along Newbury Street

from Pablo's building.  A dull pain throbbed the length of her back. Her

entire right side ached.  The badly abraded palm of her left hand

burned.  But the severe cold was the worst discomfort.

A chill lanced up through her from the snow and ice in which she sat.  A

frost passed into her by osmosis from the concrete retaining wall

against which she leaned.  The raw wind rushed down the single flight of

ten steep steps, snuffling and growling like a living creature.

She did not know how long she had been cowering there, but she ought to

get moving or risk pneumonia.  However, the gunman might be nearby,

searching for her, and if she revealed herself, the chase would be on

again, so she decided to wait a minute or two.

She was astonished that she had clambered all the way down the

ice-sheathed fire escape and had fled, by whatever roundabout route, to

this hiding place without breaking her neck.  Evidently, in her fugue,

reduced to the miserable condition of a frightened and mindless animal,

there was at least the compensation of an animal-like fleetness and

sure-footedness.

Like a pair of industrious morticians, the wind and cold continued to

drain the warmth from her.  The narrow, gray concrete stairwell

increasingly resembled an unlidded sarcophagus.  Ginger decided it was

time to go.  She rose slowly. The small backyard was deserted, as were

the yards of houses on both sides.  Ice-crusted snow.  A few bare trees.

Nothing threatening.  Shivering, sniffing, blinking away tears, Ginger

climbed the stairs and followed a brick walkway that linked the rear of

the house to the gate at the end of the small property.

She intended to find her way back to Newbury Street, locate a telephone,

and call the police, but as she reached the gate, that plan was abruptly

forgotten.  On each of the two gateposts was a wrought-iron carriage

lamp with amber panes of glass. Either they'd been left burning by

accident or were activated by a solenoid that had mistaken the dreary

winter morning for twilight.  They were electric lamps but had those

flickering bulbs that imitated gas flames, so the lantern-glass was

alive with shimmering, dancing amber light.  That throbbing, yellowish

luminosity made Ginger's breath catch, and she was once more pitched

into a state of unreasoning panic.

No!  Not again.

But, yes.  Yes.  The mist.  Nothingness.  Gone.

Colder.

Her feet and hands were going numb.

She was apparently on Newbury Street again.  She had crawled under a

parked truck.  Lying in the gloom under the oil pan, she peered out from

beneath her sanctuary, getting a wheel-level view of the vehicles parked

on the other side of the street.

Hiding.  Every time she recovered from a fugue, she was hiding from

something unspeakably terrifying.  Today, of course, she was hiding from

Pablo's killer.  But what about other days?  What had she been hiding

from then?  Even now, she was hiding not only from the gunman but from

something else that hovered tantalizingly at the edge of remembrance.

Something she had seen out in Nevada.  Something.

"Miss?  Hey, miss?"

Ginger blinked and turned stiffly toward the voice, which came from the

back of the truck.  She saw a man on his hands and knees, looking under

the tailgate.  For a moment she thought it was the gunman.

"Miss?  What's wrong?"

Not the gunman.  Evidently, he had given up when he couldn't find her

quickly and had fled.  This was someone she had never seen before, and

this was one occasion when a stranger's face was welcome.

He said, "What the hell are you doing under there?"

Ginger was filled with self-pity.  She realized how she had looked,

running crazily through the neighborhood like some demented freak.  All

dignity had been stolen from her.

She squirmed toward the man who had spoken to her, grasped the gloved

hand he offered, and allowed him to help her slide out from beneath the

truck, which proved to be a Mayflower Moving Company van.  The rear

doors were open. She glanced inside and saw boxes, furniture.  The guy

who had pulled her out was young, brawny, and dressed in quilted thermal

coveralls with the Mayflower logo stitched across the chest.

"What's going on?" he asked.  "Whore you hiding from, lady?"

As the Mayflower man spoke, Ginger noticed a policeman standing in the

middle of the intersection half a block away,

directing traffic, where a signal light had failed.  She ran toward him.

The Mayflower man called after her.

She was surprised she could run at all.  She felt as if she were a

creature constructed of nothing but aches and pains and chills.  Yet she

ran with a dreamy effortlessness into the shrieking wind.  The gutters

were full of icy slush, but the street itself was relatively dry and

calcimine-streaked with deicing compounds.  Dodging out of the way of a

couple of oncoming cars, she even found the strength to call out to the

cop as she drew near him.  "There's been a man killed!  Murder!  You've

got to come!  Murder!" Then, when he started toward her with a look of

concern on his broad Irish face, she saw the shiny brass buttons on his

heavy, winter-weight uniform coat, and all was lost again.  They were

not exactly like the buttons on the leather topcoat the killer had been

wearing; they were not decorated with a lion passant, but with some

other raised figure.  But one glimpse sent her thoughts flashing toward

remembrance of buttons she had seen then, durinp- the mysterious events

at the Tranquility Motel.  Some forbidden recollection began to surface,

and that pulled the Azrael Trigger.

As she lost control and ran off into her private darkness, the last

thing she heard was her own pathetic cry of despair.

Coldest.

That morning, at least for Ginger Weiss, Boston was the coldest place on

earth.  Bitter, polar, piercing, marrow-freezing, the January day

induced a glaciation of the spirit as well as the flesh.  When the fugue

receded, she was sitting on the ground in ice and snow.  Her hands and

feet were numb, stiff. Her lips were chapped and cracked.

This time she had taken refuge in the narrow space between a row of

well-manicured bushes and a brick building, in a shadowy corner where

the angled wall of a bay-windowed tower met a flat portion of the main

facade.  The former Hotel Agassiz.  Where Pablo had his apartment. Where

he had been killed.  She had come nearly full circle.

She heard someone approaching.  Between the hoary branches of the

snow-dressed and ice-laced shrubs, she saw someone climbing over the low

wrought-iron fence that separated the front lawn from the sidewalk.  She

did not see the person himself, merely his booted feet, legs clad in

blue trousers, and the flaps of a long, heavy, navy-blue coat.  But as

he came across the narrow strip of lawn toward the shrubbery, she knew

who he was: the traffic cop from whom she had turned and run.

Fearing yet another seizure at the sight of his coat buttons, Ginger

closed her eyes.

Perhaps irreversible psychological damage was a side-effect of the

brainwashing she had undergone, an inevitable result of the tremendous

and constant stress generated by the artificially repressed memories

struggling mightily to make themselves known.  Even if she could find

another hypnotist to do for her what Pablo had done, perhaps there was

no way the block could be broken or the pressure relieved, in which case

she was destined to deteriorate further.  If she was stricken by three

fugues in one morning, what was to prevent three more in the next hour?

The policeman's boots crunched noisily through the sleetskinned snow. He

stopped in front of her.  She heard him pressing against the low bushes

and parting them to look into her hiding place.  "Miss?  Hey, what's

wrong?  What were you shouting about murder?  Miss?"

Maybe she would fall into a fugue and remain there forever.

" Oh, now, what're you crying about?" the cop said sympathetically.

"Darlin', I can't help if you won't tell me what's wrong."

She would not be the daughter of Jacob Weiss if she failed to respond

warmly and eagerly to the slightest sign of kindness in others, and the

policeman's concern finally affected her. She opened her eyes and looked

up at the topmost brass button on his coat.  The sight of it did not

bring the hateful darkness upon her.  But that meant nothing, for the

ophthalmoscope, black gloves, and other triggering items had not

affected her later, when she had forced herself to confront them again.

In a crackle of ice, the cop pushed between the bushes. She said,

"They've killed Pablo.  They murdered Pablo."

And as she spoke those words, her distress over her condition was made

worse by a rush of guilt.  The 6th of January

would forever be a black day in her life.  Pablo was dead. Because he

tried to help her.

Such a very cold day.

5.

On the Road

Monday morning, the 6th of January, Dom Corvaisis cruised his old

Portland neighborhood in a rented Chevrolet, trying to recapture the

mood he had been in when he had left Oregon for Mountainview, Utah, more

than eighteen months ago.  The rain, as heavy as any he had ever seen,

had stopped near dawn.  Now the sky, though still cloudy from horizon to

horizon, was a particularly powdery, dry-looking shade of gray, like a

burnt field, as if there had been a fire behind the clouds that had

forced out all that precipitation.  He drove through the university

campus, stopping repeatedly to let the familiar scenes stir feelings and

attitudes of times past.  He parked across the street from the apartment

where he'd lived, and as he stared up at the windows, he tried to recall

the man he had been then.

He was surprised at how difficult it was to recollect the timidity with

which that other Dom Corvaisis had viewed life. Though he could bring to

mind the way he had been, there was no intimacy or poignancy to those

memories.  He could see those old days again, but he could not feel

them, which seemed to indicate that he could never be that old Dom

again, regardless of how much he feared the possibility.

He was convinced that he had seen something terrible on the road the

summer before last, and that something monstrous had been done to him.

But that conviction generated both a mystery and a contradiction.  The

mystery was that the event had wrought in him an undeniably positive

change. How could an experience fraught with pain and terror effect a

beneficial change in his outlook?  The contradiction was that, in spite

of the beneficial effect on his personality, the event filled his dreams

with horror.  How could his ordeal have been both terrifying and

positive, both horrible and uplifting at the same time?

The answer, if it could be found, was not here in Portland

but out on the highway.  He started the engine, put the Chevy in gear,

pulled away from his old apartment building, and went looking for

trouble.

The most direct route from Portland to Mountainview began with

Interstate 80 north.  But as he had done nineteen months ago, Dom took a

more roundabout trail, heading south on Interstate 5.  That special

summer, he had scheduled a layover in Reno for a few days to do some

research for a series of short stories about gambling, so the less

direct route had been necessary.

Now in his rented Chevy, he followed the familiar highway, keeping his

speed down to fifty, even as low as forty on the steeper hills, for he

had been pulling a U-Haul trailer that last day in June, and he had not

made good time.  And, as before, he stopped for lunch in Eugene.

Hoping to spot something that would goose his memory and provide a link

with the mysterious events of the previous trip, Dom looked over the

small towns that he passed.  However, he saw nothing that made him

uneasy, and nothing bad happened all the way to Grants Pass, where he

arrived shortly before six o'clock that evening, right on schedule.

He stayed in the motel where he had been a guest eighteen months ago. He

remembered the number of the room-tenbecause it was near the soft drink

and ice machines, which had been the source of irritating noises half

the night.  It was unoccupied, and he took it, vaguely explaining to the

clerk that it had sentimental associations for him.

He ate at the same restaurant, across the road from the motel.

He was seeking satori, which was a Zen word meaning "sudden

enlightenment," a profound revelation.  But enlightenment eluded him.

All day he had used the rearview mirror, hoping to spot a tail.  During

dinner, he surreptitiously watched the other customers.  But if he was

being followed, his tail was masterful, invisible.

At nine o'clock, rather than use the telephone in his room, he walked to

a nearby service station pay phone.  With his credit card, he placed a

call to the number of another pay phone in Laguna Beach.  By

prearrangement, Parker Faine was waiting there with a report on the mail

that he had collected for Dom earlier in the day.  There was little

chance that either of their phones was tapped; however, after receiving

those two disturbing Polaroid snapshots, Dom had decided (and Parker had

agreed) that in this case prudence and paranoia were synonymous.

"Bills," Parker said, "advertisements.  No more strange messages, and no

more'Polaroids.  How's it going at your end?"

"Nothing so far," Dom said, leaning wearily against the Plexiglas and

aluminum wall of the phone booth.  "Didn't sleep well last night."

"But you didn't go for a walk?"

"Didn't even get one knot untied.  Had a nightmare, though. The moon

again.  Anybody follow you to that pay phone?"

"Not unless he was as thin as a dime and a master of camouflage," Parker

said.  "So you can call me here again tomorrow night and not have to

worry that they've tapped the line."

"We sound like two madmen," Dom said.

"I'm kind of having fun," Parker said.  "Cops and robbers, hide and

seek, spies-I was always good at games like that when I was a kid.  You

just hang in there, my friend.  And if you need help, I'll come fast."

"I know," Dom said.

He walked back to the motel through a cold damp wind. As in the hotel in

Portland, he woke three times before dawn, always surfacing from an

unremembered nightmare, always shouting about the moon.

Tuesday, January 7, Dom rose early and drove to Sacramento, then took

Interstate 80 east toward Reno.  Rain fell, silvery and cold, for most

of the drive, and by the time he reached the foothills of the Sierras,

it was snowing.  He stopped at an Arco station, bought tire chains, and

put them on before heading into the mountains.

The summer before last, he had taken more than ten hours to get from

Grants Pass to Reno, and this time the drive took even longer.  When he

finally checked in at Harrah's Hotel where he had stayed before, called

Parker Faine from a pay phone, and had a bite of dinner in the coffee

shop, he was too tired to do anything but pick up a copy of the Reno

newspaper and return to his room.  So at eight-thirty that evening,

sitting in bed in his underwear, he saw the story about Zebediah Lomack.

MOON MAN'S ESTATE

WORTH HALF A MILLION DOLLARS

RENO-Zebediah Harold Lomack, 50, whose suicide on Christmas Day led to

the discovery of his bizarre obsession with the moon, left an estate

valued at more than $500,000.  According to documents filed with the

probate court by Eleanor Wolsey, sister of the deceased and executrix of

Lomack's will, most of the funds are in accounts at various savings and

loan associations and in treasury bills. The modest house in which

Lomack lived at 1420 Wass Valley Road, has an appraised value of only

$35,000.

Lomack, a professional gambler, is said to have amassed his wealth

primarily from the game of poker.  "He was one of the best players I

ever knew," said Sidney "Sierra Sid" Garfork of Reno, another

professional gambler and winner of last year's World Championship of

Poker at Binion's Horseshoe Casino in Las Vegas. "He took to cards when

he was just a kid the way some others might have a natural knack for

baseball or math or physics." According to Garfork and other friends of

Lomack, the gambler's estate would have been even larger if he had not

had a weakness for dice games.  "He lost back more than half his

winnings at the craps tables, and the IRS took a big chunk, of course,"

Garfork said.

On Christmas night, responding to a neighbor's report of shotgun fire,

Reno police officers found Lomack's body in the garbagestrewn kitchen of

his home.  Upon further investigation, they found thousands of

photographs of the moon decorating walls, ceilings, and furniture.

There was more to the story, which had apparently been a local sensation

for the past two weeks.  Dom read with growing fascination and

uneasiness.  Most likely, Zebediah Lomack's mad obsession with the moon

had nothing to do with Dom's own problems.  Coincidence Yet .  .  .  he

felt a stirring of precisely that fear-part terror, part horror, and

part awe-that filled him when he woke from his nightmares, that also

overwhelmed him when he went sleepwalking and tried to nail windows

shut.

He pored over the article several times, and at nine-fifteen, in spite

of his weariness, he decided that he had to get a look in the Lomack

house.  He dressed, retrieved his rented car from the hotel's valet

parking, and got directions to Wass Valley Road from the attendant. Reno

was below the snowline, so the night was dry and the roads clean.  Dom

stopped at an all-night Save-On drugstore to buy a flashlight.  He

arrived at 1420 Wass Valley Road shortly after ten o'clock and parked

across the street.

The house was actually a bungalow with large porches, every bit as

modest as the news account had indicated.  It sat on a half-acre lot.

From previous storms, snow lay in patches on the roof, covered the lawn,

weighted the branches of several large pines.  The windows were dark.

According to the article in the Reno newspaper, Eleanor Wolsey, Zebediah

Lomack's sister, had flown in from Florida three days after his death,

on December 28.  She arranged the funeral services, which had been

conducted on the thirtieth, and was staying over until the estate was

settled.  However, she was at a hotel rather than in her brother's

house, because the bungalow was too depressing.

Dom was a law-abiding citizen; the prospect of breaking into the house

gave him no thrill.  But it had to be done because there was no way he

could see it except by forced entry.  He saw no point in trying to

persuade Eleanor Wolsey to allow a visit tomorrow, for she had been

quoted in the newspaper as saying that she was sick and tired of gawkers

and that she was repulsed by the perverse curiosity of strangers.

Five minutes later, on the back porch of the Lomack bungalow, Dom

discovered that the door was equipped with a deadbolt in addition to its

regular lock.  He tried the windows that faced onto the porch.  The one

above the kitchen sink was unlatched.  He slid it open and clambered

inside.

Hooding the flashlight with one hand to avoid drawing the notice of

anyone outside, he swept the narrowed beam around the kitchen, which was

no longer in the disgusting condition in which Reno policemen had found

it on Christmas.  According to the newspaper, just two days ago Lomack's

sister began cleaning the house and preparing it for sale.  Evidently

she had started here.  The garbage was gone.  The counters were clean,

and the floor was spotless.  The air was filled with the stink of new

paint and Spectracide.  A single startled roach scurried along the

baseboard and disappeared behind the refrigerator, but there was no

longer a gross infestation.  And there were no pictures of the moon.

Dom was suddenly worried that Eleanor Wolsey and her helpers might have

made too much progress.  Perhaps all traces of Zebediah Lomack's

obsession had been stripped down, scrubbed out, and thrown away.

But that concern was quickly put to rest when Dom followed the pale

probing beam of the flashlight into the living room, where the walls and

ceiling and windows were still papered with big posters of the moon.  It

seemed as if he were hanging in deep space, in some crowded realm where

half a hundred cratered worlds orbited impossibly close to one another.

The effect was disorienting.  He felt dizzy, and his mouth went dry.

He moved slowly out of the living room into a hallway, where hundreds of

pictures of the moon-some color and some black-and-white, some large and

some small, some overlapping others-had been fixed to every inch of the

walls with glue, Scotch tape, masking tape, and staples.  The same

decorations had been applied in both bedrooms as well, so the

omnipresent moons seemed almost like a fungus that had spored and spread

throughout the house, creeping into every corner.

The newspaper report had said that no one but Lomack had been in the

house for more than a year prior to his suicide. Dom believed it, for if

visitors had seen the work of this lunatic cut-and-paste Michelangelo,

they would have contacted the mental health authorities at once.  The

neighbors told of the gambler's rapid metamorphosis from a hail-fellow

to a recluse.  Apparently his fascination with the moon had begun the

summer before last.

The summer before last .  .  .  The timing uncannily paralleled the

changes in Dom's own life.

Second by second, Dom grew more uneasy.  He could not understand the

insane behavior that had created this eerie display, could not put

himself inside the fevered mind of Lomack, but he could empathize with

the gambler's terror. Just moving through the moon-crowded house,

shining his flashlight on the lunar faces, Dom felt a tingling along the

back of his neck.  The moons did not mesmerize him as they had evidently

mesmerized Lomack, but as he stared at them he sensed instinctively that

the impulse that had driven Lomack to paper his house with moon images

was the same impulse that drove Dom himself to dream of them.

He and Lomack had shared some experience in which the moon had figured

or of which it was an apt and powerful symbol.  The summer before last

they had been in the same place at the same time.  The wrong place at

the wrong time.

Lomack had been driven mad by the stress of repressed memories.

Will I be driven mad, too?  Dom wondered as he stood in the master

bedroom, turning slowly in a circle.

A new and grim thought struck him.  Suppose Lomack had not killed

himself out of despair over his unshakable obsession but had, instead,

been compelled to shove the shotgun barrel into his mouth because he had

finally remembered what had happened to him the summer before last.

Maybe the memory was far worse than the mystery.  Maybe, if the truth

were revealed, sleepwalking and nightmares would seem less terrifying

than what had happened during that drive from Portland to Mountainview.

Moons .  .  .  The oppressiveness of those pendulant forms drastically

increased.  The claustrophobic mural made breathing difficult.  The

moons seemed to portend some unreadable but manifestly evil fate that

awaited him, and he stumbled out of the room, suddenly eager to flee

from them.

Among a herd of leaping and prancing shadows whipped up by the bobbling

beam of the flashlight, he ran down the short hall, into the living

room, tripped over a stack of books, and fell with a jarring crash.  For

a moment he lay stunned. But his senses swiftly cleared, and he was

jolted to find himself staring at the word "Dominick," which was

scrawled in felttip pen across the luminous moon-face in one of the

dozens of identical big posters.  He had not noticed it when he had come

through from the kitchen earlier, but now he had fallen so that the

flash in his right hand was aimed just right.

A chill rippled through Dom.  He had read nothing about this in the

newspaper, but the handwriting surely belonged to Lomack.  To the best

of his knowledge, he had not known the gambler.  Yet to pretend that

this was another Dominick would be to embrace an outrageous coincidence.

He got up from the floor and took a couple of steps toward the poster

that bore his name, stopping six feet from it.  In the penumbra of the

flashlight beam, he saw writing on an adjacent poster.  His own name was

only one of four that Lomack had scribbled across four lunar images:

DOMINICK, GINGER, FAYE, ERNIE.  If his name was here because he had

shared a forgotten nightmarish experience with Lomack, then the other

three must have been fellow sufferers as well, though Dom could remember

nothing whatsoever about them.

He thought of the priest in the Polaroid snapshot.  Was that Ernie?

And the blond strapped to the bed.  Was she Ginger?  Or Faye?

As he moved the light from one name to the other and back again, some

dark and awesome memory did indeed stir in him.  But it remained far

down in his subconscious, an amorphous blur like a giant ocean creature

swimming past just below the mottled surface of a murky sea, its

existence revealed only by the rippled wake of its passage and by the

flicker of shadow and light in the water.  He tried to reach out for the

memory and seize it, but it dove deep and vanished.

From the moment he had come into the Lomack place, Dom had been in the

hands of fear, but now frustration took an even tighter grip on him.  He

shouted in the empty house, and his voice echoed coldly off the

moon-papered walls.  "Why can't I remember?" He knew why, of course:

Someone had mucked with his mind, scrubbing out certain memories.  But

still he shouted-fearful, furious.  "Why can't I remember?

I've got to remember!" He held his left hand toward the poster that

featured his name, as if to wrench from its substance the memory that

had been in Lomack's mind when he had scrawled "Dominick." His heart

thumped.  He roared with hot anger: "Goddamn it, goddamn you whoever you

are, I will remember. I will remember you sons of bitches.  You

bastards!  I will."

Suddenly, impossibly, even though he was not touching it, though his

hand was still a few feet from it, the poster bearing his name tore

loose from the wall.  It was fixed in place with four strips of masking

tape angled across its corners, but the tape peeled up with the sound of

zippers opening, and the poster leapt off the wall as if a wind had

blown straight through the lathe and plaster behind it.  With a rattle

and rustle of paper Vikings, it swooped at him, and he staggered back

across the living room in surprise, nearly falling over the books again.

In his unsteady hand, his flashlight revealed that the poster had

stopped a few feet from him.  It hung at eye-level, unsupported in thin

air, undulating slightly from top to bottom, first bulging out at him

and then bending away when the direction of undulation reversed itself.

As the pocked surface of that moon rippled, his own handwritten name

fluttered and writhed as if it were the legend on a wind-stirred banner.

Hallucination, he thought desperately.

But he knew it was really happening.

He could not breathe, as if the cold air were so syrup-thick with

miraculous power that it could not be inhaled.

The poster floated closer.

His hands shook.  The flashlight jiggled.  Sharp glints of light lanced

off the undulant surface of the glossy paper.

After a timeless moment in which the only sound was the crackle of the

animated poster, other noise abruptly arose from every part of the room:

the zipper-sound of masking tape being pulled loose.  On the ceiling,

walls, and windows, the other posters simultaneously disengaged

themselves.  With a brittle clatter-rattle-whoosh, half a hundred moon

images exploded toward Dom from every direction, and he cried out in

surprise and fear.

The loosed cry was like a blockage expelled from his windpipe, for he

was suddenly able to breathe.

The last of the tape pulled loose.  Fifty posters hung unmoving in

midair, not even rippling, as if pasted firmly to nothing whatsoever.

The silence in the dead gambler's house was as profound as in a temple

devoid of worshipers, a cold and penetrating silence that seemed to

pierce to the core of Dom, seeking to replace even the soft liquid

susurration of his blood's movement through his arteries and veins.

Then as if they were fifty parts of a single mechanism brought to life

with the flick of a switch, the three-by-five-foot lunar images

shivered, rustled, flapped.  Although there was not the slightest breeze

to propel them, they began to whirl around the room in the orderly

manner of horses on a carousel.  Dom stood in the middle of that eerie

merry-go-round, and the moons circled him; they capered and twirled,

curled and uncurled, flexed and flapped, here seen as half-moons and

here as crescents and here full-face, and they waxed and waned, ascended

and descended, faster, faster, faster still.  In the flashlight glow, it

seemed like a procession set in motion by the sorcerer's apprentice who,

in the old story, had magically imparted life to a bunch of broomsticks.

Dom's fear receded, making room for wonder.  At the moment there seemed

no threat in the phenomenon.  In fact a wild delight burgeoned in him.

He could think of no explanation for what he was witnessing, but stood

in dumb astonishment, puzzled and amazed.  Usually nothing was so

terrifying as the unknown, but perhaps he sensed a benign power at work.

Wonderstruck, he turned slowly in a circle, watching the moons parade

around him, and at last a tremulous laugh escaped him.

In an instant, the mood changed dramatically.  In a cacophony of

imitation wings, the posters flew at Dom as if they were fifty enormous

and furious bats.  They swooped and darted over his head, slapped his

face, beat against his back. Though they were not alive, he attributed

malevolent intent to their assault.  He put one arm across his face and

flailed at the moons with the hand that held the flashlight, but they

did not fall back.  The noise grew louder and more frantic as the paper

wings beat on the chilly air and on one another.

His previous delight forgotten, -Dom stumbled across the room in a

panic, searching for the way out.  But he could see nothing but zooming,

soaring, spinning moons.  No doors.  No windows.  He staggered one way,

then another, disoriented.

The noise grew still worse as, in the hallways and other rooms of the

bungalow, a thousand moons began to tear free of their petrified orbits

upon the walls.  Tape pulled loose, and staples popped out of plaster,

and glue suddenly lost its adhesiveness.  A thousand cratered

moonforms-and then a thousand more-detached themselves and rose into

suspension with ten thousand rustles, spun and swooped toward the living

room with a hundred thousand clicks and crackles and hisses, swinging

into orbit around Dom with a steadily swelling roar that sounded as if

he were immersed in raging flames. The glossy full-color pictures torn

from magazines and books now flashed and sparkled and shimmered as they

darted through the flashlight beam, contributing to the scintillant

illusion of fire, and the black-and-white pictures cascaded down and

spiraled up like bits of ash caught in thermal currents.

Gasping for breath, he sucked in slick-paper and newsprint moons and had

to spit them out.  Thousands of small paper worlds seethed around him in

layer upon layer, and when he hysterically parted one curtain composed

of false planetoids, there was only another behind it.

Intuitively, he perceived that this impossible display was meant to help

him break through to a full recollection of his unremembered nightmares.

He had no idea who or what lay behind the phenomenon, but he sensed the

purpose.  If he immersed himself in the storm of moons and let them

sweep him away, he'd understand his dreams, understand the frightening

cause of them, and know what had happened to him on the road eighteen

months ago.  But he was too scared to let go and be drawn into a trance

by the mesmerizing weaveand-bobble of the pale spheres.  He longed for

that revelation but was terrified of it.  He said, "No.  No." He pressed

his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.  "Stop it!  Stop

it!" His heart hammered two beats to each exclamation.  "Stop it!" His

throat cracked as his cries broke loose: "Stop it!"

He was astonished when the tumult was cut off with the suddenness of a

symphony orchestra terminating a thunderous crescendo on one last

bone-shaking note.  He did not expect his shouted commands to be obeyed,

and he still did not think his words had done the trick.

He took his hands away from his ears.  He opened his eyes.

A galaxy full of moons hung around him.

With a trembling hand, he pfucked one of the pictures from its

unsupported perch upon the air.  Wonderingly, he turned it over in his

hand.  Tested its substance between two fingers. There was nothing

special about the picture, yet it had been suspended magically before

him, just as thousands more were still suspended, motionless.

"How?" he said shakily, as if the moons, being able to levitate, ought

also to be able to speak.  "How?  Why?"

The moons fell as one.  As by the breaking of some spell, the thousands

of pieces of paper dropped straight to the floor, where they lay in

uneven heaps, in a drift over Dom's winter boots, with no lingering

trace of the mysterious life-force that had possessed them.

Bewildered and half in shock, Dom shuffled toward the doorway that led

to the hall.  The moons crunched and rustled like dry autumn leaves.  At

the door he stopped and played his flashlight beam slowly over the short

corridor, where not a single lunar image remained moored by staples,

tape, or glue.  The walls had been stripped bare.

Turning, he took a couple of steps into the center of the living room

once more, then knelt among the debris.  He put down the glowing

flashlight and sifted paper moons through his trembling hands, trying to

understand what he had seen.

Within him, fear fought delighted amazement and terror battled awe.  But

in truth he could not decide how he ought to feel, because there was no

precedent for what he had experienced.  One moment a giddy laugh began

to build, but then joy was frozen by a breath of cold horror.  Now he

felt he'd been in the presence of something unspeakably evil, but now he

was just as convinced it had been something good and pure.  Evil.  Good.

Perhaps both .  .  .  or neither.  Just ...

well something.  Some mysterious thing beyond the descriptive,

definitive power of words.

He knew one thing only: Whatever had happened to him the summer before

last was far stranger than he had realized heretofore.

Still sifting paper moons through his fingers, he noticed something

unusual on his hands.  He brought them palms-up into the direct beam of

the flashlight.  Rings.  On each palm blazed a ring of swollen red skin,

each as perfect as if the inflamed tissues had conformed to a pattern

drawn with a draftsman's compass.

Even as he watched, the stigmata faded, vanished.

It was Tuesday, January 7.

6.

Chicago, Illinois

In his bedroom on the second floor of St.  Bernadette's rectory, Father

Stefan Wycazik woke to the thump of a drum. The beat had the deep boom

of a bass drum and the hollow reverberation of tympani.  It sounded like

the pounding of an enormous heart, although it embellished the simple

two-stroke rhythm of the heart with an extra beat: LUB-DUBdub .  .  .

LUB-DUB-dub .  .  .  LUB-DUB-dub .  .  .

Bewildered and still half asleep, Stefan switched on the lamp, squinted

in the blaze of light, and looked at his alarm clock.  It was

two-oh-seven, Thursday morning, certainly not a reasonable hour for a

parade.

LUB-DUB-dub ...  LUB-DUB_dub ...

After each triad of thumps, there was a three-second pause, then a set

of beats identical to all the others, then another three-second pause.

The precise timing and unfaltering repetition of the noise began to seem

less like the work of a drummer and more like the laborious

piston-stroke of an enormous machine.

Father Wycazik threw back the covers and padded barefoot to the window

that looked out on the courtyard between the rectory and the church.  He

saw only snow and bare-limbed trees in the backwash of the carriage lamp

above the sacristy door.

The beats grew louder, and the pause between the groups shortened to

about two seconds.  He took his robe from the back of a chair and

slipped it on over his pajamas.  The sonorous pounding was so loud now

that it was no longer merely an annoyance and puzzlement.  It had begun

to frighten Stefan.  Each burst of sound rattled the windowpanes and

shook the door in its frame.

He hurried into the upstairs hall.  He fumbled in the dark for the wall

switch and finally turned on the overhead light.

Farther along the short hall, on the right, another door opened, and

Father Michael Gerrano, Stefan's other curate, dashed out of his room,

struggling into his own robe.  "What is that?"

"Don't know," Stefan said.

The next triple-thud was twice as loud as the group preceding it, and

the entire house reverberated as if it had been struck by three!

gigantic hammers.  It was not a hard sharp sound, but mufflid'in spite

of its loudness-as if the hammers were thinly padded yet swung with

tremendous force.  The lights flickered.  Now the thumps were separated

by no more than a second of silence, not long enough for the echo of the

previous fulminations to fade away.  And with each powerful hammering,

the lights flickered again and the floor under Stefan trembled.

In the same instant, Father Wycazik and Father Gerrano perceived the

locus of the noise: Brendan Cronin's room. They moved swiftly to that

door, which was directly across the hall from Father Gerrano.

Incredibly, Brendan was fast asleep.  In spite of the thunderous

explosions that made Father Wycazik flash back to the mortar fire of

vietnam, Brendan dreamed on, untroubled. In fact, in the pulsing light,

there seemed to be a vague smile tugging at the young priest's lips.

The windows rattled.  Drapery hooks clicked against the rods to which

they were attached.  On the dresser, a hairbrush bounced up and down,

and several coins clinked together, and Brendan's breviary slid first to

the left and then to the right.  On the wall above the bed, a crucifix

jiggled wildly under the picture hook from which it was hung.

Father Gerrano shouted, but Stefan could not hear what the curate said,

for now there were no pauses between muffled detonations.  With each

tripartite beat, Father Wycazik retreated further from his initial

mental image of a huge drum and became increasingly convinced that what

he was hearing was the throbbing of some enormous and immeasurably

powerful machine.  But it seemed as if the sound came from all sides, as

if the machinery was hidden within the walls of the house itself,

laboring at some mysterious and unknowable task.

As the breviary finally slid off the dresser and the coins began to

spill to the floor, Father Gerrano backed to the doorway and stood there

wide-eyed, as if he might flee.

But Stefan went to the bed, bent over the dozing priest, and shouted his

name.  When that had no effect, he grabbed Brendan by the shoulders and

shook him.

The auburn-haired curate blinked and opened his eyes.

The hammering stopped abruptly.

The sudden cessation of thunderous noise jolted Father Wycazik as badly

as the first boom that had shattered his sleep.  He let go of Brendan

and looked around the room, disbelieving.

"I was so close," Brendan said dreamily.  "I wish you hadn't wakened me.

I was so close."

Stefan pulled aside the covers, took hold of the curate's hands, and

turned them palms-up.  There was an angry red ring in each palm.  Stefan

stared at them in fascination, for this was the first time that he had

seen the stigmata.

What in God's name is this all about?  he wondered.

Breathing hard, Father Gerrano approached the bed.  Staring at the

rings, he said, "What're those from?"

Ignoring the question, Father Wycazik spoke to Brendan: "What was that

sound?  Where did it come from?"

"Calling," Brendan said in a voice still thick with sleepand with a

soft, excited pleasure.  "Calling me back."

"What was calling you?" Stefan demanded.

Brendan blinked, sat up, and leaned against the headboard. His eyes had

been out of focus.  Now his gaze cleared, and he really looked at Father

Wycazik for the first time.  "What happened?  You heard it, too?"

"Somehow, yes," Stefan said.  "It shook the whole house.

Amazing.  What was it, Brendan?"

"A call.  It was calling me, and I was following the call."

"But what was calling you?"

"I .  I don't know.  Something.  Calling me back "Back where?"

Brendan frowned.  "Back into the light.  The golden light of the dream I

told you about."

"What's this all about?" Father Gerrano persisted.  His voice was shaky,

for he was not as accustomed to the miraculous as were his rector and

his fellow curate.  "Will somebody clue me in?"

The other priests continued to ignore him.

To Brendan, Stefan said, "This golden light .  .  .  what is it?  Could

it have been God calling you back to His fold?"

"No," Brendan said.  "Just ...  something.  Calling me back. Next time,

maybe I'll get a better look at it."

Father Wycazik sat on the edge of the bed.  "You think this will happen

again?  You think it'll keep calling to you?"

"Yes," Brendan said.  "Oh, yes."

It was Thursday, January 9.

7.

Las Vegas, Nevada

Friday afternoon, Jorja Monatella was at the casino, working, when she

learned that her ex-husband, Alan Rykoff, had killed himself.

The news came by way of an emergency telephone call from Pepper

Carrafield, the hooker with whom Alan had been living.  Jorja took the

call on one of the phones in the blackjack pit, cupping a hand over one

ear to block out the roar of voices, the click and snap of cards being

dealt and shuffled, the ringing of slot machines.  When she heard that

Alan was dead, she was shocked and sickened, but she felt no grief.  By

his own selfish and cruel behavior, Alan had ensured she would have no

reason to grieve for him.  Pity was the only emotion she could summon.

"He shot himself this morning, two hours ago," Pepper elaborated.  "The

police are here now.  You've got to come."

"The police want to see me?" Jorja said.  "But why?"

"No, no.  The police don't want to see you.  You got to come and clean

his stuff out.  I want his stuff out of here as soon as possible."

"But I don't want his things," Jorja said.

"It's still your job, whether you want them or not."

"Miss Carrafield, it was a bitter divorce.  I neither want nor-',

" He had a will drawn up last week.  He named you executor, so you got

to come.  I want his stuff out of here now.  It's your job."

Alan had lived with Pepper Carrafield in a high-rise condominium, a

ritzy place called The Pinnacle, on Flamingo Road, where the call-girl

owned an apartment.  It was a fifteen-story white concrete monolith with

bronze windows.  Surrounded by undeveloped desert land, it appeared to

be even taller than it was.  And because it stood alone, it looked oddly

like a monument, the world's largest, swankiest tombstone.  The grounds

were lushly planted with sprinkler-tended lawns and flowerbeds, but a

few dry tumbleweeds had blown in from the bordering plots of sand and

scrub.  The chill and desolate wind which stirred the tumbleweeds also

fluted hollowly under the condominium's portico.

Two police cars and a morgue wagon stood in front of the building, but

no cops were in the lobby: just a young woman on a mauve sofa near the

elevators, forty feet away; and at a desk near the entrance, a man in

gray slacks and blue blazer, who was security guard and doorman.  The

travertine marble floor, crystal chandeliers, oriental carpet, Henredon

sofas and chairs, and brass elevator doors contributed to a decor that

strained too hard to convey class-but conveyed it nonetheless.

As Jorja asked the doorman to announce her, the young woman on the sofa

rose and said, "Mrs.  Rykoff, I'm Pepper Carrafield. Er ...  I think you

use your maiden name now."

"Monatella," Jorja said.

Like the building in which she lived, Pepper strained for Fifth Avenue

class, but her efforts were less successful than those of the interior

designers who had worked on The Pinnacle.  Her blond hair had been cut

in an excessively shaggy carefree style that hookers preferred, perhaps

because when you spent your workday in a series of beds, shaggy hair

required less grooming.  She wore a purple silk blouse that might have

been a Halston, but she'd left too many buttons open, revealing a daring

amount of cleavage.  Her gray slacks were well tailored but too tight.

She wore a Cartier watch encrusted with diamonds, but the elegant effect

of the watch was spoiled by her indulgence in flashy diamond rings: She

wore four of them.

"I couldn't bear to stay upstairs in the apartment," Pepper said,

motioning for Jorja to join her on the sofa.  "I'm not going back up

there until they've taken the body away." She shivered.  "We can talk

right here, just so we keep our voices low." She nodded toward the

doorman at the desk.  "But if there's going to be a scene, I'll just get

up andwalk away. You understand?  People here don't know what I do for a

living.  I intend to keep it that way.  I never do business out of my

home.  I'm strictly out-call.  " Her gray-green eyes were flat.

Jorja stared coldly at her.  "If you think I'm a scorned, suffering

wife, you can relax, Miss Carrafield.  Anything I ever felt for Alan is

gone now.  Even knowing he's dead, I feel nothing.  Nothing much.  I'm

not proud of it.  I was in love with him once, and we created a lovely

child together.  I should feel something, and I'm ashamed that I don't.

But I'm definitely not going to cause a scene."

" Great," Pepper said, genuinely pleased, so involved with herself and

her own concerns that she was oblivious of the domestic tragedy Jorja

had just described.  "There're a lot of high-class people live here, you

know.  When they hear my boyfriend killed himself, they're going to be

standoffish for a long time.  These kind of people don't like messy

scenes. And if they found out what I do for a living .  .  .  well,

there'd be no way I'd ever fit in here again.  You know?  I'd have to

move, and I sure don't want to.  No way, honey.  I like it here a lot."

Jorja looked at Pepper's ostentatiously diamond-encumbered hands, looked

at her plunging neckline, looked into her avaricious eyes, and said,

"What do you suppose they think you are-an heiress?"

Astonishingly, missing the sarcasm, Pepper said, "Yeah. How'd you know?

I paid for the condo with hundred-dollar bills, so no credit check was

necessary, and I've let them all think my family has money."

Jorja did not bother to explain that heiresses did not pay for

condominiums with bundles of hundred-dollar bills.  She simply said,

"Could we talk about Alan?  What happened?

What went wrong?  I would never have thought Alan was the type to .  . .

to kill himself."

Glancing at the doorman to make sure he had not left his post and

drifted nearer, Pepper said, "Me neither, honey. I'd never have pegged

him as the type.  He was so .  .  .  macho. That's why I wanted him to

move in and take care of me, manage me.  He was strong, tough.  Of

course, a few months ago he started acting a little weird, and lately he

was downright creepy.  Weird and creepy enough that I was thinking about

maybe finding someone else to look after me.  But I didn't expect he'd

screw things up for me by killing himself. Christ, you just never know,

do you?"

"Some people have no consideration," Jorja said.  She saw Pepper's eyes

narrow, but before the hooker could say anything, Jorja said, "Am I to

understand that Alan was pimping for you?"

Pepper scowled.  "Listen, I don't need a pimp.  Whores need pimps.  I'm

no whore.  Whores give fifty-dollar blow-jobs, screw eight or ten johns

a day for whatever they can get, spend half their lives with the clap,

and wind up broke.  That's not me, sister.  I'm an escort for gentlemen

of means.  I'm on the approved escort lists of the finest hotels, and

last year I made two hundred thousand bucks.  What do you think of that?

I got investments.  Whores don't have investments, honey.  Alan wasn't

my pimp.  He was my manager.  In fact, he managed a couple of my

girlfriends, too.  I fixed him up with them because, at first, before he

started getting strange, he was the best."

Dazzled by the woman's self-delusion, Jorja said, "And Alan took a

managerial fee for handling your career-and theirs?"

Her scowl fading, somewhat placated by Jorja's willingness to use

euphemisms, Pepper said, "No.  That was one of the best things about our

arrangement with him.  He was still a blackjack dealer, see; that's

where he made his money.  He had all the contacts needed to manage us,

but all he wanted for his trouble was free trade.  I never knew a man

who needed so much pussy.  He couldn't get enough.  In fact, the last

couple of months, he seemed obsessed with pussy.  Was he like that with

you, honey?".  Repulsed by this sudden intimacy, Jorja tried to stop the

woman, but Pepper would not be quiet.  "In fact, the last few weeks he

was so horny all the time that I started to think maybe I should dump

him.  I mean, there was something a little crazy about it.  He'd do it

and do it and do it until he just couldn't get his pecker up to do it

any more, and then he'd want to watch X-rated videotapes."

Jorja was suddenly angry that Alan had made her executor, forcing her to

witness the moral squalor in which he had passed the last year of his

life.  And she was angry because she would have to find a way to explain

his death to Marcie, who was already treading a psychological tightrope.

But she was not really angry with Pepper Carrafield; not angry but

appalled, yes, because even Alan deserved a little mourning and respect

from his live-in lover, more than this shark could ever give him.  But

there was no point in blaming the shark for being a shark.

One of the elevators opened, disgorging uniformed policemen, morgue

employees, and a gurney bearing a corpse in an opaque plastic body bag.

Jorja and Pepper rose from the sofa.

Even as the stretcher was being rolled out of the first elevator, the

doors of the second opened, and four more cops appeared, two in uniform

plus a team of plainclothes detectives.  A detective came to Pepper

Carrafield and asked a few final questions.

No one asked any questions of Jorja.  She stood rigid and suddenly numb,

staring at the body bag that contained her ex-husband.

They rolled the gurney across the travertine.  The wheels squeaked.

Jorja watched it moving away.

Two cops held the lobby doors while the morgue attendants pushed the

gurney outside.  It moved past the lobby windows. Jorja turned to

observe its progress.  She still felt no grief, but she was swept by a

powerful wave of melancholy, a profound sadness at what might have been.

From the nearest of the elevators, where she was holding a door open,

Pepper said, "Let's go up to my place."

Outside, they closed the doors of the coroner's van.

In the elevator on the way up, and in a discreet whisper in the

fourteenth-floor hallway, then continuing in a normal tone of voice as

they entered her big living room, Pepper insisted on describing Alan's

peculiar sexual hunger.  He had always had the carnal appetite of a

gourmand, but apparently sex had become a sick obsession with him as his

life had wound down through its last couple months.

Jorja did not want to hear about it, but stopping the hooker seemed more

difficult than simply enduring her chatter.

In recent weeks, Alan's days had been devoted to erotic pursuits, though

it all sounded feverish and desperate rather than pleasurable.  He had

used sick leave and vacation time to spend long-often frantic-hours in

bed with Pepper or others whose "careers" he managed, and there was no

variation or perversion that he failed to explore to excess.  The hooker

chattered on: Alan had developed a fascination with lascivious

substances, devices, appliances, and clothing-dildos, penis rings,

spike-heeled shoes, vibrators, cocaine ointment handcuffs.  .  .  .

Jorja, already weak-kneed and dizzy since seeing the body bag, grew

queasy.  "Please stop.  What's the point?  He's dead, for God's sake."

Pepper shrugged.  "I thought you'd want to know.  He threw away a lot of

his money on this .  .  .  this sex thing.  Since you're the executor of

the estate, I thought you'd want to know."

The last will and testament of Alan Arthur Rykoff, which he had left

with Pepper for safekeeping, was a simple preprinted one-page form of

the type obtainable at any business supply store.

Jorja sat on a cobalt-blue Ultrasuede chair beside a lacquered black

Tavola table, quickly scanning the will in the light from a high-tech,

burnished-steel, cone-shaped lamp. The most surprising thing was not

that Alan had named Jorja as executor, but that he had left what he

owned to Marcie, whose fatherhood he had been prepared to deny.

Pepper sat on a black lacquered chair with white upholstery, near a wall

of windows.  "I don't figure it's much of an estate.  He spent money

pretty freely.  But there's his car, some jewelry."

Jorja noticed that Alan's will had been notarized just four days ago,

and she shivered.  "He must've been considering suicide when he had this

notarized; otherwise, he wouldn't have felt the need for it."

Pepper shrugged.  "I guess."

"But didn't you see the danger?  Didn't you see he was troubled?"

"Like I told you, honey, he'd been weird for a couple months."

"Yes, but there must've been a noticeable change in him during the last

few days, something different from that other strangeness.  When he told

you he'd made out a will and asked you to put it in that lockbox of

yours, didn't you wonder?

Wasn't there anything about him-his manner, his look, his state of

mind-that worried you?"

Pepper stood up impatiently.  "I'm no psychologist, honey. His stuff's

in the bedroom.  If you want to give his clothes to Goodwill, I'll call

them.  But his other stuff-jewelry, personal things-you can get them out

of here right now.  I'll show you where everything is."

Jorja was sickened by the moral squalor into which Alan had sunk, but

she also felt a measure of guilt for his death. Could she have done

something to save him?  By leaving his few possessions to Marcie and by

naming Jorja executor of his will, he seemed to have reached out to them

in his last days, and although that gesture was pathetic and inadequate,

it touched Jorja.  She tried to remember how he had sounded on the

telephone before Christmas, when she had last spoken with him.  She

remembered his coldness, arrogance, and selfishness, but perhaps there

had been other more subtle things that she should have heard beneath the

surface cruelty and bravado: distress, confusion, loneliness, fear.

Brooding on that, she followed Pepper toward the bed room.  She loathed

this task, pawing through Alan's things, but it had to be done.

Halfway down a long hall, Pepper stopped at a door, pushed it inward.

"Oh, shit.  I can't believe the damned cops left it like this."

Jorja looked in the open door before she realized that this was the

bathroom in which Alan had killed himself.  Blood was all over the beige

tile floor.  More blood was spattered over the glass door of the shower

stall, sink, towels, wastecan, and toilet.  The wall behind the toilet

was stained with dried blood in a macabre pattern resembling a Rorschach

blot, as if Alan's psychological condition and the meaning of his death

were there to be read by anyone with sufficient insight.

"Shot himself twice," Pepper said, supplying details Jorja did not want

to hear.  "First in the crotch.  Is that queer or what?  Then he put the

gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger."

Jorja could smell the vague coppery scent of blood.

"The damned cops should've cleaned up the worst of it," Pepper said, as

if she thought policemen ought to be armed not only with guns but with

scrub brushes and soap.  "My housekeeper doesn't come until Monday.  And

she's not going to want to deal with this disgusting mess."

Jorja broke the bloody bathroom's hypnotic hold on her and stumbled

blindly a few steps along the hall.

"Hey," Pepper Carrafield said, "you okay?"

Jorja gagged, clenched her teeth, moved quickly along the hall, and

leaned against the jamb of another doorway.

"Hey, honey, you were still carrying a torch for him, weren't you?"

"No," Jorja said softly.

Pepper moved closer, too close, putting an unwanted consoling hand upon

her shoulder.  "Sure, you were.  Jesus, I'm sorry." Pepper oozed

unctuous sympathy, and Jorja wondered if the woman was capable of any

genuine emotion that did not have its roots in self-interest.  "You said

you were burnt out on him, but I should've seen."

Jorja wanted to shout: You stupid bitch, I'm not carrying a torch for

him, but he was still a human being, for Christ's sake.  How can you be

so callous?  What's wrong with you?  Is something migsing in you?

But she only said, "I'm all right.  I'm all right.  Where are his

things?  I want to sort through them and get out of here."

Pepper ushered Jorja through the doorway in which she had been leaning,

into a bedroom.  "He had the bottom drawers of the highboy, plus the

left side of the dresser, and that half of the closet.  I'll help." She

pulled out the lowest drawer of the highboy.

For Jorja, the room suddenly was as eerie and unreal as a place in a

dream.  Her heart began to pound, and she moved around the bed toward

the first of three things that had filled her with fear.  Books.  Half a

dozen books were stacked on the nightstand.  She had seen the word

"moon" on the spines of two of them.  With trembling hands, she sorted

through them and found that all six dealt with the same subject.

"Something wrong?" Pepper asked.

Jorja moved to the dresser, on which stood a globe the size of a

basketball.  A cord trailed from it.  She clicked a switch on the cord

and found the globe was opaque with a light inside.  It was not a globe

of the earth but of the moon, with geological features-craters, ridges,

plains-clearly named. She gave the glowing sphere a spin.

The third thing that frightened her was a telescope on a tripod beside

the dresser, in front of a window.  Nothing about the instrument was

different from other amateur telescopes, but to Jorja it seemed ominous,

even dangerous, with dark and unknowable associations.

"Those're Alan's things," Pepper said.

"He was interested in astronomy?  Since when?"

"For the past couple months," Pepper said.

The similarities between Alan's and Marcie's conditions troubled Jorja.

Marcie's irrational fear of doctors.  Alan's compulsive sex drive. Those

were different psychological problems-obsessive fear in one case,

obsessive attraction in the other-but they shared the element of

obsession.  Apparently, Marcie had been cured of her phobia.  Alan was

not as fortunate.  He'd had no one to help him, and he had snapped,

shooting off the genitals that had come to control him, putting a bullet

in his brain.  Jorja shuddered.  It was too coincidental that father and

daughter had been stricken by psychological problems simultaneously, but

what made it more than coincidence was the other strangeness they

shared: their interest in the moon.  Alan had not seen Marcie in six

months, and their most recent phone conversation had been in September,

weeks before either had become fascinated by the moon.  There had been

no contact by which either could have transmitted that fascination to

the other; it appeared to have sprung up spontaneously in each of them.

Remembering Marcie's moon-troubled sleep, Jorja said, "Do you know if he

was having unusual dreams?  About the moon?"

"Yeah.  How'd you figure that?  He was having them, but he could never

remember any details when he woke up.  They started .  .  .  back in

late October, I think it was.  Why?  What's it matter?"

"These dreams-were they nightmares?"

Pepper shook her head.  "Not exactly.  I'd hear him talking in his

sleep.  Sometimes he sounded afraid, but lots of times he'd smile, too."

Jorja felt as if ice had formed in her marrow.

She turned to look at the lighted globe of the moon.

What in the hell is going on?  she wondered.  A shared dream?  Is that

possible?  How?  Why?

Behind her, Pepper said, "Are you okay?"

Something had driven Alan to suicide.

What might happen to Marcie?

8.

Saturday, January 11

Boston, Massachusetts.

The memorial service for Pablo Jackson was held at eleven o'clock

Saturday morning, January 11, in a nondenominational chapel on the

grounds of the cemetery where he was to be buried.  The coroner and

police pathologists had not been finished with the body until Thursday,

so five days had passed between Pablo's murder and his funeral.

When the last eulogy was delivered, the mourners adjourned to the grave,

where the casket waited.  Snow had been cleared around Pablo's plot, but

the space was insufficient.  Scores of people stood outside the prepared

area, some in snow deeper than their boots.  Others remained on the

sidewalks that crisscrossed the memorial park, watching from a distance.

Three hundred had come to pay their last respects

to the old magician.  The chilly air steamed with the breath of the rich

and the poor, the famous and the unknown, Boston socialites, magicians.

Ginger Weiss and Rita Hannaby stood in the first circle around the

gravesite.  Since Monday, Ginger had not had much of an appetite and had

gotten little sleep.  She was pale, nervous, and very tired.

Both Rita and George had argued against Ginger's attendance at the

services.  They were concerned that such a wrenchingly emotional

experience would trigger a fugue.  But the police had encouraged her,

hoping she might see Pablo's killer at the services.  In self-defense

she'd hidden the truth from the cops, leading them to believe that the

killer was an ordinary burglar, and sometimes burglars were driven by

such sick compulsions.  But she knew that he was no mere burglar and

that he would not risk arrest by coming to the cemetery.

Ginger wept during the eulogies, and by the time she walked from the

chapel to the grave, her grief was a vise squeezing her heart.  But she

did not lose control.  She was determined not to make a circus of this

solemn occasion, determined to pay her respects with dignity.

Besides, she had come with a second purpose that could not be fulfilled

if she spiraled down into a fugue or suffered an emotional collapse. She

was sure that Alexander Christophson-former Ambassador to Great Britain,

former United States Senator, and former Director of the CIA-would be at

the funeral of his old friend, and she wanted very much to speak with

him.  It was to Christophson, on Christmas Day, that Pablo had turned

for advice about Ginger's problems. And it was Alex Christophson who had

told him about the Azrael Block.  She had an important question to ask

Christophson, though she dreaded the answer.

She had seen him in the chapel, recognized him from his days in public

life, when he had been on television and in newspapers.  He was a

striking figure, tall, thin, white-haired, unmistakable.  Now, they

stood on opposite sides of the grave, the draped casket between them. He

had glanced at her a couple times, though without recognition.

The minister said a brief final prayer.  After a moment, some of the

mourners greeted one another, formed small groups to talk.  Others,

including Christophson, moved away through a forest of headstones, past

snow-laden pines and winter-stripped maples, toward the parking lot.

"I've got to talk to that man," Ginger told Rita.  "Be right back."

Startled, Rita called after her, but Ginger did not pause or offer

further explanation.  She caught up with Christophson in the jagged

shadows cast by the skeletal branches of an immense oak that was all

black bark and crusted snow.  She called his name, and he turned.  He

had piercing gray eyes, which widened when she told him who she was.

"I can't help you," he said, and began to turn away from her.

"Please," she said, putting a hand on his arm.  "If you blame me for

what happened to Pablo-"

"Why should you care what I think, Doctor?"

She held fast to his arm.  "Wait.  Please, for God's sake."

Christophson surveyed the slowly dispersing crowd in the cemetery, and

Ginger knew that he was afraid the wrong people-dangerous people-might

see him with her and assume he was helping her as Pablo had done.  His

head twitched slightly, and Ginger thought it was an indication of his

nervousness, but then she realized it was the faint tremor of

Parkinson's disease.  He said, "Dr.  Weiss, if you're seeking some form

of absolution, then by all means let me provide it.  Pablo knew the

risks, and he accepted them.  He was the captain of his own fate."

"Did he understand the risks?  That's what I've got to know."

Christophson seemed surprised.  "I warned him myself."

"Warned him about who?  About what?"

"I don't know who or what.  But considering the enormous effort expended

to tamper with your memory, you must've seen something of tremendous

importance.  I warned Pablo that whoever had brainwashed you was no

amateur and that if they realized the two of you were trying to break

through the Azrael Block, they might come after not just you but him as

well." Christophson's gray eyes searched her eyes for a moment, and then

he sighed.  "He did tell you about his conversation with me?"

"He told me everything-except about your warning.  " Her eyes filled

with tears again.  "He didn't breathe a word of that."

He withdrew one elegant but palsied hand from his pocket

and gripped her arm reassuringly.  "Doctor, now that you've told me

this, I can't possibly lay any of the blame at your doorstep."

"But I blame me," Ginger said in a voice thin with misery.

"No.  You can't blame yourself for any of it." Looking around again to

make sure they were not under surveillance, Christophson opened the top

two buttons of his overcoat, reached inside, plucked the display

handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and gave it to

Ginger.  "Please stop punishing yourself.  Our friend lived a full and

fortunate life, Doctor.  His death might've been violent, but it was

relatively quick, which can be a blessing."

Drying her eyes on the swatch of pale blue silk that he had given her,

Ginger said, "He was a dear man."

"He was," Christophson agreed.  "And I'm beginning to understand why he

took the risks he did for you.  He said you were a very dear woman, and

I see his judgment was as accurate and reliable as usual."

She finished blotting her eyes.  Her heart still felt pinched in a vise,

but she began to believe there was a chance that guilt and grief would

eventually give way to grief alone.  "Thank you." As much to herself as

to him, Ginger said, "What now?

Where do I go from here?"

"I'm in no position to help you," he said at once.  "I've been out of

the intelligence business for almost a decade, and I've no contacts any

more.  I've no idea who might be behind your memory block or why."

"I wouldn't ask you to help me.  I'm not risking any more innocent

lives.  I just thought you might have some idea how I can help myself."

"Go to the police.  It's their job to help."

Ginger shook her head.  "No.  The police are slow, too slow. Most of

them are overworked, and the rest are just bureaucrats in uniforms.  My

problem's too urgent to wait for them to solve it.  Besides, I don't

trust them.  Suddenly I don't trust authorities of any kind.  The tapes

Pablo made of our sessions were gone when I took the police back to his

apartment, so I didn't mention them.  I spooked.  I didn't tell the cops

about my fugues or about how Pablo had been helping me.  I just said

we'd been friends, that I'd stopped by to have lunch and walked in on

the killer.  I let them think it was an ordinary

burglary.  Sheer paranoia.  Didn't trust them.  Still don't.  So the

cops are out." "Then find another hypnotist to regress you-"

"No.  I'm not risking any more innocent lives," she repeated.

"I understand.  But those are the only suggestions I have."

He shoved both hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat. "I'm sorry."

"No need to be," she said.

He started to turn away, hesitated, sighed.  "Doctor, I want you to

understand me.  I served in the war, the big war, with some distinction.

Later, I was a good ambassador.  As head of the CIA and as a senator, I

made many difficult decisions, some that put me in personal danger.  I

never backed away from risk.  But I'm an old man now.  Seventy-six, and

I feel older.  Parkinson's.  A bad heart.  High blood pressure.  I have

a wife I love very much, and if anything happens to me, she'll be alone.

I don't know how well she'd deal with being alone, Dr.  Weiss."

"Please, there's no need to justify yourself," Ginger said. She realized

how completely and quickly their roles had reversed.  In the beginning,

he had been the one full of reassurances and absolution; now she was

returning the favor. Jacob, her father, had often said that the capacity

for mercy was humankind's greatest virtue, and that the giving and

receiving of mercy formed a bond unbreakable.  Ginger remembered Jacob's

words now because, in allowing Alex Christophson to allay her guilt and

in trying to allay his, she felt that bond.

Apparently, he felt it, too, for although he did not stop trying to

explain himself, his explanations became more intimate and were offered

now in a tone of voice that was less defensive and more conspiratorial.

"Quite frankly, Doctor, my reluctance to get involved is not so much

because I find life infinitely precious but because I am increasingly

afraid of death." As he spoke, he reached into an inside pocket and

withdrew a notepad and pen.  "In my life I've done some things of which

I'm not proud." Holding the pen in his palsied right hand, he began to

print.  "True, most of those sins were committed in the line of duty.

Government and espionage are both necessary, but neither is a clean

business.  In those days, I didn't believe in God or an afterlife.  Now

I wonder....  And wondering, I'm sometimes afraid." He tore the top page

from the pad.  "Afraid of what might await me after death, you see.

That's why I want to hold on to life as long as I can, Doctor.  That's

why, God help me, I've become a coward in my old age."

As Christophson folded and passed to her the slip of paper on which he

had been printing, Ginger realized that he had managed to put his back

to all of the remaining mourners before he had removed the notepad and

pen from his coat. No one could have seen what he had done.

He said, "I've just given you the phone number of an antique store in

Greenwich, Connecticut.  My younger brother, Philip, owns the place. You

can't call me direct because the wrong people may have seen us talking;

my telephone might be tapped.  I won't risk associating with you, Dr.

Weiss, and I won't pursue any investigation of your problem.  However, I

have many years of broad experience in these matters, and there may be

times when that experience will be of help to you.  You may encounter

something you don't understand, a situation you don't know how to deal

with, and I may be able to offer advice.  Just call Philip and leave

your number with him.  He'll immediately call me at home and use a

prearranged codeword.  Then I'll go out to a pay phone, return his call,

get the number you left with him, and contact you as quickly as

possible.  Experience, my peculiar kind of malevolent experience, is all

I'm willing to offer you, Dr.  Weiss."

"It's more than enough.  You're not obligated to help me at all."

"Good luck." He turned abruptly and walked away, his boots crunching in

the frozen snow.

Ginger returned to the grave, where Rita, the mortician, and two

laborers were the only people remaining.  The velvet curtain around the

grave had been collapsed and removed. A plastic tarpaulin had been

pulled off a waiting mound of earth.

"What was that all about?" Rita asked.

"Tell you later," Ginger said, bending down to pick up a rose from the

pile of flowers beside Pablo Jackson's final resting place.  She leaned

forward and tossed the bloom into the hole, on top of the casket.  "Alay

ha-sholem.  May this sleep be only a little dream between this world and

something better.  Baru(Th ha-Shem."

As she and Rita walked away, Ginger heard the laborers begin to shovel

dirt onto the casket.

Elko County, Nevada.

On Thursday, Dr.  Fontelaine was satisfied that Ernie Block was cured of

his disabling nyctophobia.  "Fastest cure I've ever seen," he said.  "I

guess you Marines are tougher than ordinary mortals."

On Saturday, January 11, after only four weeks in Milwaukee, Ernie and

Faye went home.  They flew into Reno on United, then caught a ten-seat

commuter flight to Elko, arriving at eleven-twenty-seven in the morning.

Sandy Sarver met them at the airport in Elko, though Ernie did not

immediately recognize her.  She was standing by the small terminal, in

the crystalline Winter sunshine, waving as Ernie and Faye disembarked.

Gond was the pale-faced mouse, the familiar slump-shouldered frump.  For

the first time since Ernie had known her, Sandy was wearing a little

makeup, eye shadow, and lipstick.  Her nails were no longer bitten. Her

hair, always limp and dull and neglected in the past, was now full,

glossy.  She had gained ten pounds.  She had always looked older than

she was.  Now she looked years younger.

She blushed when Ernie and Faye raved about her makeover.  She pretended

the changes were of little consequence, but she was clearly pleased by

their praise, approval, and delight.

She had changed in other ways, as well.  For one thing, she was usually

reticent and shy, but as they walked to the parking lot and put the

baggage in the back of her red pickup, she asked lots of questions about

Lucy, Frank, and the grandchildren.  She did not ask about Ernie's

phobia because she knew nothing of it; they had kept his condition

secret and had explained the extension of their Wisconsin visit by

saying they wanted to spend more time with the grandchildren.  In the

truck, as Sandy drove through Elko and onto the interstate, she was

downright garrulous as she spoke of the Christmas just past and of

business at the Tranquility Grille.

As much as anything, Sandy's driving surprised Ernie.  He knew she had

an aversion to four-wheel travel.  But now she drove fast, with an ease

and skill Ernie had never seen in her before.

Faye, sitting between Ernie and Sandy, was aware of this change, too,

for she gave Ernie meaningful looks when Sandy maneuvered the pickup

with special fluidity and audacity.

Then a bad thing happened.

Less than a mile from the motel, Ernie's interest in Sandy's

metamorphosis was suddenly displaced by the queer feeling that had first

seized him on December 10, when he'd been coming home from Elko with the

new lighting fixtures: the feeling that a particular piece of ground,

half a mile ahead, south of the highway, was calling him.  The feeling

that something strange had happened to him out there.  As before, it was

simultaneously an absurd and gripping feeling, characterized by the

eerie attraction of a talismanic place in a dream.

This was an unsettling development because Ernie had supposed that the

peculiar magnetism of that place had been, somehow, a part of the same

mental disturbance that resulted in his crippling dread of the dark. His

nyctophobia cured, he had assumed that all other symptoms of his

temporary psychological imbalance would disappear along with his fear of

the night.  So this seemed like a bad sign.  He did not want to consider

what it might indicate about the permanency of his cure.

Faye was telling Sandy about Christmas morning with the grandkids, and

Sandy was laughing, but to Ernie the laughter and conversation faded. As

they drew nearer the plot of ground that exerted a mesmeric attraction

on him, Ernie squinted through the sun-streaked windshield, possessed by

a sense of impending epiphany.  Something of monumental importance

seemed about to happen, and he was filled with fear and awe.

Then, as they were passing that beguiling place, Ernie became aware that

their speed had dropped.  Sandy had slowed to under forty miles an hour,

half the speed she had maintained since Elko.  Even as Ernie realized

the truck had slowed, it accelerated again.  He looked at Sandy too late

to be certain that she also had been temporarily spellbound by that same

portion of the landscape, for now she was listening to Faye and watching

the road ahead and bringing the pickup back to speed.  But it seemed to

him there was a strange look on her face, and he stared at her in

bewilderment, wondering how she could share his mysterious and

irrational fascination with that piece of quite ordinary land.

"It's good to be home," Faye said as Sandy switched on the right-turn

signal and steered the truck toward the exit lane.

Ernie watched Sandy for an indication that she had slowed the truck in

answer to the same eerie call that he felt, but he saw none of the fear

that the call engendered in him.  She was smiling.  He must have been

wrong.  She had slowed the truck for some other reason.

A chill had taken residence in his bones, and now as they drove up the

sloped county road and turned into the motel lot, he felt a cold damp

dew of sweat on his palms, on his scalp.

He looked at his watch.  Not because he needed to know the time.  But

because he wanted to know how long until sundown.  About five hours.

What if it wasn't darkness in general that he feared?  What if it was a

specific darkness?  Perhaps he had quickly overcome his phobia in

Milwaukee because he was only mildly frightened by the night out there.

Perhaps his real fear, his deep fear, was of the darkness of the Nevada

plains.  Could a phobia be that narrowly focused, that localized?

Surely not.  Yet he looked at his watch.

Sandy parked in front of the motel office, and when they got out of the

truck and went around to the tailgate to get the luggage, she hugged

both Faye and Ernie.  "I'm glad you're back.  I missed you both.  Now

I'd better get over to the diner and help Ned.  Lunch hour's started."

Ernie and Faye watched Sandy as she hurried away, and Faye said, "What

on earth do you suppose happened to her?"

"Damned if I know," Ernie said.

Her breath steaming in the cold air, Faye said, "At first, I thought she

must've learned she's pregnant.  But now I don't think so.  If she was

pregnant and overjoyed about it, she'd have told us.  She'd have been

bursting with the news.  I think it's something .  .  .  else."

Ernie pulled two of the four suitcases out of the back of the truck and

stood them on the ground, surreptitiously glancing at his watch as he

put the bags down.  Sundown was five minutes closer.

Faye sighed.  "Well, whatever the cause, I'm sure happy for her."

"Me, too," Ernie said, lifting the other two bags out of the truck.

"Me too,' " Faye said, affectionately mimicking him as she picked up the

two lightest suitcases.  "Don't play cool with me, you big softy.  I

know you've worried about her almost like you used to worry about our

own Lucy.  When you first saw the change in Sandy back at the airport, I

was watching you, and I thought your heart was going to melt."

He followed her with the two heavier bags.  "Do they have a medical term

for a calamity like that, for a melting heart?"

"Sure.  Cardio-liquefaction."

He laughed in spite of the tension that knotted his stomach. Faye was

always able to make him laugh-usually when he needed it most.  When they

got inside; he would put his arms around her, kiss her, and convey her

straight upstairs and into bed.  Nothing else would be as certain to

chase away the fear that had popped up in him like a jack-in-the-box.

Time spent with Faye was always the best medicine.

She put her two bags down by the office door and fished her keys out of

her purse.

When it had become clear, early on, that Ernie was likely to have an

exceptionally swift recovery and that they would not need to stay in

Milwaukee for months, Faye had decided against flying home to search for

a motel manager.  They simply kept the place closed.  Now they needed to

unlock, turn up the thermostat, clean away the accumulated dust.

A lot of work to be done .  .  .  but still enough time for a little

horizontal dancing first, Ernie thought with a grin.

He was standing behind Faye as she put the key in the office door, so

fortunately she did not see him twitch and jump in surprise when the

bright day was suddenly claimed by shadows.  They were not actually

plunged into darkness; a large cloud merely moved across the sun; the

level of light dropped by no more than twenty percent.  Yet even that

was sufficient to startle and unnerve him.

He looked at his watch.

He looked toward the east, from whence the night would come.

I'll be all right, he thought.  I'm cured.

On the road: Reno to Elko County. Following the paranormal experience in

Lomack's house on Tuesday, when countless paper moons took orbit around

him, Dominick Corvaisis spent a few days in Reno.  On his previous

journey from Portland to Mountainview, he had stayed over to research a

series of short stories about gambling.  Re-creating that trip, he

passed Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday in "The Biggest Little City in

the World."

Dom wandered from casino to casino, watching gamblers. There were young

couples, retirees, pretty young women, middle-aged women in stretch

pants and cardigans, leatherfaced cowboys fresh from the range and

soft-faced rich men on junkets from far cities, secretaries, truckers,

executives, doctors, ex-cons and off-duty cops, hustlers and dreamers,

escapees from every social background, drawn together by the hope and

thrill of organized games of chance, surely the most democratizing

industry on earth.

As during his previous visit, Dom gambled only enough to be part of the

scene, for his primary purpose was to observe. After the storm of paper

moons, he had reason to believe that Reno was the place where his life

had been changed forever and where he would find the key to unlock his

imprisoned memories.  Those around him laughed, chattered, grumbled

about the unkindness of cards, shouted to encourage the rolling dice,

but Dom remained cool and alert, among them yet distanced from them, the

better to spot any clue to the unremembered events in his past.

No clue was revealed.

Each night he contacted Parker Faine in Laguna Beach, hoping that the

unknown correspondent had sent an additional message.

No message was received.

Each night before sleep came, he tried to understand the impossible

dance of paper moons.  And he sought an explanation of the circular,

swollen, red rings in his hands, which he had watched fade as he knelt

in a drift of moons in Lomack's living room.  No understanding came.

Day by day, his craving for Valium and Dalmane diminished, but his

unremembered nightmares-the moon-grew worse.  Each night, he fought

fiercely against the tether with which he moored himself to his bed.

By Saturday, Dom still suspected that the answer to his night fear and

somnambulism lay in Reno.  But he decided that he must not change his

plans, must go on to Mountainview.  If he concluded the journey without

achieving satori, he could return to Reno at that time.

The summer before last, he departed Harrah's at ten-thirty a m.  Friday,

July 6, after an early lunch.  On Saturday, January 11, he therefore

followed that timetable, driving onto I-80 at ten-forty, heading

northeast across the Nevada wasteland toward distant Winnemucca, where

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had robbed a bank in another age.

The immense unpopulated expanses of land were little different from the

way they had been a thousand years ago.  The highway and power lines,

often the only signs of civilization, followed the route that had been

called the Humboldt Trail in the days of wagon trains.  Dom drove over

barren plains and hills bearded with scrub, through an uninviting yet

starkly beautiful primeval world of sagebrush, sand, alkaline flats, dry

lakes, solidified lava beds with columnar crystallizations, distant

mountains.  Sheered bluffs and veined monoliths showed traces of borax,

sulfur, alum, and salt.  Isolated rocky buttes were splendidly painted

in ocher, amber, umber, and gray. North of the trackless Humboldt Sink,

where the Humboldt River simply vanished into the thirsty earth, were

more streams, as well as the Humboldt itself, and here the forbidding

land featured some contrastingly fertile valleys with lush grasses and

trees-cottonwoods, willows, though not in profusion. Adequate water

meant communities and agriculture, but even in the hospitable valleys,

the settlements were small, the grip of civilization tenuous.

As always, Dom was humbled by the vastness of the West. But the

landscape also aroused new feelings this time: a sense of mystery and an

unsettling awareness of limitless-and eeriepossibilities.  Hurtling

through this lonely realm, it was easy to believe something frightening

had happened to him here.

At two-forty-five he stopped for gasoline and a sandwich in Winnemucca,

a town of only five thousand souls yet by far the largest in a county of

sixteen thousand square miles.  Then I-80 turned eastward.  The land

rose gradually toward the rim of the Great Basin.  More mountains peaked

on every horizon, with snow far down their slopes, and more bunch-grass

appeared midst the sagebrush, and there were genuine meadows in some

places, though the desert was by no means left entirely behind.

At sunset, Dom pulled off the interstate at the Tranquility Motel,

parked near the office, got out of the car, and was surprised by a cold

wind.  Having driven so long through deserts, he was psychologically

prepared for heat, though he knew it was winter on the high plains.  He

reached into the car, grabbed a fleece-lined suede jacket, and put it

on.  He started toward the motel .  .  .  then stopped, suddenly

apprehensive.

This was the place.

He did not know how he knew.  But he knew.

Here, something strange had happened.

He had stopped here on Friday evening, July 6, the summer before last.

He had found the curious isolation of the place and the majesty of the

land enormously appealing and inspiring.  Indeed, he had become

convinced that this territory was good material for fiction, and he had

decided to stay a couple of days to familiarize himself with it and to

brood about story ideas suitable to the background.  He had not left for

Mountainview, Utah, until Tuesday morning, the 10th of July.

Now, he turned slowly, studying the scene in the fast-fading light,

hoping to prick his memory.  As he turned, he became convinced that what

had happened to him here was more important than anything that would

ever happen to him, anywhere, as long as he lived.

The diner, with its big windows and blue neon sign, was at the western

end of the complex, detached from the motel, surrounded by a large

parking lot to accommodate long-haul trucks, of which three were in

attendance.  The entire length of the single-story white motel was

served by a breezeway sheltered under an aluminum awning that glistened

darkly with a well-kept coat of forest-green enamel.  The west wing had

ten rooms with glossy green doors.  It was separated from the east wing

by a two-story section that housed the office on the first floor and, no

doubt, the owner's quarters on the second.  Unlike the west wing, the

east wing was L-shaped, with six rooms in the first section, four in the

shorter arm. Dom kept turning and saw the dark sky in the east, the

interstate dwindling into that gloom, then the immense and uninhabited

panorama of shadowed land to the south.  More plains and mountains lay

in the west, where the sky above was streaked crimson by the sunset.

Moment by moment, Dom's apprehension grew, until he had turned in a

complete circle and was looking once more at the Tranquility Grille.  As

if in a dream, he moved toward the diner.  By the time he reached the

door, his heart was hammering.  He had the urge to flee.

Steeling himself, he opened the door and went inside.

It was a clean well-lighted place, cozy and warm.  Delicious odors

filled the air: French fries, onions, fresh hamburger sizzling on the

griddle, frying ham.

In dreamlike fear, he crossed to an empty table.  A ketchup bottle, a

squeeze-bottle of mustard, a sugar bowl, salt and pepper shakers, and an

ashtray were clustered in the center. He picked up the salt shaker.

For a moment he did not know why he had picked it up, but then he

remembered sitting at this very table the summer before last, his first

night at the Tranquility Motel.  He had spilled a bit of salt and had

reflexively cast a pinch of it over his shoulder, inadvertently throwing

it in the face of a young woman approaching behind him.

He sensed that the incident was important, but he did not know why.

Because of the woman?  Who had she been?  A stranger.  What had she

looked like?  He tried to recall her face but could not.

His heart raced without apparent reason.  He felt as if he were on the

brink of some devastating revelation.

He strove to recall additional details, but they eluded him.

He put the salt shaker down.  Still moving dreamily, shivering with

unfocused anxiety, he crossed to the corner booth by the front windows.

It was unoccupied, but Dom was sure that the young woman, having blinked

the salt out of her eyelashes, had come here that other night.

"Can I help you?"

Dom was aware that a waitress in a yellow sweater was standing beside

him and had spoken to him, but he remained spellbound by the tantalizing

ascension of some terrible memory.  It had not swum into view yet, but

it was rising, rising. The woman out of his past, whose face remained a

blank to him, had sat in this booth, radiantly beautiful in the orange

light of the sunset.

"Mister?  Is something wrong?"

The young woman had ordered dinner, and Dom had gone on with his meal,

and the sunset had faded, and night had fallen, and- No!.

The memory swam out of the deeps, almost broke through the murky surface

into light, into his consciousness, but at the last moment he recoiled

from it in panic, as if he had seen the horrible face of some

monstrously evil leviathan streaking toward him.  Abruptly not wanting

to remember, refusing, Dom loosed a wordless cry, stumbled back, turned

away from the startled waitress, and ran.  He was aware of people

staring, aware that he was making a scene, but he did not give a damn.

All he cared about was getting out.  He hit the door, flung it open, and

rushed out under a post-sunset, black, purple, and scarlet sky.

He was afraid.  Afraid of the past.  Afraid of the future.

But afraid mostly because he did not know why he was afraid.

Chicago, Illinois.

Brendan Cronin was saving his announcement for after dinner, when Father

Wycazik, with a full belly and with a glass of brandy in hand, would be

in his best mood of the day.  Meanwhile, in the company of Fathers

Wycazik and Gerrano, he ate a hearty dinner: double portions of potatoes

and beans and ham, disposing of a third of a loaf of homemade bread.

Though he had regained his appetite, he had not regained his faith. When

his belief in God had collapsed, it had left in him a terrible dark

emptiness and despair, but now the despair was gone, and the emptiness,

though not entirely filled, was shrinking.  He was beginning to perceive

that one day he might lead a meaningful life that had nothing to do with

the Church. For Brendan-for whom no temporal pleasures had been as

enticing as the spiritual joy of the Mass-the mere contemplation of a

secular life was a revolutionary development.

Perhaps his despair had lifted because, since Christmas, he had at least

journeyed along from atheism to a qualified agnosticism.  Recent events

had conspired to make him consider the existence of a Power that, though

not necessarily God, was nevertheless above nature.

After dinner, Father Gerrano went upstairs to spend a few hours with the

latest novel by James Blaylock, the fantasist whom Brendan, too, found

interesting, but whose colorful tales of bizarre fantasy creatures and

even more bizarre human beings were too imaginative for a hard-nosed

realist like Father Wycazik.  Adjourning to the study with Brendan, the

rector said, "He writes well, but when I'm finished with one of his

stories, I get the peculiar feeling that nothing's what it seems to be,

and I don't like that feeling."

"Maybe nothing is what it seems to be," Brendan said.

The rector shook his head, and his gray hair caught the light in such a

way that it looked like steel wire.  "No, when I read for entertainment,

I prefer it in big, solid, heavy blocks that let you grapple with the

reality of life."

Grinning broadly, Brendan said, "If there's a heaven, Father, and if I

somehow manage to get there with you, I hope I'll have a chance to

arrange a meeting between you and Walt Disney.  I'd love to see you

convince him that he should've spent his time animating the collected

works of Dostoevsky instead of the adventures of Mickey Mouse."

Laughing at himself, the rector poured their drinks, and they settled

into armchairs, the fallen priest with a glass of schnapps, his superior

with a small brandy.

Deciding there would be no better time for his news, Brendan said, "If

it's all right with you, I'll be going away for a while, Father.  I'd

like to leave on Monday, if I can.  I need to go to Nevada."

"Nevada?" Father Wycazik made it sound as if his curate had just said

Bangkok or Timbuktu.  "Why Nevada?"

With the taste of peppermint schnapps on his tongue and the scent

burning his sinuses, Brendan said, "That's where I'm being called ' Last

night, in the dream, though I still saw nothing but a brilliant light, I

suddenly knew where I was. Elko County, Nevada.  And I knew I must go

back there in order to find an explanation for Emmy's cure and Winton's

resurrection."

"Back there?  You've been there before?"

"The summer before last.  Just before I came to St.  Bernadette's."

Upon leaving his post with Monsignor Orbella in Rome, Brendan had flown

directly to San Francisco to carry out a final assignment from his

Vatican mentor.  He stayed two weeks with Bishop John Santefiore, an old

friend of Orbella. The bishop was writing a book on the history of papal

selection, and Brendan came laden with research material provided by the

monsignor in Rome.  It was his job to answer any questions about those

documents.  John Santefiore was a charming man with a sly dry wit, and

the days flashed past.

His task concluded, Brendan was left with two weeks to himself before he

was required to report to his superiors in Chicago, his hometown, where

he would be assigned as curate to some parish in that archdiocese.  He

spent a few days in Carmel, on the Monterey Peninsula.  Then, making up

his mind to see some of the country that he had never seen before,

Brendan set out on a long drive eastward in a rental car.

Now, Father Wycazik leaned forward, brandy snifter clasped in both

hands.  "I remembered about Bishop Santefiore, but I'd forgotten you

drove from there to here.  And you passed through Elko County, Nevada?"

"Stayed there, at a motel in the middle of nowhere.  Tranquility Motel.

I stopped for the night, but it was so peaceful, the countryside so

beautiful, that I stayed a few days.  Now I've got to go back."

"Why?  What happened to you out there?"

Brendan shrugged.  "Nothing.  I just relaxed.  Napped.  Read a couple

books.  Watched TV.  They have good TV reception even way out there

because they've got their own little receiver dish on the roof."

Father Wycazik cocked his head.  "What's wrong?  There for a moment you

sounded .  .  .  odd.  Wooden .  .  .  as if repeating something you'd

memorized."

"I was just telling you what it was like."

"So if nothing happened to you there, why is the place so special?  What

will happen when you go back there?"

"I'm not sure.  But it's going to be something .  .  .  incredible."

Finally revealing his frustration with his curate's obtuseness, Father

Wycazik put the question bluntly: "Is it God calling you?"

"I don't think so.  But maybe.  A slim maybe.  Father, I want your

permission to go.  But if I can't have your blessing, I'll go anyway."

Father Wycazik took a larger swallow of brandy than was his habit.  "I

think you should go, but I don't think you should go alone."

Brendan was surprised.  "You want to come with me?"

"Not me.  I've got St.  Bette's to run.  But you should be in the

company of a qualified witness.  A priest familiar with these things,

one who can verify any miracle or miraculous visitation-"

"You mean some cleric who has the Cardinal's imprimatur to investigate

every hysterical report of weeping statues of the Holy Mother, bleeding

crucifixes, and divine manifestations of all kinds."

Father Wycazik nodded.  "That's right.  Someone who knows the process of

authentication.  I had in mind Monsignor Janney of the archdiocese's

office of publications.  He's had a lot of practice."

Reluctant to disappoint his rector but determined to proceed in his own

fashion, Brendan interrupted: "There's no visitation involved here, so

there's no need for Monsignor Janney.  None of this has an obvious

Christian significance or source."

"And who ever said God isn't permitted to be subtle?"

Father Wycazik asked.  His grin made it clear he expected to win this

argument.

"These things could all be merely psychic phenomena."

"Bah!  Claptrap.  Psychic phenomena are just the nonbeliever's pathetic

explanation for glimpses of the divine hand at work.  Examine these

events closely, Brendan; open your heart to the meaning of them, and

you'll see the truth.  God's calling you back to His bosom.  And I

believe a divine visitation is what this may be building toward."

"But if this is building to a divine manifestation, why couldn't it

happen right here?  Why's it necessary to go all the way to Nevada?"

"Perhaps it's a test of your obedience to the will of God, a test of

your underlying desire to believe again.  If your desire's strong

enough, you'll discomfit yourself by taking this long journey, and as

reward you'll be shown something to make you believe again."

"But why Nevada?  Why not Florida or Texas-or Istanbul?"

"Only God knows."

"And why would God go to all this trouble to recapture the heart of one

fallen priest'?"

"To Him who made the earth and stars, this is no trouble

at all.  And one heart is as important to Him as a million hearts."

:"Then why did He let me lose my faith in the first place?"

' Perhaps losing and regaining it is a tempering process. You may have

been put through it because God needs you to be stronger."

Brendan smiled and shook his head in admiration.  "You're never caught

without an answer, are you, Father?"

Looking self-satisfied, Stefan Wycazik settled back in his chair.  "God

blessed me with a quick tongue."

Brendan was aware of Father Wycazik's reputation as a savior of troubled

priests, and he knew the rector would not give up easily-or at all.  But

Brendan was determined not to go to Nevada with Monsignor Janney in tow.

From the other armchair, over the rim of his brandy snifter, Father

Wycazik watched Brendan with evident affection and iron determination,

waiting eagerly for another argument that he could swiftly refute, for

another thrust that he could parry with his unfailing Jesuitical aplomb.

Brendan sighed.  It was going to be a long evening.

Elko County, Nevada.

After hurrying out of the Tranquility Grille in fear and confusion, into

the last fading scarlet and purple light of dusk, Dom Corvaisis went

directly to the motel office.  There, he walked into the middle of a

scene that initially appeared to be a domestic quarrel, though he

quickly saw that it was something stranger than that.

A squarely built man in tan slacks and a brown sweater stood in the

center of the room, this side of the counter.  He was only two inches

taller than Dom, but in other dimensions he was considerably larger.  He

seemed to have been hewn from massive slabs of oak.  The gray of his

brush-cut hair, the weathered lines of his face, indicated he was in his

fifties, although his bull-strong body had a younger presence and power.

The big man was shaking, as if enraged.  A woman stood beside him,

staring up at him with an odd and urgent expression.  She was a blond

with vivid blue eyes, younger than him, though it was difficult to judge

her age.  The man's pale face was shiny with sweat.  As Dom stepped

across the threshold, he realized that his flash impression was wrong:

This guy was not enraged but terrified.

"Relax," the woman said.  "Try to control your breathing."

The big man was gasping.  He stood with his thick neck bent, head

lowered, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor, inhalation following

exhalation in an arhythmic pattern that betrayed a growing panic.

"Take deep slow breaths," the woman said.  "Remember what Dr. Fontelaine

taught you.  When you're calm, we'll go outside for a walk."

"No!" the big man said, shaking his head violently.

"Yes, we will," the woman said, putting a reassuring hand on his arm.

"We'll go outside for a walk, Ernie, and you'll see that this darkness

is no different from the darkness in Milwaukee."

Ernie.  The name chilled Dom and immediately brought to mind those four

posters of the moon on which names had been scrawled in Zebediah

Lomack's living room, in Reno.

The woman glanced at Dom, and he said, " I need a room."

"We're full," she said.

"The vacancy sign is lit."

"Okay," she said.  "Okay, but not now.  Please.  Not now.

Go over to the diner or something.  Come back in half an hour.  Please."

Until that exchange, Ernie had seemed unaware of Dom's intrusion.  Now,

he looked up from the floor, and a moan of fear and despair escaped him.

"The door.  Close it before the darkness comes in!"

"No, no, no," the woman told him, her voice firm yet full of compassion.

"It's not coming in.  Darkness can't hurt you, Ernie."

"It's coming in," he insisted miserably.

Dom realized that the room was unnaturally bright.  Table lamps, a floor

lamp, a desk lamp, and the ceiling fixtures blazed.

The woman turned to Dom again.  "For God's sake, close the door."

He stepped in, rather than out, and shut the door behind him.

"I meant, close it as you leave," the woman said pointedly.

The expression on Ernie's face was part terror, part embarrassment. His

eyes shifted from Dom to the window.  "It's right there at the glass.

All the darkness .  .  .  pressing, pressing." He looked sheepishly at

Dom, then lowered his head again, shut his eyes tight.

Dom stood transfixed.  Ernie's irrational fear was horribly like the

terror which drove Dom to walk in his sleep and to hide in closets.

Using anger to repress her tears, the woman turned to Dom.  "Why won't

you go?  He's nyctophobic.  He's afraid of the dark sometimes, and when

he has one of these attacks, we have to work it out together."

Dom remembered the other names scrawled on the posters in Lomack's

house-Ginger, Faye-and he chose one by instinct.  "It's all right, Faye.

I think I understand a little of what you're going through."

She blinked in surprise when he used her name.  "Do I know you?"

"Do you?  I'm Dominick Corvaisis."

"Means nothing to me," she said, staying with the big man as he turned

and, eyes still closed, shuffled toward the back of the office.

Ernie moved blindly toward the gate in the counter.  ,Got to get

upstairs, where I can pull the drapes, keep the dark out."

Faye said, "No, Ernie, wait.  Don't run from it."

Stepping in front of Ernie, putting a hand on the man's chest to halt

him, Dom said, "You have nightmares.  When you wake up, you can't

remember what they were, except they had something to do with the moon."

Faye gasped.

Ernie opened his eyes in surprise.  " How'd you know that?"

"I've had nightmares for over a month," Dom said.  "Every night.  And I

know a man who suffered from them so bad he killed himself."

They stared at him in astonishment.

"In October," Dom said, "I started walking in my sleep. I'd creep out of

bed, hide in closets, or gather weapons to protect myself.  Once, I

tried to nail the windows shut to keep something out.  Don't you see,

Ernie, I'm afraid of something in the dark.  I'll bet that's what you're

afraid of, too.  Not just the dark itself but something else, something

specific that happened to you"-he gestured toward the windows-"out there

in the darkness on that same weekend, the summer before last."

Still baffled by this turn of events, Ernie glanced at the night beyond

the windows, then immediately looked away. "I don't understand."

"Let's go upstairs, where you can draw the drapes," Dom said.  "I'll

tell you what I know.  The important thing is you aren't alone in this.

You're not alone any more.  And, thank God, neither am I."

New Haven County, Connecticut.

Clockwork.  Jack Twist's heists always ticked along like clockwork

mechanisms.  The armored-car job was no exception.

The night was solidly roofed with clouds.  No stars, no moon. No snow

was falling, but a cold moist wind swept up from the southwest.

The Guardmaster truck rumbled past empty fields, coming from the

northeast toward the knoll from which Jack had watched it Christmas Eve.

Its headlights bored through thin ragged sheets of patchy winter fog. In

the snow-wrapped fields, the county lane resembled a strip of black

satin ribbon.

Dressed in a white ski suit with hood, Jack lay half buried in snow,

south of the roadway, across from the knoll.  On the other side of the

road, at the foot of the knoll, the second member of the team, Chad

Zepp, also in white camouflage, sprawled in another drift.

The third member of the team, Branch Pollard, was halfway down the knoll

with a Heckler and Koch HK91 heavy assault rifle.

The truck was two hundred yards away.  Refracting the headlights, fog

formations drifted across the road, into the lightless fields.

Suddenly the muzzle of the HK91 flashed up on the hillside.

A shot cracked above the sound of the grinding engine.

The HK91, perhaps the finest combat rifle made, could fire hundreds of

rounds without jamming.  Extremely accurate, effective at a thousand

yards, the HK91 could put a 7.62 NATO round through a tree or concrete

wall, with sufficient punch left to kill someone on the other side.

Tonight, however, they did not intend to kill anyone.  Aided by an

infra-red telescopic sight, Pollard put the first shot where he wanted

it, blowing out the right front tire of the Guardmaster transport.

The truck swerved wildly.  Encountering ice, it began to slide.

Even while the armored transport was sliding, its fate unsettled, Jack

was up and running.  He leaped a ditch and dashed onto the road in front

of the vehicle, which loomed like a tank.  At the last moment, when it

seemed bound inexorably for the ditch, the driver regained control and

brought the truck to a jerky halt thirty feet from Jack.

He saw one of the Guardmaster crewmen talking excitedly into a radio

handset.  That call for help was futile.  The moment Pollard had fired

from the knoll, Chad Zepp, still concealed in the snow north of the

road, had switched on a batterypowered transmitter, jamming the

transport's radio frequency with shrill electronic static.

As the rising wind harried fog-ghosts past Jack, he stood in the middle

of the road, feeling naked in the blazing headlights, taking time to aim

the tear-gas rifle at the truck's grille. The gun was of British

manufacture, designed for anti-terrorist squads.  Other tear-gas weapons

fired grenades that spewed disabling fumes on impact, requiring the

marksman to aim at windows.  But upon seizing an embassy, terrorists

usually boarded up the windows.  The new British gun, which Jack had

acquired from a black-market arms dealer in Miami, had a two-inch bore

and fired a high-velocity, steel-jacketed tear-gas shell that could

penetrate most wooden doors or punch through a boarded window.  When

Jack fired, the shell smashed through the truck's grille into the engine

compartment.  A noxious yellow vapor began roiling into the cab by way

of its ventilation system.

The guards had been trained to remain in their secure roost in a crisis,

for the cab had steel doors and bulletproof glass. But when they

switched off the heater and closed the vents too late, they found

themselves choking in the gas-filled cabin. They opened their locked

doors, spilled out into the cold winter night, wheezing, coughing'

In spite of the blinding, suffocating gas, the driver had drawn his

revolver.  Dropping to his knees, gagging, he squinted his copiously

watering eyes in search of a target.

But Jack kicked the gun out of his hand, grabbed him by the coat, and

dragged him to the front of the truck, where he handcuffed him to a

support strut on the bumper.

After firing the shot that disabled the truck, Branch Pollard had

sprinted down the knoll.  Now, at the other end of the front bumper, he

handcuffed the other protesting guard to another strut.

Both guards were blinking furiously, trying to clear their gas-blurred

vision to get a look at their attackers' faces, but that was wasted

effort because Jack, Pollard, and Zepp were wearing ski masks.

Leaving the securely shackled men, Jack and Pollard ran to the back of

the truck, moving fast, though not because they feared being seen by

other traffic on that lonely road. No traffic would pass until they were

gone.  The moment the Guardmaster unit had entered the flats, the last

two members of the robbery team, Hart and Dodd, had sealed off both ends

of the road with stolen vans that had been repainted and equipped with

Department of Highway signs.  Against an impressive backdrop of

emergency beacons flashing on the roofs of their vans and on sawhorses

they had set out on the pavement, Dodd and Hart would turn back everyone

who wanted through, spinning a tale of a tanker-truck accident.

Clockwork.

When Jack and Pollard got to the rear of the truck, Chad Zepp was

already there.  In the glow of a battery-powered light that he had fixed

to the truck with a magnet, Zepp was unscrewing the faceplate that

covered the lock mechanism on the doors to the cargo hold.

They had brought explosives, but when trying to peel a truck as

well-constructed as the Guardmaster, there was a risk that explosives

would fuse the lock pins, sealing the honeypot even tighter.  They had

to try going in through the lock, leaving explosives as a last resort.

Some older armored cars had locks that operated with a key or pair of

keys, and some had combination dials, but this was a new vehicle with

state-of-the-art equipment.  This lock was engaged and disengaged by

pressing a sequence of code numbers on a ten-digit keyboard that was the

size and appearance of the "dial" on a touch-tone telephone.  To

activate the lock, the guard closed the doors and simply punched in the

middle number of the three-number code.  To deactivate

it, he pressed all three numbers in the correct order.  The code was

changed every morning, and of the two men crewing the truck, only the

driver knew it.

There were one thousand possible three-number sequences in ten digits.

Because it would take between four and five seconds to key in each

sequence and wait for it to be accepted or rejected, they would have to

delay at least an hour and a quarter to try every combination.  That was

far too risky.

Chad Zepp removed the faceplate from the lock.  The ten numbered buttons

remained, but now it was possible to see a bit of the mechanism between

and behind them.

Hung on a strap from Zepp's shoulder was a battery-powered,

attache-sized computer, which could assess and control the circuitry of

electronic locks and alarms.  It was SLICKS, an acronym for Security

Lock Intervention and Circumvention Knowledge System.  Intended solely

for military or intelligence-agency personnel with security clearance,

SLICKS was unavailable to the public.  Unauthorized possession was a

criminal violation of the Defense Security Act.  To obtain a SLICKS,

Jack had gone to Mexico City and had paid twentyfive thousand dollars to

a black-market arms dealer who had a contact inside the firm that

manufactured the device.

Zepp unslung the computer and held it so he and Jack and Pollard could

see the four-inch-square video display, which was dark.  Three

retractable probes were slotted in the SLICKS, and Jack withdrew the

first of these from its niche: It looked like a copper-tipped steel

thermometer on a two-foot wire umbilical.  Jack looked closely at the

partially exposed guts of the electronic lock and carefully inserted the

slender probe between the first two buttons, touching it to the contact

point at the base of the button marked #1.  " The display screen

remained dark.  He moved the probe to button number 2, then 3.  Nothing.

But when he touched number 4, a pale green word-CURRENT-appeared on the

screen, plus numbers that measured trace-electricity in the contact.

This meant that the middle number of the three-digit lockcode was 4.

After loading sacks of money and checks into the cargo-hold at the last

stop on the route, the driver had pushed 4 to activate the lock.  The

contact point of that button would remain closed until the entire code

was punched in, thereby unlocking the door.

With three unknown numbers, the possible combinations had been one

thousand.  But now that they needed to find only the first and last

numbers, the search was reduced to one hundred combinations.

Ignoring the howling wind, Jack withdrew another instrument from the

SLICKS.  This was also on a two-foot cord but resembled a watercolor

brush though with a single bristle. The bristle glowed with light and

was thicker than a sixtypound fishing line, stiff yet flexible.  Jack

inserted it into a crack at the base of the #1 button on the lock

keyboard, glanced at the computer video display, but was not rewarded,

He moved the bristle-probe from number to number.  The display screen

blinked, then showed a partial diagram of a circuit board.

The bristle that he had thrust inside the mechanism was actually the end

filament of an optical laser, a more sophisticated cousin of the similar

device which, in supermarket cash registers, read the bar codes on

grocery items.  The SLICKS was not programmed to read bar codes but to

recognize circuitry patterns and render models of them on the display

screen.  The screen would register nothing whatsoever until the

bristle-probe was aimed directly at a circuit or portion thereof, but

then it would faithfully reproduce the hidden pattern that it saw.

Jack had to move the probe three times, insert it into the lock

mechanism at three different points, before the computer was able to

piece together a picture of the entire circuitry from partial views. The

diagram glowed in bright green lines and symbols on the miniature video

display.  After three seconds of consideration, the computer drew boxes

around two small portions of the diagram to indicate those points at

which a tap could easily be applied to the circuitry.  Then it

superimposed an image of the ten-digit keyboard over the diagram, to

show where those two weak points were in relation to that portion of the

lock mechanism that was visible to Jack.

"There's a good tap-in spot below the number four button," Jack said.

"You need me to drill?" Pollard asked.

"I don't think so."

Jack returned the optical probe to its slot and withdrew a third slender

instrument with a spongy mesh tip of some material he could not

identify, which the designer of SLICKS had labeled the "tap-wand." He

inserted it through the tiny gap in the lock mechanism at the base of

the 4 button, slowly moved it up and down, left and right, until the

computer beeped and flashed INTERVENTION on the miniature video display.

While Jack held the tap-wand in place and Chad Zepp held the SLICKS

upright, Pollard used the computer's small programming board to quickly

type instructions.  INTERVENTION disappeared, and onto the screen came

other words: SYSTEM CONTROL ESTABLISHED.  The computer could now feed

commands directly to the microchip that processed the lock codes and

that directed the sliding steel bolts to either close or open.

Pollard hit two more keys, and the SLICKS began to send sequences of

three numbers to the microchip, one combination every six-hundredths of

a second, all of which used the already known 4 as the middle digit of

the code.  SLICKS hit the right code-545-in only nine seconds.

With four simultaneous thumps, the lock bolts retracted as one.

Jack returned the tap-wand to its niche, switched off the computer. Only

four minutes had passed since the rifle-shot that had blown out the

truck's right front tire.

Clockwork.

As Zepp slung the SLICKS over his shoulder again, Pollard opened the

rear doors of the armored car.  The money was theirs for the taking.

Zepp laughed with delight.  With a gleeful whoop, Pollard clambered into

the truck and began to push out bulging canvas bags.

But Jack still felt empty and cold inside.

A few snow flurries suddenly appeared in the wind.

The unexplained change in Jack, which had begun weeks ago, had now

reached completion.  He no longer cared about getting even with society.

He felt purposeless, as adrift as the wind-borne flakes of snow.

Elko County, Nevada.

Faye Block had turned on the NO VACANCY notice to ensure that they would

not be disturbed.

Sitting around the table in the cheery kitchen of their apartment above

the motel office, with the blinds shut against the night, the Blocks

sipped coffee and listened spellbound as Dom told his story.

The only point at which they registered disbelief was when he told them

of the impossible dance of paper moons in Zebediah Lomack's house in

Reno.  But he was able to describe that startling event in such sharp

detail that he felt gooseflesh pimpling his arms, and he saw that his

own awe and fear were being transmitted to Faye and Ernie.

They appeared most impressed by the two Polaroid photographs that had

arrived in the mail from the unknown correspondent two days before Dom

had flown to Portland.  They studied the picture in which the

zombie-faced priest was sitting at a writing desk, and they were certain

it had been taken in one of their motel rooms.  The photo of the blond

in bed with an IV line in her arm was a closeup that showed nothing of

the room, but they recognized the floral-patterned bedspread visible in

one corner of the shot; it was the kind that had been in use in some

units until ten months ago.

To Dom's surprise, they had been sent a similar photograph.  Ernie

remembered receiving it in a plain envelope on December 10, five days

before thee had flown to Milwaukee. Faye got it from the center drawer

of the desk in the downstairs office, and they hunched conspiratorially

over the kitchen table, studying the print.  It was a shot of three

people-man, woman, child-standing in sunshine by the door to Room 9.

All three were dressed in shorts, T_shirts, and sandals.

"Do you recognize them?" Dom asked.

" No," Faye said.

"But I feel like I ought to remember them," Ernie said.

Dom said, "Sunshine .  .  .  summer clothes .  .  .  so we can almost

certainly conclude it was taken the summer before last, that weekend,

between Friday the sixth of July and the following Tuesday.  These three

people were part of whatever happened.  Maybe innocent victims like us.

And our unknown correspondent wants us to think about them, remember

them."

Ernie said, "Whoever sent the pictures would've been one of the people

who erased our memories.  So why would he want to stir us up like this

after so much trouble was taken to make us forget?"

Dom shrugged.  "Maybe he never believed it was rightwhat was done to us.

Maybe he only went along with it because he had to, and maybe it's been

on his conscience ever since.  Whoever he is, he's afraid to come right

out with what he knows.  He's got to do it indirectly."

Abruptly, Faye pushed her chair back from the table.  "Five weeks of

mail piled up while we were away.  Might be something more in it."

As the sound of Faye's descending footsteps echoed up from the stairs,

Ernie said, "Sandy-that's our waitress at the Grille-sorted through the

mail and paid the bills as they arrived.  But the rest of the mail she

just dropped in a paper sack.  Since we came back this morning, we've

been so busy getting the place open, we didn't bother looking to see

what the postman brought."

Faye returned with two plain white envelopes.  In a state of high

excitement, they opened the first.  It contained a Polaroid of a man

lying on his back in bed, an intravenous needle in his arm.  He was in

his fifties.  Dark hair, baking.  In ordinary circumstances, he probably

had a jovial look, for he resembled W.  C.  Fields.  But he was staring

blankly toward the camera, face bleak.  Zombie eyes....

"My God, it's Calvin!" Faye said.

"Yeah," Ernie said.  "Cal Sharkle.  He's a long-haul trucker movin'

freight between Chicago and San Francisco."

"He stops at the Grille most every trip," Faye said.  "Sometimes, when

he's beat, he stays overnight.  Calvin's such a nice man."

"What company's he drive for?" Dom asked.

"He's independent," Ernie said.  "Owns his own rig."

"Would you know how to get in touch with him?"

"Well," Ernie said, "he signs the registry every time he checks in, so

we'll have his address .  .  .  around Chicago somewhere, I think."

"We'll check later.  First, let's look in that other envelope."

Faye opened it and produced another Polaroid.  Again, it was a shot of a

man lying in one of the Tranquility Motel's beds, an IV line in one arm.

Like all the others, he had no expression whatsoever, and soulless eyes

that reminded Dom of horror movies about the living dead.

But this time, they all recognized the man in the bed.  It was Dom.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

When Marcie's bedtime came, she was sitting at the little desk in the

corner of her room, occupied with her collection of moons.

Jorja stood in the doorway, watching.  The girl was so thoroughly

engaged by the task that she remained unaware she was being observed.

A box of crayons lay beside the album full of moons.  Marcie was hunched

over the work surface, carefully coloring one of the lunar faces.  This

was a new development, and Jorja wondered what it meant.

In the week since Marcie had begun her collection with magazine

clippings, she had filled the album.  She had few sources for photos, so

she drew hundreds of pictures to add to the monotonous gallery.  Using

templets as varied as coins, jar lids, vases, drinking glasses, cans,

and thimbles, she traced lunar forms of all sizes on tablet paper,

construction paper, paper bags, envelopes, and wrapping, paper.  She did

not spend most of her time with the album, but each day she devoted a

bit more time to it than she had the day before.

Dr.  Ted Coverly, the psychologist treating Marcie, believed the anxiety

that had generated the girl's irrational fear of doctors had not been

relieved.  Now, the child was expressing that anxiety through her lunar

preoccupation.  When Jorja noted that Marcie did not seem to be

particularly frightened of the moon, Coverly said, "Well, her anxiety

doesn't have to seek expression in another phobia.  It can show itself

in other ways .  .  .  such as an obsession." Jorja could not understand

where her daughter's extraordinary anxiety came from.  Coverly said,

"That's why the therapy-to seek understanding.  Don't worry, Miss

Monatella."

But Jorja was worried.

She was worried because Alan had killed himself only yesterday.  Jorja

had not yet told Marcie of her father's death. On leaving Pepper

Carrafield's apartment, she had called Coverly to ask his advice.  He

was astonished to learn that Alan, too, had been dreaming of the moon

and had independently developed an intense lunar fascination of his own.

That one would take time to ponder.  Meanwhile, Coverly thought it wise

to withhold the bad news from Marcie until Monday.  "Come with her to

the appointment.  We'll tell her

together." Jorj a was afraid that, in spite of Alan's inattention,

Marcie would be devastated by his death.

As she stood in the bedroom doorway, watching Marcie diligently applying

a crayon to one of the moons, Jorja was stricken by an acute awareness

of the girl's fragility.  Although she was seven years old and in second

grade, the three-quarterscale chair was still too big for her, and only

the toes of her sneakers touched the floor.  Even for a macho man

armored with muscles, life was tenuous, and every additional day of

existence was against the odds.  But for a child as petite as Marcie,

continued life seemed downright miraculous.  Jorja realized how easily

her precious daughter could be taken from her, and her heart swelled and

ached with love.

When at last Jorja said, "Honey, better put your pajamas on and brush

your teeth," she could not keep a tremor out of her voice.

The girl looked bewildered, as if she were not quite sure where she was

or who Jorja was.  Then her eyes cleared, and she gave her mother a

smile that could melt butter.  "Hi, Mommy.  I been coloring moons."

"Well, now it's time to get ready for bed," Jorja said.

"In a little while, okay?" The girl appeared to be relaxed, yet she was

gripping a crayon so tightly that her knuckles were white.  "I want to

color some more moons."

Jorja wanted to destroy the hateful album.  But Dr.  Coverly had warned

that arguing with the child about the moons and forbidding her to

collect them would only strengthen her obsession.  Jorja was not sure he

was right, but she stifled the urge to destroy the album.

,,Tomorrow, you'll have lots of time to color, Peanut."

Reluctantly, Marcie closed the album, put away her crayons, and went to

the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Alone beside the child's desk, Jorja was overcome by weariness.  In

addition to working a full shift, she'd arranged a mortician for Alan's

body, ordered flowers, and settled details with the cemetery for

Monday's funeral.  She had also called Alan's estranged father in Miami

to break the bad news.  She was drained.  Wearily, she opened the album.

Red.  The girl was coloring all the moons red, both those she had drawn

and those clipped from newspapers and magazines.  She had already

painted more than fifty lunar images. The obsessive quality of the

girl's work was evident in the great care she had taken to keep the

crayon from slipping past the outline of each moon.  The crayon had been

applied more heavily picture by picture, until some moons were coated

with so much scarlet wax that they had a glisteningly wet look.

The use of red-and red alone-profoundly disturbed Jorja. It almost

seemed as if Marcie had glimpsed an augury of some onrushing terror, a

premonition of blood.

Elko County, Nevada.

Faye Block had gone downstairs to the file cabinets, from which she had

extracted the motel registry that had been in use the summer before

last.  Upon her return, she put the book on the kitchen table, in front

of Dom, open to the guest lists of Friday and Saturday, July 6 and 7.

"There, just like Ernie and I remembered.  That Friday was the night

they closed the interstate because of a toxic spill. A truckload of

dangerous chemicals headed out to Shenkfield. That's a military

installation about eighteen miles southwest of here.  We had to close

the motel until Tuesday, until they got the situation under control."

Ernie said, "Shenkfield's an isolated testing ground for chemical and

biological weapons, so the crap in that truck was damned nasty."

Faye continued, a new wooden note in her voice, as if reciting carefully

memorized lines.  "They erected roadblocks and ordered us to evacuate

the danger zone.  Our guests left in their own cars." Her face remained

expressionless.  "Ned and Sandy Sarver were allowed to go up to their

trailer near Beowawe because it was outside the quarantine area."

Astonished and confused, Dom said, "Impossible.  I don't remember any

evacuation.  I was here.  I remember reading, researching the geography

for a series of short stories .  .  .  but those memories are so thin I

suspect they aren't real.  No substance to them.  Still, I was here and

nowhere else, and something weird was done to me." He indicated the

Polaroid snapshot of himself.  "There's the proof."

When Faye spoke, she sounded stiffer than before, and Dom saw a

strangeness in her eyes, a slightly glazed look. "Until the all-clear

was given, Ernie and I stayed with friends who have a small ranch in the

mountains ten miles northeast of here-Eiroy and Nancy Jamison.  It was a

difficult spill to clean up. The Army needed more than three days to do

the job.  They wouldn't let us back here until Tuesday morning."

"What's wrong with you, Faye?" Dom asked.

She blinked.  "Huh?  What do you mean?"

"You sound as if you'd been .  .  .  programmed with that little

speech."

She seemed genuinely baffled.  "What're you talking about?"

Frowning, Ernie said, "Faye, your voice went .  .  .  flat."

"Well, I was only explaining what happened." She leaned over and put one

finger on Friday's page of the registry.  "See, we'd rented out eleven

rooms by the time they closed the interstate that night.  But nobody

paid for the rooms because nobody stayed.  They were evacuated."

"There's your name, seventh on the list," Ernie said.

Dom stared at his signature and at the Mountainview, Utah, address to

which he had been moving at the time.  He could remember checking in,

but he sure as hell could not remember climbing back into his car and

driving out the same night in response to an evacuation order.  He said,

"Did you actually see the accident, the tanker truck?"

Ernie shook his head.  "No, the truck overturned a couple miles from

here." He spoke in that by-rote tone that had marked Faye's speech. "The

Army experts from Shenkfield were concerned the chemicals would be

dispersed by the wind, so the quarantine zone was very large."

Chilled by the unconscious artificiality in Ernie's voice, Dom looked at

Faye and saw that she too had noticed her husband's unnatural tone.  He

said, "That's what you sounded like a moment ago, Faye." He looked at

Ernie.  "You two have been programmed with the same script."

Faye frowned.  "Are you saying the spill never happened?"

"It happened, all right." Ernie told Dom.  "For a while we saved a bunch

of newspaper clippings about it from the Elko Sentinel.  But I think we

eventually threw them out.  Anyway, people around these parts still

wonder what might've happened if we'd gotten big winds and been

contaminated with that top-secret stuff before the evacuation order was

even given.  No, it's not just some delusion of Faye's and mine."

"You can ask Elroy and Nancy Jamison," Faye said.  "They were here that

night, visiting.  When we had to evacuate, they offered to take us back

to their place and put us up for the duration."

Dom smiled sourly.  "I wouldn't put much credence in their recall of

events.  If they were here, then they saw what the rest of us saw, and

it was scrubbed from their minds.  They remember taking you back to

their place because that's what they were told to remember.  In fact

they were probably right here, being brainwashed with the rest of us."

"My head's swimming," Faye said.  "This is positively Byzantine."

"But, damn it, the toxic spill and evacuation happened," Ernie said.

"It was in the newspapers."

Dom thought of a disturbing explanation that made his scalp crawl. "What

if everyone here at the motel that night was contaminated with some

chemical or biological weapon headed for Shenkfield?  And what if the

Army and the government covered it up to avoid bad press, millions of

dollars in lawsuits, and the disclosure of top-secret information? Maybe

they closed the highway and announced that everyone was safely

evacuated, when in fact we had not been gotten out in time.  Then they

used the motel as a clinic, decontaminated us as much as they could,

scrubbed the memory of the incident out of our minds, and reprogrammed

us with false memories, so we'd never know what had happened to us."

They stared at one another in shocked silence for a moment.  Not because

the scenario sounded entirely right, which it did not.  But because it

was the first scenario they'd come up with that made sense of the

psychological problems they had been having and explained the drugged

people in those Polaroid snapshots.

Then Ernie and Faye began to think of objections.  Ernie voiced the

first: "In that case, the logical thing for them to've done was to make

our false memories tie in closely with their cover story about the toxic

spill and evacuation.  That's exactly what they did with Faye and me,

with the Jamisons, Ned and Sandy Sarver.  So why didn't they do the same

with you?

Why'd they program you with different memories that didn't have anything

to do with the evacuation?  That was irrational and risky.  I mean, the

radical differences between our memories is virtually proof that you or

we or all of us-were brainwashed.

"Don't know," Dom said.  "That's just one more mystery to unravel."

"And here's another flaw in that theory," Ernie said.  "If we'd been

contaminated by a biological weapon, they wouldn't have let us go in

just three days.  They'd have been afraid of contagion, epidemic." Dom

said, "All right.  So it was a chemical agent, not a virus or bacterium.

Something they could wash off or flush out of our systems."

"That doesn't make sense, either," Faye said.  "Because the things they

test at Shenkfield are meant to be deadly. Poison gas.  Nerve gas.

Hideous damn stuff.  If we'd got caught in a cloud like that, we'd have

been dead on the spot or braindamaged or crippled."

"Maybe it was a slow-acting agent," Dom said.  "Something that generates

tumors, leukemia, or other conditions that only begin to show up two or

three or five years from the date of contamination."

That thought also shocked them into silence.  They listened to the

ticking of the kitchen clock, to the mournful fluting of the wind at the

windows, wondering if malignancies were even now sprouting within them.

Finally, Ernie said, "Maybe we were contaminated, and maybe we're all

slowly rotting inside, but I don't think so. After all, they test

potential weapons at Shenkfield.  And what use would a weapon be that

didn't kill the enemy for years and years?"

"Virtually no use at all," Dom acknowledged.

"And," Ernie said, "how could chemical contamination explain that

bizarre experience you had in Lomack's house in Reno?"

"I've no idea," Dom said.  "But now that we know they cordoned off this

whole area using the excuse of a toxic spillwhether it was a real spill

or not-my theory that we were brainwashed is a lot more credible.

Because, see, before this I wasn't able to explain how someone could've

rounded us up at will and held us long enough to make us forget the

thing we saw.  But the quarantine gave them the time they needed, and it

also kept away prying eyes.  So .  .  .  at least now we have a good

idea who we're up against.  The United States Army, maybe acting in

collusion with the government, maybe acting alone, has been trying to

hide something that happened here, something it did but shouldn't have

done.  I don't know ' about you, but the thought of being up against an

enemy that big and that potentially ruthless scares the hell out of me."

"An old Leatherneck like me is bound to be scornful of the Army," Ernie

said.  "But they're not devils, you know. We can't leap to the

conclusion we're victims of a wicked right-wing conspiracy.  That

crackpot stuff makes millions for paranoid novelists and for Hollywood,

but in the real world, evil is more subtle, less identifiable.  If Army

and government officials are behind what happened to us, they don't

necessarily have immoral motives.  They probably think they did the only

wise thing they could've done in the circumstances."

"But whether or not it's wise," Faye said, "we've got to dig into this

situation.  If we don't, Ernie's nyctophobia will surely get worse.  And

your sleepwalking will also get worse, Dom.  And what then?"

They all knew "what then."

"What then" was a shotgun barrel jammed in the mouth, the route to peace

that Zebediah Lomack had taken.

Dom looked down at the motel registry on the table before him.  Four

spaces above his own name, he saw another entry that electrified him.

Dr.  Ginger Weiss.  Her address was in Boston.

"Ginger," he said.  "The fourth name on those moon posters."

Furthermore, Cal Sharkle, the Blocks' trucker-friend from Chicago, the

zombie-eyed subject of one of the Polaroid snapshots, had checked into

the motel just before Dr.  Weiss.  The first guests to sign in that day

were Mr.  and Mrs.  Alan Rykoff and daughter, of Las Vegas.  Dom was

willing to bet that they were the young family photographed in front of

the door to Room 9.  Zebediah Lomack's name was not in the registry, so

he had probably just been unlucky enough to stop at the Grille for

dinner that night, on his way between Reno and Elko.  One of the other

names might have been that of the young priest in the other Polaroid,

but if so, he had signed without appending his title.

"We'll have to talk to all these people," Dom said excitedly.  "We can

start calling them first thing tomorrow and see what they remember about

those days in July."

Chicago, Illinois.

By allowing no slightest hairline crack to appear in his resolve, by

showing no equivocation whatsoever, Brendan managed to obtain Father

Wycazik's permission to go to Nevada alone on Monday, without Monsignor

Janney trailing him in expectation of miracles.

By ten-ten, he was in bed with the lights out, lying on his side in

blackness, staring at the window, where the palest light glistered

softly in the frost that skinned the pane.  The window looked out upon

the courtyard, where no lights burned at this hour, so Brendan knew that

he was seeing indirect moonglow refracted by the thin layer of ice that

had welded itself to the glass.  It had to be indirect light because the

moon was traversing the sky on a course that had made it visible from

the study windows earlier in the evening, and the study was on the other

side of the rectory; the moon could not now be over the courtyard unless

it had made a sudden ninetydegree turn in the path it had previously

been following, which was not possible.  As he patiently lay waiting for

sleep, he became increasingly intrigued by the subtle patterns made by

the second-hand moonbeams that had been trapped in the frost; light

splintered at every point where one ice crystal interfaced with another,

each beam shattering into a hundred beams, a hundred more.

"The moon," he whispered, surprised by his voice.  "The moon."

Gradually, Brendan realized that something uncanny was happening.

At first he was merely fascinated by the harmonious interaction of frost

and moonlight, but soon fascination evolved into a more intense

attraction.  He could not look away from the pearly window.  It offered

an indefinable promise, and he was drawn as a sailor by a siren's song.

Before he knew what he intended, he had slipped one arm out from beneath

the blankets and was reaching toward the window, though it was ten feet

away and could not be touched from where he lay. The black silhouette of

his spread-fingered hand was clearly defined against the niveous pane of

glass that glowed softly beyond, and his futile straining was the

essence of yearning. Brendan longed to be within the light, not the

light that lived in the frost but that other golden light of his dreams.

"The moon," he whispered, again surprised that he had spoken.

His heartbeat accelerated.  He began to tremble.

Suddenly, upon the glass, the sugary-looking frost underwent an

inexplicable change.  As Brendan watched, the thin timemelted away from

the edges of the pane, toward the center.  In a few seconds, when the

melting stopped, there remained only a perfect circle of ice, about ten

inches in diameter, glowing eerily in the middle of an otherwise clear,

dry, dark rectangle of glass.

The moon.

Brendan knew it was a sign, though he did not know from whom or what or

where it came, nor did he understand it.

On Christmas night, when he had stayed at his parents' house in

Bridgeport, Brendan had apparently had a dream featuring the moon, for

he had awakened his mother and father with his loud and panicky cries.

But he could remember nothing of the dream.  Since then, as far as he

knew, none of his dreams had involved the moon, but were concerned

exclusively with that mysterious place full of dazzling golden light,

where he felt himself called toward some incredible revelation.

Now, as he still reached with one hand toward the glimmering frost on

the window, the vaguely phosphorescent time grew brighter, as if some

peculiar chemical reaction was at work within the ice crystals.  The

moon-image changed from a milky hue to the crisper white of sun-dappled

snow, then grew even brighter, until it was a scintillant circle of

silver blazing on the glass.

Heart pounding furiously, certain he was teetering on the edge of some

astounding epiphany, Brendan continued to hold his hand toward the

window, and he gasped in shock as a shaft of light leapt out from the

frost-moon and fell across the bed.  It was like the beam of a spotlight

and every bit as brilliant.  As he squinted into the glare, trying to

see how such fierce incandescence could possibly originate from ordinary

hoarfrost and glass, the light changed to pale red, to darker red, to

crimson, to scarlet.  Around him, the rumpled blankets shone like molten

steel, and his outstretched hand appeared to be wet with blood.

He was gripped by diji vu, absolutely convinced that he had once really

stood under a scarlet moon, bathed in its bloody glow.

Although he wanted to understand how this strange red light related to

the wondrous golden light of his dreams, although he still felt himself

being called by something unknown that waited in that radiance, he was

suddenly afraid.  As the scarlet beams intensified, as his room became a

caldron of heatless red fire and red shadows, his fear grew into terror

of such power that it made him shake and sweat.

He pulled his hand back, and the scarlet light rapidly faded to silver,

and the silver dimmed as well, until the circle of frost on the window

shone with only a natural reflection of the January moon.

As darkness laid claim to his room once more, Brendan sat up and hastily

switched on the lamp.  Damp with sweat, as full of the night-shakes as

any child frightened by fantasies of carnivorous goblins, he went to the

window.  The icy circle was still there, a moon image in the center of

the otherwise unfrosted pane of glass.

He had wondered if the light had been but a dream or hallucination.  In

a way, he almost wished it had been only that.  But the frost-moon was

still there, proof that what he had seen was real, not a delusion.

Hesitantly, he touched the glass.  He felt nothing unusual. Just the

bitter cold of winter pressing against the other side of the pane.

With a start, he realized that he felt the swollen rings in his palms.

He turned his hands over and watched as the stigmata faded.

He returned to bed.  For a long while he sat with his back against the

headboard, with his eyes open and the light on, waiting for the courage

to lie down in darkness.

Elko County, Nevada.

Ernie stood by the tub in the bathroom, trying to recall precisely what

he had thought and felt in the early hours of Saturday, December 14,

when he had been driven by some strange impulse to open the window and

had suffered that frightening hallucination.  The writer, Dominick

Corvaisis, stood by the sink, and Faye watched from the doorway.

Reflections of the ceiling light and the light above the mirror imparted

a warmth to the ceramic-tile floor, glimmered in the chrome faucets and

shower rod, gave a bright flat sheen to the plastic shower curtain, and

gradually illuminated the memories that Ernie sought.

"Light.  I came in here for the light.  My fear of the dark was at a

peak then, and I was trying to hide it from Faye. Couldn't sleep, so I

slipped out of bed, came here, closed the door, and just .  .  .  just

sort of reveled in the light." He told how his gaze was drawn to the

window above the tub and how he was overcome by an irrational and urgent

need to escape.  "It's hard to explain.  But suddenly crazy thoughts . .

.  whirled into my head.  For some reason, I panicked.  I thought, This

is my one chance to escape, so I'd better take it, go through that

window, head up into the hills .  .  .  get to a ranch, get help."

"help for what?" Cor-vaisis asked.  "Why did you need help?  Why did you

feel you needed to escape from your own home?"

Ernie frowned.  "Don't have the foggiest notion.  He remembered the way

he had felt that night-the eeriness, urgency strangely mixed with

dreaminess.  He pointed to the window.  "I actually slid back the bolt.

Opened it.  Might've crawled out, too, except I saw someone outside.  On

the roof of the utility room."

"Who?" Corvaisis asked.

"Sounds silly.  It was a guy in motorcycle gear.  White crash helmet.

Dark visor over his face.  Black gloves.  In fact, he reached one hand

through the window, as if making a grab for me, and I stepped backward,

fell over the edge of the tub.

"That's when I came running," Faye said.

"I got off the floor," Ernie said, "went back to the window, looked out

on the roof.  No one there.  It'd- been just .  .  . hallucination."

Faye said, "In extreme cases of phobia, when the sufferer is in almost

constant anxiety, hallucinations sometimes occur."

The writer stared at the opaque window above the tub, as if hoping to

find some vital secret revealed in the uneven milky texture of the

glass.  At last he said, "It wasn't exactly a hallucination.  I have a

hunch that what you saw, Ernie, was a .  .  .  well, call it a

memory-flash.  From the summer

before last.  From the lost days.  For a moment, back on December

fourteenth, your repressed memories surged toward the surface.  You had

a flashback to a time when you really were a prisoner in your own home,

when you really did try to escape."

"And I was stopped by that guy on the roof of the utility room?  But

what was he doing there in a motorcycle helmet?

Strange, isn't it'?"

Dom said, "A man in a decontamination suit, sent to deal with a spill of

chemicals or biological toxins, would wear an airtight helmet."

"Decontamination," Ernie said.  "But if they were actually here in suits

like that, then there must've really been a spill."

"Maybe," Dom said.  "We still don't know enough to decide."

Faye said, "But listen, if we all went through this experience, like you

think we did, then how come only you and Ernie and that Mr.  Lomack are

suffering repercussions?  How come I'm not having bad dreams and

psychological problems?"

The writer's gaze drifted back to the window.  "I don't know.  But those

are some of the questions we've got to answer if we've any hope of

relieving the subconscious anxiety that this experience left in us, if

we've any hope of getting on with normal lives."

Connecticut to New York City.

After the money had been removed from the armored car, Jack and his men

drove only nine miles and parked the two phony Department of Highway

vans in a four-stall rented garage leased with fake IDs, where they had

left their cars. The garage was one of a long row that faced both sides

of a litter-strewn alley in a shabby neighborhood, where relaxed zoning

laws permitted intermingling of commercial and industrial facilities

with residences.  The area was characterized by peeling paint, grime,

broken streetlamps, empty storefronts, and mean-looking mongrel dogs on

the loose.

They emptied the contents of the canvas bags on the oily concrete floor

of the garage and did a hasty count of the cash. They split it quickly

into five shares of approximately three hundred fifty thousand dollars

each, all in used bills that could never be traced.

Jack felt no triumph, no thrill.  Nothing.

In five minutes, the gang had dispersed like dandelion fluff on a brisk

wind.  Clockwork.

As Jack headed home to Manhattan, spits of snow fell in brief squalls,

though not enough to dust the highway or interfere with travel.

During the drive from Connecticut, in a strange mood, he underwent a

change he could not have anticipated.  Minute by minute and mile by

mile, the grayness in him began at last to be colored by emotion; his

ennui gave way to feelings that surprised him.  He would not have been

surprised by a new welling-up of grief or loneliness, for Jenny had been

dead only seventeen days.  But the emotion that steadily tightened its

grip on him was guilt.  The stolen money in the trunk of the car began

to weigh on his conscience as heavily as if it were the first ill-gotten

goods ever to fall into his hands.

Through eight busy years of meticulously planned and triumphantly

executed larcenies, several on an even grander scale than the armored

car, he had never experienced the mildest quiver of guilt.  Until now.

He had seen himself as a just avenger.  Until now.

Cruising to Manhattan.  through the blustery winter night, he began to

see himself as little more than a common thief. Guilt wrapped him like

flypaper.  He tried repeatedly to shake it off.  It clung.

Sudden as it seemed, the guilt had actually been building for a long

time; that was where his growing dissatisfaction had been leading for

months.  Disillusionment had set in noticeably with the jewelry-store

job last October, and he'd thought the changes had begun then.  But now,

forced into self-analysis, he realized he had stopped getting a full

measure of pleasure from his work long ago.  As he scrolled backward in

his memory, seeking the most recent job that had left him fulfilled, he

was startled to discover it was the McAllister burglary in Marin County,

north of San Francisco, the summer before last.

Ordinarily, he worked only in the East near Jenny, but Branch

Pollard-with whom he had pulled off the just-completed Guardmaster

heist-had settled in California for a while, and during that Pacific

sojourn he had spotted Avril McAllister, a sheep waiting to be sheared.

McAllister, an industrialist worth two hundred million, lived on an

eightacre estate in Marin County, protected by stone walls, a complex

electronic security system, and guard dogs.  With information developed

from a half-dozen sources, Branch had determined that McAllister was a

collector of rare stamps and coins, two eminently fenceable commodities.

Besides, the industrialist was a gambler who went to Vegas three times a

year, usually dropping a quarter of a million each visit, but sometimes

winning big; he always took his winnings in cash to avoid the taxman,

and some of that cash was surely in the mansion.  Branch needed Jack's

sense of strategy and expertise in electronics, and Jack needed a change

of scenery, so they pulled it off with the help of a third man.

After considerable planning, getting onto the estate and into the house

went smoothly.  They were prepared with an electronic listening device

that could detect the soft tick of a safe's tumblers and amplify them,

which made deducing the combination mere child's play, but as insurance

they also took a full set of safe-cracking tools and a plastic

explosive.  The problem was that Avril McAllister had no mere safe.  He

had a damn vault.  The industrialist was so certain of the vault door's

inviolability that he'd made no effort to conceal it with a sliding

partition or tapestry; it was in one wall of the immense game room, a

massive stainless-steel portal as big as anything in a first-class bank.

The listening device Jack had brought was not sensitive enough to detect

the movement of tumblers through twenty inches of stainless steel.  The

plastic explosive would have peeled any safe, but the vault was

blastproof.  The set of safecracker's tools was a joke.

They left the estate with no stamps or coins, but with sterling silver,

a complete collection of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett first

editions, a few jewels that Mrs. McAllister carelessly left out of the

vault, and a handful of other items, which they fenced for only sixty

thousand dollars, split three ways.  The take was by no means a

pittance, but it was far less than anticipated, insufficient to cover

their expenses and to make their time, planning, and risks worthwhile.

In spite of this debacle, Jack had gotten a kick out of the job.  Once

they had safely fled the McAllister estate, he and Branch had seen the

humor in the catastrophe and had been able to laugh about it.  They

spent two days relaxing in the California sun; then, on a whim, Jack

took his twenty thousand to Reno to see if he could do better at craps

and blackjack than he had done at burglary. Twenty-four hours after

checking into Harrah's, he checked out, the twenty thousand having grown

to an amazing $107,455.  The exquisite symmetry of bad-luck money

bringing good luck was enormously appealing. Deciding to extend his

vacation, he rented a car and drove back to New York, all the way across

the country, in a splendid mood, eager to see Jenny.

Now, more than eighteen months later, as he entered Manhattan on his

return trip from Connecticut, Jack realized that, curiously, the fiasco

at the McAllister estate had been the last enterprise to provide

untainted satisfaction.  At that point he had begun a long journey from

dead-end amorality all the way across the moral spectrum until he had

become, once more, capable of guilt.

But why?  What had initiated the change in him?  What continued to power

it?  He had no answers.

All he knew was that he was no longer able to think of himself as a

melancholy and romantic bandit with a just mission to redress the wrongs

done to him and to his beloved wife.  He was merely a thief.  For eight

years he had been deluding himself.  Now he saw himself for what he

really was, and the sudden insight was devastating.

He had not merely become a man without purpose.  Worse, without

realizing it, he had been lacking a worthwhile purpose for eight years.

He drove aimlessly through the streets of Manhattan, going nowhere in

particular, unwilling to return straightaway to the apartment.

He soon found himself on Fifth Avenue, approaching St. Patrick's, and on

impulse he pulled to the curb, parked illegally before the main doors of

the immense cathedral.  He got out of the car, went around to the trunk,

opened it, and pulled half a dozen banded stacks of twenty-dollar bills

from the plastic garbage bag.

It was foolhardy to leave the car illegally parked in so prominent a

location when its trunk contained more than a third of a million dollars

in stolen money, an illegally obtained device like SLICKS, and guns.  If

a cop stopped to give him a ticket and became suspicious and demanded to

search the car, Jack would be finished.  But he had ceased to care.  In

some ways, he was a dead man who still walked, just as Jenny had been a

dead woman who still breathed.

Though not a Catholic, he pulled open one of the sculpted bronze doors

of St.  Patrick's, went inside, into the nave, where a handful of people

knelt in the front pews, praying or saying the rosary, and where an old

man was lighting a votive candle even at this hour.  Jack stood for a

moment looking up at the elegant baldachin above the main altar. Then he

located the poor-boxes, removed the bundles of twenty-dollar bills from

inside his winter jacket, broke the paper bands that bound them, and

stuffed the money into the containers as if he were jamming garbage into

trash receptacles.

Outside again, as he was descending the granite steps, he stopped

abruptly and blinked at the night-draped cityscape, for something was

different about Fifth Avenue.  As a few huge snowflakes spiraled lazily

through the glow of streetlamps and through the lights of cars moving

along the thoroughfare, Jack gradually realized the city had reacquired

a fraction of the glitter, glamour, and mystery that it always had for

him before he'd gone to Central America but which it had not possessed

in ages.  It seemed cleaner now than it had been in a long time, and the

air was crisper, less polluted.

Staring around in amazement, he slowly understood that the city had not

undergone a metamorphosis during the past few minutes.  It was the same

city that it had been an hour ago-and yesterday.  But when he had come

back from Central America, he had been a different man from the one who

had gone away, and on returning he had been unable to see anything good

in the metropolis or in any other works of the society he hated.  Much

of the Big Apple's dreariness and degeneration had been merely a

reflection of his own blasted, burnt-out, corrupted inner landscape.

Jack returned to the Camaro, went west to Sixth Avenue, north to Central

Park, made a right turn, then another right onto Fifth Avenue again,

heading south, not sure where he was going until he reached the Fifth

Avenue Presbyterian Church.  Once more, he parked illegally, took cash

from the trunk, and went into the church.

There was no poor-box as in St.  Patrick's, but Jack found a young

assistant minister in the process of closing the place

for the night.  From various pockets, Jack produced bundles of ten- and

twenty-dollar bills wrapped with rubber bands, and handed them to the

startled cleric, claiming to have won a fortune in the casinos of

Atlantic City.

In two stops, he had given away thirty thousand dollars. But that was

not even one-tenth of what he had brought back from Connecticut, and

those dispensations did not allay his guilt.  In fact, his newfound

shame was growing stronger by the minute.  The bag of money in the trunk

was, to him, like the telltale heart buried under the floorboards in the

story by Poe, a throbbing annunciator of his guilt, and he was as

anxious to be rid of it as Poe's narrator had been anxious to silence

the incriminating heartbeat of his dismembered victim.

Three hundred thirty thousand dollars remained.  For some New Yorkers,

Christmas was about to come two and a half weeks late.

Elko County, Nevada.

The summer before last, Dom had stayed in Room 20.  He remembered it

well because it was the last unit in the motel's L-shaped east wing.

Ernie Block's curiosity was more compelling than his nyctophobia, so he

decided to accompany Faye and Dom to Room 20, where it was hoped that

Dom's memories would be stilled by the sight of the familiar walls and

furnishings. Ernie walked between Faye and Dom, who held his arms.

During the trip along the breezeway, the frigid night wind made Dom glad

for his fleece-lined jacket.  More concerned about the black night than

the chill, Ernie kept his eyes shut for the entire journey.

Faye went in first, snapping on the lights, closing drapes. Dom followed

with Ernie, who opened his eyes only when Faye shut the door.

Upon entering the room, Dom was filled with apprehension.  He walked to

the queen-sized bed, stared down at it.

He tried to remember lying here, drugged and helpless.

Faye said, "The bedspread's not the same, of course."

The Polaroid had shown the corner of a floral-patterned spread.  The

current model was brown- and blue-striped.

"The bed itself is the same, and all the furniture," Ernie said.

The padded headboard was upholstered with a coarse brown fabric,

slightly snagged and worn.  The nightstands were plain two-drawer chests

with laminated walnut veneer.  The bases of the lamps resembled large

hurricane lanterns, black metal with two panes of smoky amber glass in

each side; the cloth shades were the same amber hue as the glass in the

base. Each lamp had two bulbs: The main one, under the shade, provided

most of the light; the second bulb, inside the base, was shaped like a

candle flame and gave off a dim flickering glow that imitated a real

flame and was used only for its decorative effect, to enhance the

illusion of hurricane lanterns.

Dom remembered every detail of the place now that he was standing in it,

and he had the impression that a multitude of ghosts flitted teasingly

through the room, staying just at the periphery of his vision.  The

ghosts were actually bad memories rather than spirits, and they haunted

not the room but the shadowy corners of his own mind.

"Remember anything?" Ernie asked.  "Is it coming back to you?"

"I want to have a look at the john," Dom said.

It was small and strictly functional, with a shower stall but no

bathtub, a speckled tile floor, and durable Formica counter tops.

Dom was interested in the sink, for it was surely the one in his

recurring nightmare.  But when he looked into the bowl, he was surprised

to see a mechanical stopper.  And an inch below the rim of the bowl, the

overflow drain consisted of three round holes, a more modern design than

the six slanted lozenge-shaped outlets in the sink of his dreams.

"This isn't the same," he said.  "The sink was old, with a rubber

stopper attached to a bead-chain and hung from the cold-water faucet."

"We're always upgrading the place," Ernie said from the doorway.

"We took that sink out eight or nine months ago," Faye said.  "We

replaced the Formica then, too, although it's the same color as before."

Dom was disappointed because he had been convinced that at least some

memories from those lost days would begin to return to him when he

touched the sink.  After all, judging from the stark terror of the

nightmare, something particularly frightening had happened to him at

that very spot; therefore, it seemed likely that the sink might act as a

lightning rod upon the supercharged memories that drifted in the

darkness of his subconscious, drawing them back in a sudden crackling

blaze of recollection.  He put his hands on the new sink, but he felt

only cold porcelain.

'Anything?" Ernie asked again.

"No," Dom said.  "No memories .  .  .  but bad vibrations. If I give it

time, I think the room might break down the barriers.  I'll sleep here

tonight, give it a chance to work on me .  .  .  if that's all right."

"No problem Faye said.

The room's yours."

Dom said, "I have a hunch the nightmare will be worse here than it's

ever been before."

Laguna Beach, California.

Although Parker Faine was one of the most respected of living American

artists, although his canvases were assiduously collected by major

museums, although he had been commissioned to create works for the

President of the United States and other luminaries, he was not too old

and certainly not too dignified to get a thrill from the intrigue upon

which he was engaged in Dominick Corvaisis' behalf.  To be a successful

artist, one needed maturity, an adult's perception and sensitivity and

dedication to craftsmanship, but one also had to hold on to a child's

curiosity, wonder, innocence, and sense of fun.  Parker held tighter to

those things than most artists did; therefore, he fulfilled his role in

Dom's plans with a spirit of adventure.

Each day, when he picked up Dom's mail, Parker pretended to go about his

business without the slightest suspicion that he might be under

surveillance, but in fact he searched surreptitiously, diligently for

the watchers-spies, cops, or whatever they might be.  He never saw

anyone observing him, and he never detected a tail.

And each night, when he left his house and went to a different pay phone

to await Dom's prearranged call, he drove miles out of his way, turned

back on his own route, made sudden turns calculated to throw off a tail,

until he was sure that he was not being followed.

A few minutes before nine o'clock, Saturday night, he arrived by his

usual devious means at a telephone booth beside a Union 76 station.  A

hard rain fell, sluicing down the Plexiglas walls, distorting the world

beyond and screening Parker from prying eyes.

He was wearing a trenchcoat and a rainproof khaki hat with the rim

turned down all the way around to let the rain run off.  He felt as if

he belonged in a John le Cared tale.  He loved it.

Promptly at nine o'clock, the phone rang.  It was Dom. "I'm on schedule,

at the Tranquility Motel.  This is the place, Parker."

Dom had a lot to tell: a disturbing experience in the Tranquility

Grille, Ernie Block's nyctophobia....  And by indirection, he managed to

convey that the Blocks had received strange Polaroid snapshots, too.

Discretion was essential; if the Tranquility Motel was, indeed, the

center of the unremembered events of the summer before last, the Blocks'

phones might be tapped.  If the listeners heard about the photographs,

they would know they had a traitor in their midst, and they would surely

find him, and there would be no more notes or photos forthcoming.

"I've got news, too," Parker said.  "Ms.  Wycombe, your editor, left a

message on your answering machine.  Twilight in Babylon had another

printing, and there are now a hundred thousand copies in the stores."

"Good God, I'd forgotten the book!  Since Lomack's house four days ago,

I haven't thought about anything but this crazy situation."

"Ms.  Wycombe has more good news she wants to share, so you're to call

her as soon as you get a chance."

"I'll do that.  Meanwhile .  .  .  seen any interesting pictures?" Dom

asked, indirectly inquiring if any more Polaroids had been received.

"Nope.  No amusing notes, either." When the headlights of passing cars

swept across the booth, the thin skin of flowing water on the

transparent walls flared briefly with a ripplingshimmering brilliance.

Parker said, "But something came in the mail that'll knock your socks

off, buddy.  You've identified

three of the names on those moon posters at Lomack's.  So how'd you like

to hear who the fourth one is?"

"Ginger?  I forgot to tell you.  I think her name's on the motel

registry.  Dr.  Ginger Weiss of Boston.  I intend to call her tomorrow."

"You've stolen some of my thunder.  But you'll be surprised to hear you

got a letter today from Dr.  Weiss.  She sent it to Random House on

December twenty-sixth, but it got caught in their bureaucracy.  Anyway,

she's at the end of her rope, see, and then she gets hold of a copy of

your book, gloms your photo, and she gets this feeling she's met you

before, and that you are a part of what's been happening to her."

"Do you have the letter with you?" Dom asked excitedly.

Parker had it in his hand, waiting.  He read it, glancing now and then

at the night beyond the booth.

"I've got to call her right away," Dom said when Parker finished the

letter.  "Can't wait till morning now.  I'll talk to you again tomorrow

night.  Nine o'clock."

"If you'll be calling from the motel, where the phones are likely to be

tapped, there's no point in my running out to a phone booth."

"You're right.  I'll call you at home.  Take care," Dom said.

"You, too." With mixed feelings, Parker put the receiver on the hook,

relieved that these inconvenient nightly journeys to a pay phone were at

an end, but also certain that he would miss the intrigue.

He stepped out of the phone booth, into the rain, and he was almost

disappointed when no one took a shot at him.

Boston, Massachusetts.

Pablo Jackson had been buried that morning, but he was with Ginger Weiss

throughout the afternoon and evening. Like a ghost, his memory haunted

her, a smiling revenant in the chambers of her mind.

Keeping to herself in the guestroom at Baywatch, she tried to read,

could not concentrate.  When not preoccupied with memories of the old

magician, she was eaten up by worry, wondering what would become of her.

She got into bed at a quarter past midnight and was reaching for the

switch to turn off the lamp when Rita Hannaby came to tell her that

Dominick Corvaisis was on the phone and that she could take the call in

George's study, down the hall, adjacent to the master bedroom.  Excited

and trepidatious, Ginger put on a robe over her pajamas.

The study was warm and shadowy with dark oak paneling. The Chinese

carpet was beige and forest-green, and the stainedglass lamp on the desk

was either a genuine Tiffany or a superb reproduction.

George's puffy eyes made it clear that the call woke him. He began

surgery early most mornings and was usually in bed by nine-thirty.

"I'm sorry," Ginger told him.

"No need," George said.  "Isn't this what we've been hoping for?"

"Maybe," she said, unwilling to raise her hopes.

Rita said, "We'll give you privacy."

"No," Ginger said.  "Stay.  Please." She went to the desk, sat down,

picked up the uncradled handset.  "Hello?  Mr. Corvaisis?"

"Dr.  Weiss?" His voice was strong yet melodic.  "Writing to me was the

best thing you could've done.  I don't think you're nuts.  Because

you're not alone, Doctor.  There are more of us with strange problems."

Ginger tried to respond, but her voice cracked.  She cleared her throat.

"I ...  I'm sorry .  .  .  I'm not ...  I don't ...  don't usually cry."

Corvaisis said, "Don't try to talk until you're ready.  I'll tell you

about my problem: sleepwalking.  And my dreams .  .  .  about the moon."

A thrill, half cold fear and half exultation, throbbed through her. "The

moon," she agreed.  "I never remember the dreams, but they must involve

the moon because that's what I wake up screaming about."

He told her about a man named Lomack in Reno, dead by his own hand,

driven to suicide by an obsession with the moon.

Ginger sensed some vast gulf beneath her, a fearful unknown.

"We've been brainwashed," she blurted.  "All these problems we're having

are the result of repressed memories trying to surface."

For a moment there was a stunned silence on the line.  Then

the writer said, "That's been my theory, but you sound sure of it."

"I am.  I underwent hypnotic regression therapy after I wrote to you,

and we turned up evidence of systematic memory repression."

"Something happened to us the summer before last," he said.

"Yes!  The summer before last.  The Tranquility Motel in Nevada."

"That's where I'm calling from."

Startled, she said, "You're there now?"

"Yes.  And if possible, you ought to come.  A lot has happened that I

can't risk talking about on the phone."

"Who are they?" she asked in frustration.  "What are they hiding?"

"We'll have a better chance finding out if we all work together."

"I'll come.  Tomorrow, if I can book a flight that quickly."

Rita started to protest that Ginger was in no condition to travel.  In

the many-colored light of the Tiffany lamp, George's scowl deepened.

To Corvaisis, Ginger said, "I'll let you know how and when I'll arrive."

When Ginger hung up, George said, "You can't possibly go all that way in

your condition."

Rita said, "What if you black out on the airplane, become violent?"

"I'll be all right."

"Dear, you had three seizures last Monday, one after the other."

Ginger sighed and slumped back in the green leather chair. "Rita,

George, you've been wonderful to me, and I can never adequately repay

you.  I love you, I really do.  But I've been living with you for five

weeks, five helpless weeks during which I've been more like a dependent

child than an adult, and I'm just not capable of going on that way. I've

got to go to Nevada.  I've no other option.  I've got to."

New York, New York.

A couple of blocks farther down Fifth Avenue from the Presbyterian

Church, Jack stopped again, in front of St. Thomas's Episcopal Church.

In the nave, he stared in fascination at the huge reredos of Dunville

stone behind the altar.  He met the strangely portentous gazes of the

statues in the shadowy niches along the walls-Saints, Apostles, the

Blessed Virgin, Christ-and he realized that the primary purpose of

religion was the expiation of guilt, to provide people with forgiveness

for being less than they were meant to be. The human species seemed

incapable of living up to its potential, and some would be driven mad by

guilt if they did not believe that a god-be it Jesus, Yahweh, Mohammed,

Marx, or some other-looked on them with favor in spite of themselves.

But Jack found no comfort in St.  Thomas's, no expiation of his sins,

not even when he left twenty thousand dollars in the charity box.

In the Camaro again, he set out to dispose of the rest of the cash from

the Guardmaster heist, not because giving it away would salve his guilt;

it would not, for redistribution of the funds was not the moral

equivalent of repayment.  He had too much to atone for to expect to

shrive himself of all his transgressions in one night.  But he did not

need or want the money any more, could not simply throw it in the trash,

so giving the damn stuff away was his only possible course of action.

He stopped at more churches and temples.  Some were open, some locked.

Where he could gain entrance, he left money.

He drove down to the Bowery and left forty thousand dollars with the

startled night attendant at the Salvation Army Mission.

On Bayard Street in nearby Chinatown, Jack saw a sign in a second-floor

window that proclaimed, in both Chinese characters and in English: THE

ALLIANCE AGAINST OPPRESSION OF CHINESE MINORITIES.  The place was above

a quaint apothecary that specialized in the herbs and powdered roots of

traditional Chinese medicines.  The apothecary was closed, but a light

shone in a window of the Alliance offices.  Jack rang the bell at the

street-level door, rang it and rang it until an elderly and wizened

Chinese man came down the stairs and spoke to him through a small

grille.  When Jack ascertained that the Alliance's current major project

was the rescue of brutalized Chinese families from Vietnam (and

resettlement in the States), he passed twenty thousand in cash through

the grille.  The Chinese gentleman reverted to his native language in

surprise

and came out into the cold winter wind, insistent upon shaking hands.

"Friend," the elderly mandarin said.  "You can't know what suffering

this gift will relieve." Jack echoed the old man, "Friend." In that

single word, and in the warm grasp of the venerable Oriental's callused

hand, Jack found something he thought he had lost forever: a sense of

belonging, a feeling of community, fellowship.

In his car again, he drove up Bayard to Mott Street, turned right, and

had to pull to the curb.  A flood of tears blurred his vision.

He could not remember ever having been more confused than he was now. He

wept in part because the stain of guilt, for the moment at least, seemed

an ineradicable mark upon his soul.  Yet some of the tears were tears of

joy, for he was abruptly brimming over with brotherhood.  For the better

part of a decade, he had been outside society, distanced in mind and

spirit if not in body.  But now, for the first time since Central

America, Jack Twist had the need, desire, and ability to reach out to

the society around him, to make friends.

Bitterness was a dead-end.  Hatred hurt no one more than he who harbored

it.  The wine of alienation was loneliness.

During the past eight years, he had often wept for Jenny, and he had

sometimes wept in fits of self-pity.  But these tears were different

from all others he had let previously, for they were cleansing tears,

purging tears, washing all the rage and resentment out of him.

He still did not understand the cause of these radical and rapid changes

taking place in him.  However, he sensed that his evolution-from outcast

and criminal to law-abiding citizen-was not finished and would generate

several more surprises before it reached a conclusion.  He wondered

where he was bound and by what route he would arrive there.

That night in Chinatown, hope swept back into his world like a summer

breeze stirring music from a cluster of wind chimes.

Elko County, Nevada.

Ned and Sandy Sarver were able to run the diner by themselves because

they were hard workers by nature, but also because their menu was simple

and because Ned had learned efficient food service as a cook in the U S.

Army.  A hundred tricks were employed to make the Tranquility Grille

function smoothly with as little effort as possible.

Nevertheless, at the end of work, Ned was always glad that Ernie and

Faye provided the motel's guests with a free continental breakfast in

their rooms, so it was not necessary to open the diner before noon.

Saturday evening, while he grilled hamburgers and made French fries and

served chili-dogs, Ned Sarver glanced frequently at Sandy as she worked.

He still could not get used to the change in her, the sudden flowering.

She had added ten pounds, and her figure had acquired an appealing

female roundness it never possessed before.  And she no longer shuffled

slump-shouldered through the diner, but moved with a fluid grace and a

jaunty good humor that Ned found enormously appealing.

He was not the only man who had eyes for the new Sandy. Some of the

truckers watched the roll of her hips and the flex of her buttocks as

she crossed the room with plates of food or bottles of cold beer.

Until recently, although Sandy had been unfailingly polite to the

customers, she had not been chatty.  That changed, too.  She was still

somewhat shy, but she responded to the truckers' teasing and even teased

them in return, and came up with some damn good quips.

For the first time in eight years of marriage, Ned Sarver feared losing

Sandy.  He knew she loved him, and he told himself that these changes in

her appearance and personality would not also change the nature of their

relationship.  But that was precisely what he feared.

This morning, when Sandy went to Elko to meet Ernie and Faye at the

airport, Ned had worried that she would not come back.  Maybe she would

just keep going until she found a place she liked better than Nevada,

until she met a man who was handsomer, richer, and smarter than Ned.  He

knew that he was being unfair to Sandy by harboring such suspicions,

that she was incapable of infidelity or cruelty.  Maybe his fear lay in

the fact that he'd always thought Sandy deserved better than him.

At nine-thirty, when the dinner crowd thinned to seven customers, Faye

and Ernie came into the Grille with that dark, good-looking guy who had

caused a scene earlier in the evening when he had wandered through the

door as if in a dream and then had turned and run out as though hell

hounds were at his heels.  Ned wondered who the guy was, how he knew

Faye and Ernie, and whether they knew their friend was a little weird.

Ernie looked pale and shaky, and to Ned it seemed as if his boss was

taking considerable care to keep his back to the windows.  When he

raised a hand in greeting to Ned, there was a visible tremor in it.

Faye and the stranger sat facing each other across the table, and from

the looks they gave Ernie, you could see they were concerned about him.

They didn't look so good themselves.

Something peculiar was going on.  Intrigued by Ernie's condition, Ned

was briefly distracted from thoughts of Sandy leaving him.

But when Sandy stopped at their table, she was so long taking their

order that Ned's concern rose again.  From his post behind the counter,

with a hamburger and a pair of eggs sizzling noisily on the griddle, he

could not hear what they were saying over there, but he had the crazy

notion that the stranger was taking undue interest in Sandy and that she

was responding to his slick patter.  Jealous nonsense, of course. Yet

the guy was handsome, and he was younger than Ned, closer Sandy's age,

and apparently successful, just the kind of guy she ought to run off

with because he would be better for her than Ned could ever be.

In his own view, Ned Sarver was not much to brag about. He was not ugly,

but certainly not handsome.  His brown hair had receded from his

forehead in a deep widow's peak; unless you were Jack Nicholson, such a

hairline was not sexy.  He had pale-gray eyes that perhaps had been

startling and magnetic when he was a young man, but with the passing

years, they merely made him appear tired and washed-out.  He was neither

rich nor destined to be rich.  And at forty-two, ten years older than

Sandy, Ned Sarver was not likely to be gripped suddenly by the driving

need to make something of himself.

All of this dismaying self-criticism roiled through his mind as he

watched Sandy finally leave the stranger's table and come to the

counter.  With an odd and troubled expression, she handed the order slip

to him and said, "What time we closing?  Ten or ten-thirty?"

"Ten." Indicating the few customers, Ned added: "Two profit hanging

around tonight."

She nodded and went back to Faye, Ernie-and the stranger.

Her brusqueness and her speedy return to the stranger aggravated Ned's

worries.  As far as he could see, he had only three qualities that gave

Sandy any reason to stay with him. First, he could always make a decent

living as a short-order cook because he was good.  Second, he had a

talent for fixing things, both inanimate objects and living creatures.

If a toaster, blender, or radio went on the blink, Ned set to work with

a tool kit and soon had the appliance back in operation.  Likewise, if

he found a panicky bird with a broken wing he stroked it until it grew

calm, took it home, nursed it back to health, then sent it on its way.

Having the talent to fix things seemed important, and Ned was proud of

it.  Third, he loved Sandy with all his body, mind, and heart.

Preparing the order for Faye, Ernie, and the stranger, Ned glanced

repeatedly at Sandy, and he was surprised when she and Faye started

moving around the room, lowering the Leyolor blinds over the windows.

Something unusual was going on.  Returning to Ernie's table, Sandy

leaned forward in earnest conversation with the goodlooking stranger.

It was ironic that he was worried about losing Sandy, for it had been

his talent for fixing things that contributed to her transformation from

duckling to swan.  When Ned first met her at a diner in Tucson, where

they worked, Sandy was not just bashful and self-conscious but painfully

shy, fearful.  She was a hard worker, always willing to lend a hand to

other waitresses when they got behind in their orders, but she was

incapable of interacting with anyone on a personal level.  A pale,

scuttling girl (twenty-three, but still more girl than woman), she was

reluctant to open the door on friendship, for fear she would put her

trust in someone who might hurt her.  She had been drab, mousy, meek,

beaten by life-and the instant Ned had seen her, he had felt the need to

fix things for her.  With enormous patience, he began work on her, so

subtly that, at first, she was not aware that he was interested in her.

They were married nine months later, although his repair work on her was

far from finished.  She was more badly broken than any creature he'd

encountered before, and there were times when, in frustration, he felt

that, even with his talent, he would be unable to fix her and would

spend the rest of his life tinkering endlessly without much effect.

During their first six years of marriage, however, he had witnessed a

slow healing in her, maddeningly gradual.  Sandy had an indisputably

bright mind, but she was retarded emotionally; she learned to take and

give affection only with tremendous effort, much as a dim-witted child

struggles mightily to learn to count to ten.

The first indication Ned had had that major changes were taking place in

Sandy was the sudden marked improvement in her sexual appetite.  The

turnaround had come in late August, two summers ago.

She'd never been a hesitant lover.  She exhibited extensive carnal

knowledge, but she made love more like a machine than a woman, with a

joyless expertise.  He had never known a woman as silent in bed as Sandy

had been.  He suspected something in her childhood had stunted her, the

same thing that had broken her spirit.  He tried to get her to talk

about it, but she was adamant about letting the past stay buried, and

his persistence was the one thing that might have caused her to leave

him; so he asked about it no more, though it was difficult to fix

something when you could not get at the part of it that was broken.

Then, in August of the summer before last, she came to the conjugal bed

with a noticeably different attitude.  Nothing dramatic at first.  No

sudden release of long-imprisoned passions.  Initially, the change

involved only a subtle new relaxation during the act of love.  Sometimes

she smiled or murmured his name as he made love to her.

Slowly, slowly, she blossomed.  By that Christmas, four months after the

change began, she no longer lay upon the bed as if she were made of

metal.  She strove to find and match his rhythm, searching for the

fulfillment that still eluded her.

Slowly, slowly, she freed the erotic power chained within her.  Finally,

on April 7, last year, a night Ned would never forget, Sandy had an

orgasm for the first time.  It was a climax of such power that for a

moment it frightened Ned.  Afterward, she wept with happiness and clung

to him with such gratitude, love, and trust that he wept as well.

He thought her orgasmic breakthrough would finally enable her to speak

of the source of her long-hidden pain.  But when he cautiously inquired,

she rebuffed him: "The past is past, Ned.  Won't help to dwell on it. If

I talk about it .  .  .  that might just give it a new hold on me."

Through last spring, summer, and early autumn, Sandy gradually achieved

satisfaction more often until, by September, their love-making nearly

always brought her fulfillment. And by Christmas Day, less than three

weeks ago, it was clear that her sexual maturation was not the only

change in her but was accompanied by a new pride and self-respect.

Concomitant with her sexual development, Sandy learned to enjoy driving,

an activity she had once found even less pleasurable than sex.

Initially, she expressed the modest intention of driving to work from

their trailer out near Beowawe.  Before long she was lighting out in the

truck on solo spins.  Sometimes Ned stood at a window and watched his

uncaged bird soar off, and he viewed each flight with delight but also

with an uneasiness he could not explain.

By New Year's Day, just past, the uneasiness became dread and was with

him twenty-four hours a day, and by then he understood it.  He was

afraid Sandy would fly away from him.

Maybe with the stranger who'd come in with Ernie and Faye.

I'm probably overreacting, Ned thought as he put three hamburger patties

on the griddle.  Fact is, I know damn well I'm overreacting.

But he worried.

By the time Ned prepared cheeseburgers with all the fixings for the

Blocks and their friend, the other customers were gone.  As Sandy served

the loaded plates, Faye locked the door and switched on the CLOSED sign

that was visible from I-80, though it was shy of ten o'clock.

Ned joined them for a closer look at the stranger, and to insinuate

himself between the guy and Sandy.  When he got to their table, he was

surprised to see that Sandy had a bottle of beer and had opened one for

him, too.  He did not drink much; Sandy drank less.

"You'll need it when you hear what they have to tell us," Sandy said.

"In fact, you might even need a couple more bottles."

The guy's name was Dominick Corvaisis, and he had an amazing tale that

drove all worries of infidelity from Ned's mind.  When Corvaisis was

finished, Ernie and Faye had an incredible story of their own, and that

was when Ned first learned about the ex-Marine's fear of the dark.

"But I remember we were evacuated," Ned said.  "We couldn't have been

here at the motel those three days, 'cause I remember we had a sort of

mini-vacation at home-watching TV, reading Louis L'Amour."

"I believe that's what you were told to remember," Corvaisis said.  "Did

anyone visit you at the trailer during that time?  Any neighbors drop

by?  Anyone who could confirm that you were actually there?"

"We're outside Beowawe, where we don't really have neighbors.  Far as I

remember, we didn't see anybody who could swear we was there."

Sandy said, "Ned, they wondered if anything strange has been happening

to either of us."

Ned met his wife's eyes.  Without words, he let her know it was up to

her whether she told them about the changes she had been undergoing.

Corvaisis said, "The two of you were here the night it happened.

Whatever it was, it started while I was having dinner.  So you must have

been a part of it.  But the memory was stolen from you."

The thought of strangers messing with his mind gave Ned the creeps.

Uneasy, he studied the five Polaroid snapshots that Faye had fanned out

on the table, especially the picture of Corvaisis staring empty-eyed.

To Sandy, Faye said, "Honey, Ernie and I would have to've been blind not

to've noticed the changes in you recently. I don't mean to embarrass

you, and I don't want to pry, but if those changes might be related to

whatever happened to us, then we ought to know about it."

Sandy reached for Ned's hand, held it.  Her love for him was so evident

that he was ashamed of himself for the ridiculous thoughts of betrayal

that had preoccupied him earlier.

Staring intently at her beer, she said, "Most all my life, I've had the

lowest opinion of myself.  I'll tell you why, because you've got to know

how bad it was for me when I was a kid if you want to understand how

miraculous it is that I ever found any self-respect.  It was Ned who

first lifted me up, believed in me, gave me a chance to be somebody."

Her hand tightened on his.  "Almost nine years ago, he started courting

me, and he was the first person ever treated me like a lady. He married

me knowing that inside I was tied up in tangled knots, and he's spent

eight years doing his best to untie and untangle them.  He thinks I

don't know how hard he's tried to help me, but I know all right."

Her voice cracked with emotion.  She paused for a swallow of beer.

Ned was unable to speak.

Sandy said, "The thing is .  .  .  I want everyone to know that maybe

what happened the summer before last, the thing none of us remembers . .

.  maybe it did have a powerful effect on me.  But if Ned hadn't taken

me under his wing all those years ago, I never would've had a chance."

Love enwrapped Ned as if it were bands of iron, closing his throat,

constricting his chest, applying a pleasant pressure to his heart.

She glanced at him, returned her gaze to the bottle of beer, and

recounted a childhood in hell.  She did not describe her father's

violations of her in explicit detail, and she spoke demurely-almost

primly-of her periodic exploitation as a child prostitute under the

management of a Vegas pimp.  Her account of this monstrous abuse was all

the more shocking and moving because she related it without drama.

Everyone at the table listened in a silence resulting not merely from

shock but from respect for her suffering and from a certain reverence

for her ultimate triumph.

When Sandy finished, Ned embraced her, held her close. He was amazed by

her strength.  He had always known she was special, and the things she

told them tonight only strengthened his love and admiration.

Though he was deeply saddened by what had been done to Sandy, he was

delighted that she was at last able to talk about it.  Surely this meant

that the past had lost its hold on her.

Faye and Ernie commiserated with her in the awkward manner of friends

who want to help but who know they can offer only words.

Everyone needed another beer.  Ned got five bottles of Dos Equis out of

the cooler and brought them to the table.

Corvaisis, who no longer seemed like the enemy to Ned, shook his head

and blinked as if Sandy's story had left him in a daze of horror.  "This

turns things upside down.  I mean, if our unremembered experience had

one basic effect on the rest of us, it was terror.  Oh, I benefited

because I was brought out of my shell; I share that with Sandy.  But

Ernie, Dr.  Weiss, Lomack, and me .  .  . we were for the most part left

with a residue of fear.  Now Sandy tells us the effect on her was

strictly beneficial, not frightening in the least. How could it affect

us so differently?  You really have no fear, Sandy?"

"None," Sandy said.

Ever since Ernie pulled a chair up to the table, he'd been sitting with

his shoulders hunched and his head lowered, as if protecting his neck

from attack.  Now, with one hand clamped around a bottle of Dos Equis,

he leaned back and relaxed, though not much.  "Yeah, fear's the core of

it.  But you remember that place along the interstate I told you about,

little more than a quarter-mile from here?  I'm sure something weird

happened there, something that relates to the brainwashing. But when I'm

standing at that place, I feel more than just fear.  My heart starts to

race .  .  .  and I get excited .  .  .  but it's not entirely a bad

excitement.  Fear's a part of it, yeah, maybe the biggest part of it,

but there's a stew of other emotions, as well."

Sandy said, "I think the place Ernie's talking about is where I often

wind up when I take the truck out for a ride. I'm .  .  .  drawn there."

Ernie leaned forward, excited.  "I knew it!  Coming back from the

airport this morning, as we were passing that place, you let the truck

slow way down.  And I said to myself, 'Sandy feels it, too." "

Faye said, "Sandy, what exactly do you feel when you're drawn to that

piece of ground?"

With a smile so warm that Ned could almost feel the heat of it, Sandy

said, "Peace.  I feel at peace there.  It's hard to explain .  .  .  but

it's as if the rocks, dirt, and trees all radiate harmony, tranquility."

"I don't feel peaceful there," Ernie said.  "Fear, yes.  A queer

excitement.  An eerie sense that something .  .  .  shattering will

happen.  Something that I'm eager for, even though it scares the hell

out of me."

"And I feel none of what you feel," Sandy said.

"We ought to go there," Ned suggested.  "See if the place affects the

rest of us."

"In the morning," Corvaisis said.  "When it's light."

Faye said, "I can see this might've had a different effect on each of

us.  But why has it changed Dom's and Sandy's and Ernie's lives-and the

lives of that Mr.  Lomack in Reno and Dr.  Weiss in Boston-yet done

nothing to Ned and me. Why aren't we having problems, too?"

Dom said, "Maybe the brainwashers did a better job on you and Ned."

That thought gave Ned the heebie-jeebies again.

For a while they discussed their situation, and then Ned suggested that

Corvaisis try to re-create his actions on that Friday night, July 6, up

to the point where his memories were erased.  "You recollect the early

part of the evening better than we do.  And when you came in the first

time tonight, you were close to remembering something important."

"Close," Corvaisis agreed, "but at the last moment, when I felt the

memory within grasp, it scared the crap out of me .  .  .  and the next

thing I knew, I was running for the door.  Made quite a spectacle of

myself.  I was totally freaked out.  It was such a visceral thing,

instinctual, so utterly uncontrollable, that I think it would probably

happen again if I made a second attempt to force the memories."

"Still, it's worth a try," Ned said.

"And you've got us for moral support this time," Faye said.

Corvaisis needed coaxing, which Ned interpreted as meaning that the

experience earlier this evening had been considerably more unnerving

than words could express.  But at last the writer got up and, carrying

his glass of beer, went to the front door of the diner.  He stood with

his back to the exit, chugged a long swallow of Dos Equis.  He looked

around the room, trying hard to see the people of that other time.

He said, "There were three or four men sitting at the counter. Maybe a

dozen customers altogether.  I can't remember their faces." Moving away

from the door, he walked past Ned and the others, to the next table,

where he pulled out a chair and sat with his back turned partly toward

them.  "This is where I sat.  Sandy waited on me.  I took a bottle of

Coors while I looked at the menu.  Ordered the ham-and-egg sandwich.

French fries, coleslaw.  As I was salting the fries, the shaker slipped

out of my hand.  Salt spilled on the table.  I threw a pinch over my

shoulder.  Silly gesture.  Threw it too hard.  Dr. Weiss!  Ginger Weiss

was the woman I threw the salt on.  I didn't remember that before, but I

can see her clearly now. The blond in the photo."

Faye tapped the Polaroid snapshot of Dr.  Weiss that was on the table in

front of Ned.

Still sitting alone at the other table, Corvaisis said, "Quite a

beautiful woman.  Pixie-cute yet also sophisticated-looking, a really

interesting mix.  Could hardly take my eyes off her."

Ned looked more closely at the photo of Ginger Weiss.  He supposed she

might, indeed, be unusually attractive when her face was not so pale and

slack, when her eyes were not so cold, empty, dead.

In a voice that had grown odd, as if he were actually speaking to them

from out of the past, Corvaisis said, "She sits in the corner booth by

the window, facing this way.  Sunset is near.  The sun's out there on

the horizon, balanced like a big red ball, and the diner's filled with

orange light slanting in through the windows.  Almost like firelight.

Ginger Weiss looks especially lovely in that light.  I can hardly keep

from staring openly at her.  .  .  .  Twilight now.  I've got a second

beer." He sipped some Dos Equis.  When he continued, his voice was

softer: "The plains are all purple ...  then black ...

night .  .  ."

Like Ernie and Faye and Sandy, Ned was spellbound by the writer's

struggle to remember, for it stirred in him, at last, faint and

shapeless-but compelling-memories of his own.  He began to recall that

particular evening out of the many he'd spent in the Tranquility Grille.

The young priest had been here, the one in the Polaroid snapshot now

lying on the table.  And the young couple with their little girl.

"Not long after nightfall ...  nursing my second beer mainly so I can

stare at Ginger Weiss a little longer." Corvaisis looked left, right,

raised his right hand to his ear.  "An unusual sound of some kind.  I

remember that much.  A distant rumble .  .  .  getting louder." He was

silent for awhile.  "Can't remember what happened next.  Something .  .

.  something ...

but it just won't come."

As the writer spoke of the rumbling, Ned Sarver experienced the vaguest

possible memory of that frightening, swelling sound, but he could not

clearly call it to mind.  He felt as if Corvaisis had brought him to the

edge of a dark chasm into which he was desperately afraid to look but

into which he must look, and now they were turning away without shining

a light down in those black depths.  Heart racing, he said, "Concentrate

on remembering the sound, the exact sound, and maybe that'll bring the

rest of it back to you."

Corvaisis pushed his chair back from the table, got up. "Rumbling .  . .

like thunder, very distant thunder ...  but growing closer." He stood

beside the table, seeking the direction from which the sound had come,

looking left, right, up, down at the floor.

Suddenly Ned heard the noise, not in memory but in reality, not back

there in the past but now.  The hollow roll of faraway thunder.  But it

came in one endless peal, not a series of rising and falling crashes,

and it was growing louder, louder.  .  .  .

Ned looked at the others.  They heard it, too.

Louder.  Louder.  Now he could feel the vibrations in his bones.

He could not remember what had happened that night, but he knew the

astonishing events they had endured had started with this sound.

He pushed back his chair and got up.  He was awash in a rising tide of

fear, and he had to fight against the urge to run.

Sandy stood, and there was fear in her face, as well.  Though the

unknown events seemed to have had an entirely positive effect on her,

she was frightened now.  She put one hand on Ned's arm for reassurance.

Ernie and Faye were frowning, looking around for the source of the

noise, but they did not yet appear frightened.  Their memory of the

sound was apparently more thoroughly scrubbed away, so they could not as

easily connect it with the events of that Friday night in July.

Another sound arose, underlying the thunderlike rumble: a queer,

ululating whistle.  That, too, was unpleasantly familiar to Ned.

It was happening again.  Whatever had taken place that night more than

eighteen months ago was somehow being repeated.  Jesus, happening all

over again, and Ned heard himself saying, "No, no.  No!"

Corvaisis backed a couple of steps away from his table, cast a glance at

Ned and the others.  He was white-faced.

The growing roar began to resonate in the window glass, behind the

closed blinds.  A loose pane, unseen, started rattling in its frame.

The Levolor blinds were vibrating now, adding a jangly chorus.

Sandy's hold on Ned became a panicky clutch.

Ernie and Faye were on their feet, and they were no longer merely

bewildered but as afraid as everyone else.

The ululant whistle had grown in volume with the thunder. Now it became

piercingly shrill, an oscillating electronic shriek.

"What is it?" Sandy cried, and the continuous fulminations attained such

volume and power that the walls of the Tranquility Grille shook.

On the table at which Corvaisis had been sitting, the beer glass fell on

its side, cracking, spilling what Dos Equis remained in it.

Ned looked at the table beside him and saw the objects on it-ketchup

bottle, mustard dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, ashtray, glasses,

plates, and silverware-bouncing, clinking against one another, moving

back and forth across the surface.  A beer glass toppled, and another,

and the ketchup bottle.

Wide-eyed, Ned and the others turned this way and that, as if in

anticipation of the imminent materialization of a demonic entity.

Throughout the room, objects fell off tables.  The clock with the Coors

logo leapt from the hook on which it hung, crashed to the floor.

This very thing had happened that night in July-Ned remembered as much.

But he could not remember what had come next.

"Stop it!" Ernie shouted with the conviction and authority of a Marine

officer accustomed to obedience-but without effect.

Earthquake?  Ned wondered.  A quake did not explain the electronic

shriek that accompanied the thunder.

The chairs jittered across the floor, bumping against one another.  One

of them slid into Corvaisis, and the writer jumped in surprise.

Ned could feel the floor shaking.

The thunderlike rumble and the accompanying oscillatory shriek rose to

an ear-splitting peak, and with the hard flat crash of a bomb blast, the

big front windows imploded.  Faye screamed and threw her arms up in

front of her face, and Ernie stumbled backward and nearly fell over a

chair.  Sandy buried her face against Ned's chest.

They might have been badly cut by flying glass if the closed blinds had

not imposed a barrier between them and the shattering panes.  Even so,

the force of the implosion flung the blinds up as a strong wind might

blow curtains at an open window, and some glittering shards fell onto

the booths, rained over Ned, and smashed on the floor around him.

Silence.  The implosion of the windows was followed by a profound

silence disturbed only by a few last, loose, little pieces of glass

falling out of window frames, one at a time.

On that Friday night in July, the summer before last, much more than

this had happened, though Ned could not remember what.  Tonight,

however, the mysterious drama apparently was not going to progress as

far as it had gone then. For now, it was over.

Dom Corvaisis was bleeding lightly from a nick in his cheek, hardly

worse than a shaving cut.  Ernie's forehead and the back of his right

hand had been slightly scratched by splinters of glass.

When he had determined that Sandy was unhurt, Ned reluctantly left her

and rushed to the front door.  He went out into the night in search of

the cause of the weird noise and destruction, but he found only the

deep, dark, solemn silence of the plains.  No smoke or blackened rubble

marked the source of an explosion.  At the bottom of the hill on which

the Tranquility Motel and Grille stood, widely separated cars and trucks

moved on the interstate.  Over at the motel, drawn by the commotion, a

few guests had come outside in their nightclothes.  The sky above was

full of stars.  The air was numbingly cold, but there was no wind, only

a soft breeze, like the frigid sigh of Death.  Nothing in sight could

have caused the thunder, shaking, or implosion of the windows.

Dom Corvaisis came out of the Grille, bewildered.  "What the hell?"

"I was hoping you'd know," Ned responded.

"It's what happened the summer before last."

"I know."

,'But just the start of it.  Damn it, I can't remember what happened

that night after the windows blew in."

"Me neither," Ned replied.

Corvaisis turned his hands palms-up, held them out for inspection.  In

the blue neon light from the sign on the diner's roof, Ned saw rings of

swollen flesh in the writer's palms. Because the light was blue, he

could not ascertain the true color of the marks.  But from what

Corvaisis had told them earlier, Ned knew the rings were an angry red.

"What the hell?" Corvaisis said again.

Sandy was standing in the open door of the diner, backlit by the

fluorescent glow from inside, and Ned went to her, embraced her.  He

felt one shudder after another passing through her.  But he did not

realize how badly he was trembling until she said, "You're shaking like

a leaf."

Ned Sarver was scared sick.  With an almost clairvoyant vividness, he

sensed that they were involved in something of monumental importance,

something unimaginably dangerous, and that it was likely to end in death

for some or all of them.  He was a natural-born fixer of both inanimate

objects and people, a damned good repairman.  But this time he was up

against a force with which he did not know how to tinker. What if Sandy

were killed?  He took pride in his talents, but even the best fixer in

the whole damned world could not undo the wreckage wrought by Death.

For the first time since meeting her in Tucson, Ned felt powerless to

protect his wife.

At the horizon, the moon had begun to rise.

January 12-January 14

1.

Sunday, January 12

Air as dense as molten iron.

In the nightmare, Dom could not draw breath.  A tremendous pressure bore

down on him.  He was choking violently. He was dying.

He could not see much; his vision was clouded.  Then two men came close,

both wearing white vinyl decontamination suits with dark-visored helmets

similar to those of astronauts. One man was at Dom's right, frantically

disconnecting the IV line, withdrawing the intravenous spike from his

arm.  The other man, on the left, was cursing the cardiological data on

the video readout of the EKG machine.  One of them unbuckled the straps

and tore off the electrodes connecting Dom to the EKG, and the other

lifted him into a sitting position. They pressed a glass to his lips,

but he could not drink, so they tipped his head back and forced his

mouth open and poured some noxious stuff down his throat.

The men communicated with each other via radios built into their

helmets, but they were leaning so close to Dom that he could hear their

voices clearly even through the muffling Plexiglas of their dark visors.

One of them said, "How many detainees were poisoned?" And the other

said, "Nobody's sure yet.  Looks like at least a dozen." The first said,

"But who'd want to poison them?" And the second said, "One guess." The

first said, "Colonel Falkirk.  Colonel fucking Falkirk." The second man

said, "But we'll never prove it, never nail the bastard."

Flash-cut.  The motel bathroom.  The men were holding Dom on his feet,

forcing his face down into the sink.  This

time, he understood what they were saying to him.  With growing urgency,

they were insisting that he vomit.  Colonel fucking Falkirk had somehow

had him poisoned, and these guys had made him drink a foul-tasting

emetic, and now he was supposed to purge himself of the poison that was

killing him.  But even as sick as he was, he still could not puke.  He

gagged, retched; his stomach roiled; sweat poured off him like melting

fat off a broiling chicken; but he could not rid himself of the poison.

The first man said, "We need a stomach pump." And the second said, "We

don't have a stomach pump." They pressed Dom's face deeper into the

porcelain bowl.  The crushing pressure grew worse, and Dom could hardly

breathe at all now, and hot greasy waves of nausea washed through him,

and sweat gushed from him, but he could not puke, could not, could not.

And then he did.

Flash-cut.  In bed again.  Weak, kitten-weak.  But able to breathe,

thank God.  The men in the decontamination suits had cleaned him up and

strapped him to the mattress once more.  The one on the right prepared a

hypodermic and administered an injection of something apparently meant

to counteract the remaining effects of the poison.  The one on the left

reconnected him to the intravenous drip from which he was receiving

drugs, not nourishment.  Dom was woozy, holding on to consciousness only

with considerable effort. They hooked him to the EKG again, and as they

worked, they talked.  "Falkirk's an idiot.  We can keep a lid'on this,

given half a chance."

"He's afraid the memory block will wear off.  He's afraid that some of

them will eventually remember what they saw."

"Well, he may be right.  But if the asshole kills them all, how's he

going to explain the bodies?

That's going to draw reporters like raw meat draws jackals, and then

there'll be no way to keep the lid on.  A nice memory wipe-that's the

only sensible answer."

"You don't have to convince me.  Go burn Falkirk's ear about it."

The dream-figures faded away, as did their voices, and Dom passed into a

different nightmare country.  He no longer felt weak, no longer sick,

but his fear exploded into stark terror, and he began to run with that

maddening slow-motion panic indigenous to nightmares.  He did not know

what he was running from, but he was certain that something was pursuing

him, something threatening and inhuman, he could sense it right behind

him, closer, reaching for him, closer, and finally he knew he could not

outrun it, knew he must face it, so he stopped and turned and looked up

and cried outin surprise: "The moon!"

Dom was awakened by his own cry.  He was in Room 20, on the floor beside

the bed, kicking, flailing.  He got up and sat on the bed.

He looked at his travel clock.  Three-oh-seven A. M.

Shivering, he blotted his damp palms on the sheets.

Room 20 was having precisely the effect on him that he had thought it

would.  The bad vibrations of the place stimulated his memory, made his

nightmares more vivid and more detailed than ever.

These dreams were radically different from all others he had ever known,

for they were not fantasies but glimpses of a past reality seen through

a distorting lens.  They were not dreams as much as they were memories,

forbidden recollections that had been weighted and dropped into the

black sea of his subconscious, like dead bodies encumbered with cement

shoes and thrown from a bridge into the deeps.  Finally, the memories

had slipped out of the cement and were surging to the surface.

He really had been imprisoned here, drugged, brainwashed.  And during

that ordeal, someone named Colonel Falkirk had actually poisoned him to

prevent him from talking about whatever he had seen.

Falkirk was right, Dom thought.  Eventually, we'll overcome the

brainwashing and remember the truth.  He should have killed us all.

Sunday morning, Ernie purchased panels of plyboard from a friend in Elko

who owned a building supply.  With his portable tablesaw, he cut the

panels to fit the busted-out diner windows.  Ned and Dom helped nail the

plyboard in place, and by noon they had completed the job.

Ernie did not want to call a glazier and have the windows replaced

because last night's phenomena might recur.  Until they knew what had

caused the thunderous noise and shaking, installing new glass seemed

foolhardy.  In the interim, the Tranquility Grille would not be open.

The Tranquility Motel also would be closed.  Ernie did not want business

to distract him from helping Dom and the others probe into the mystery

of the "toxic spill." When the last of yesterday's check-ins departed

later today, the motel would house only Ernie, Faye, Dom, and any other

victims who, when contacted, might decide to journey to Elko County to

participate in the investigation.  He did not know how many rooms he

might need for those fellow-sufferers, so he decided to reserve all

twenty.  For the time being, the Tranquility was less a motel than a

barracks, where the troops would be quartered until this war with an

unknown enemy was finally brought to a conclusion.

When the diner was boarded up, they all got into the motel's Dodge van,

and Faye drove them down to the interstate and just over a quarter of a

mile east, where she parked on the shoulder of the highway near the

place that had a special attraction for Ernie and Sandy.  The five of

them stood along the guardrail, staring south, seeking a communion with

the landscape that might illuminate the past.  The winter solstice was

three weeks behind them, so the sunlight was almost as hard and flat and

cold as fluorescent light.  In the grip of January, the scrub- and

grass-covered plains, rugged hills, arroyos and gnarled rock formations

were basically trichromatic, rendered in browns and grays and deep reds,

with only an occasional patch of white sand, snow, or vein of borax. The

scene was stark and dreary under a sky that grew more clouded and gray

by the hour, but it also possessed an undeniable austere grandeur.

Faye wanted very much to feel something special about this place, for if

she felt nothing, that would mean the people who brainwashed her had

totally controlled her, totally violated her.  She allowed no room in

her self-image for the concept of absolute submission.  She was a proud,

capable woman.  But she felt nothing other than the winter wind.

Ned and Dom appeared to be no more moved than Faye was, but she could

see that Ernie and Sandy were receiving some cryptic message from the

vista before them.  Sandy was smiling beatifically.  But Ernie had that

look he got when night fell: pale, drawn, with haunted eyes.

"Let's go closer," Sandy said.  "Let's go right down there."

All five climbed over the guardrail and plunged down the steep

embankment of the elevated road.  They moved across the plain-fifty

yards, a hundred-carefully avoiding the coldweather prickly pear which

grew in profusion near the foot of the interstate but soon disappeared

in favor of sagebrush and bunch-grass, which in turn gave way to another

kind of grass which was also brown but thicker, silkier.  Portions of

the plain were rocky and sandy and in the grip of worthless bristly

scrub, while other portions were almost like small lush meadows, for

this was a land in transition from the semidesert of the south to the

rich mountain pastures of the north.  More than two hundred yards from

the interstate, they stopped on a patch of ground not appreciably

different from surrounding territory.

"Here," Ernie said with a shudder, jamming his hands in his pockets and

pulling his neck down into the rolled sheepskin collar of his coat.

Sandy smiled and said, "Yes.  Here."

They spread out and moved back and forth across the ground. Here and

there, in one shadowed niche or another, meager patches of snow lay

hidden from the evaporating effect of the dry wind and from the cold

winter sun.  Those traces of winter, plus the lack of green grass and

scattered late-blooming wildflowers, were the only things that made the

landscape different from the way it had looked two summers ago.  After a

minute or two, Ned announced that he did, indeed, feel an inexplicable

connection with the place, though it did not bring him peace as it did

his wife.  His fear became so acute that, expressing surprise and

embarrassment at his reaction, he turned and walked away.  As Sandy

hurried after Ned, Dom Corvaisis admitted that he was strangely affected

by the place, too.  However, he was not merely frightened, like Ned;

Dom's fear, like Ernie's, was spiced by an unexplained awe and a sense

of impending epiphany.  Only Faye remained unaffected, unmoved.

Standing in the middle of the area in question, Dom turned slowly in a

circle.  "What was it?  What the hell happened here?"

The sky had turned to gray slate.

The blunt wind became sharp.  Faye shivered.

She remained unable to feel what Ernie and the others felt, and that

inability increased her sense of violation.  She hoped she would one day

meet the people who had messed with her mind.  She wanted to look in

their eyes and ask them how they could have so little respect for the

personal integrity of another human being.  Now that she knew she had

been manipulated, she would never again feel entirely secure.

Stirred by the wind, the dry sagebrush made a scrapingrustling noise.

Ice-crusted twigs clicked against one another with a sound that,

fancifully, made Faye think of small, scurrying skeletons of little

animals long-dead but somehow reanimated.

Back at the motel, in the Blocks' apartment, Ernie and Sandy and Ned sat

at the kitchen table, while Faye made coffee and hot chocolate.

Dom perched on a stool by the wall phone.  On the counter in front of

him lay the Tranquility Motel's registration book that had been in use

the year before last.  Referring to the page for Friday, July 6, he

began to call those who must have shared the unremembered but important

experiences of that faraway summer night.

In addition to his own name and that of Ginger Weiss, there were eight

on the list.  One of them, Gerald Salcoe of Monterey, California, had

rented two rooms for himself, his wife, and two daughters.  He had

entered an address but no telephone.  When Dom tried to get it from the

Area Code 408 Information Operator, he was told the number was unlisted.

Disappointed, he moved on to Cal Sharkle, the long-haul trucker, a

repeat customer known to Faye and Ernie.  Sharkle lived in Evanston,

Illinois, a suburb of Chicago.  He had included his telephone number in

the motel registry.  Dom dialed it but discovered that the telephone had

been disconnected and that no new number was listed.

"We can check his more recent entries on the current registry," Ernie

said.  "Maybe he's moved to another town.  Maybe we have his new address

somewhere."

Faye put a cup of coffee on the counter where Dom could reach it, then

joined the others at the table.

Dom had better luck on his third attempt, when he dialed Alan Rykoff in

Las Vegas.  A woman answered, and he said, "Mrs.  Rykoff?"

She hesitated.  "I was Mrs.  Rykoff.  My name's Monatella now, since the

divorce."

"Oh.  I see.  Well, my name's Dominick Corvaisis.  I'm calling from the

Tranquility Motel up here in Elko County.  You, your former husband, and

your daughter stayed here for a few days in July, two summers ago?"

"Uh .  .  .  yes, we did."

"Miss Monatelia, are either you or your daughter or your ex-husband

having .  .  .  difficulties-frightening and extraordinary problems?"

This time her hesitation was pregnant with meaning.  "Is this some sick

joke?  Obviously, you know what happened to Alan."

"Please, Miss Monatella, believe me: I don't know what happened to your

ex-husband.  But I do know there's a good chance that you or him or your

daughter-or all of you-are suffering from inexplicable psychological

problems, that you're having frightening and repetitive nightmares you

can't remember, and that some of these nightmares involve the moon."

She gasped twice in surprise as Dom was speaking, and when she tried to

respond she had difficulty talking.

When he realized she was on the verge of tears, he interrupted.  "Miss

Monatella, I don't know what's happened to you and your family, but the

worst is past.  The worst is past. Because whatever might still be to

come .  .  .  at least you're not alone any more."

Over twenty-four hundred miles east of Elko County, in Manhattan, Jack

Twist spent Sunday afternoon giving away more money.

On returning from the Guardmaster heist in Connecticut the previous

night, he had driven through the city, looking for those who were both

in need and deserving, and he had not rid himself of all the cash until

five o'clock in the morning. On the edge of physical and emotional

collapse, he'd returned to his Fifth Avenue apartment, gone immediately

to bed and instantly to sleep.

He dreamed again of the deserted highway in an empty moon-washed

landscape, and of the stranger in the darkvisored helmet who pursued him

on foot.  As the moonlight suddenly turned blood-red, he woke from the

dream in panic at one o'clock Sunday afternoon, flailing at his pillow.

A blood-red moon?  He wondered what it all meant, if anything.

He showered, shaved, dressed, and took time for only a quick breakfast

consisting of an orange and a half-stale croissant.

In the large walk-in closet that served the master bedroom, he removed

the cleverly concealed false panel and inventoried the contents of the

three-foot-deep secret storage space.  The jewelry from the job in

October was finally gone, successfully fenced, and most of the money

from the fratellanza warehouse in early December had been converted to

scores of cashiers' checks and mailed to Jack's accounts at three Swiss

banks.  Only a hundred twenty-five thousand remained, his emergency

getaway fund.

He transferred most of the cash to a briefcase: nine banded pickets of

hundred-dollar bills, a hundred bills in each, and five packets of

twenty-dollar bills, a hundred in each.  That left twenty-five thousand

still in his cache, which seemed more than enough now that he was no

longer involved in criminal activity and would not be putting himself in

situations that might necessitate a swift exit from the state or

country.

Although Jack intended to dispose of a considerable portion of his

ill-gotten wealth, he certainly did not plan to give away all of it and

leave himself penniless.  That might be good for his soul, but it would

be bad for his future and undeniably foolish.  However, he had eleven

safe-deposit boxes in eleven of the city's banks-additional emergency

caches in case he needed to escape but could not reach the money behind

the false partition in his bedroom closet-and those caches contained

more than another quarter of a million.  His Swiss accounts were worth

in excess of four million.  It was far more than he needed.  He was

looking forward to shedding half of that fortune during the next couple

of weeks, at which point he would pause to decide what he wanted to do

with his future.  Eventually, he might give away even more.

At three-thirty Sunday afternoon, he carried his moneyfilled briefcase

out into the city.  All the strangers' faces, which for eight years had

seemed fiercely hostile, every one, now seemed like animated portraits

of promise and dazzling possibilities, every one.

The Block kitchen smelled of coffee and hot chocolate, then of cinnamon

and pastry dough when Faye took a package of breakfast rolls from the

freezer and popped them in the oven.

While the others sat at the table, listening, Dom continued to call the

people who had registered at the motel on that special Friday night.

He reached Jim Gestron, who turned out to be a photographer from L A.

Gestron had driven throughout the West that summer, shooting on

assignment for Sunset and other magazines.  Initially, he was friendly,

but as he heard more of Dom's story, he cooled off.  If Gestron had been

brainwashed, the mind-control experts had been as successful with him as

with Faye Block.  The photographer was having no dreams, no problems.

Dom's tale of brainwashing, somnambulism, nyctophobia, obsessions with

the moon, suicides, and paranormal experiences struck Gestron as the

babbling of a seriously disturbed person.  He said as much and hung up

in the middle of the conversation.

Next, Dom called Harriet Bellot in Sacramento, who was no more troubled

than Gestron.  She was, she said, a fiftyyear-old unmarried

schoolteacher who had developed an interest in the Old West when, as a

young WAC, she was stationed in Arizona.  Every summer, she traveled old

wagontrain routes and visited the sites of the forts and Indian

settlements of another age, usually sleeping in her little camper but

sometimes splurging on a motel room.  She sounded like one of those

likable, dedicated, but stern teachers who brooked no nonsense from her

pupils, and she brooked none from Dom.  When he started talking about

fanciful stuff like poltergeist phenomena, she hung up, too.

"Does that make you feel better, Faye?" Ernie asked. "You're not the

only one whose memories were so thoroughly scrubbed away."

"Doesn't make me feel one damn bit better," Faye said. "I'd rather be

suffering problems like you or Dom than feel nothing.  I feel as if a

piece of me was cut out and thrown away."

Perhaps she's right, Dom thought.  Perhaps nightmares, phobias, and

terrors of one kind or another are better than having a little pocket of

absolute emptiness inside, cold and dark, which would be like carrying a

fragment of death around within her for the rest of her life.

When Dominick Corvaisis telephoned St.  Bernadette's rectory at 4:26

Sunday afternoon, seeking Brendan Cronin, Father Wycazik was in the

study with officers of the Knights of Columbus, concluding the first of

many planning sessions for the annual St.  Bernadette's Spring Carnival.

At four-thirty, Father Michael Gerrano interrupted with the news that

the call he had just taken on the kitchen phone was from Father

Wycazik's "cousin" in Elko, Nevada.  Only a few hours ago, one day ahead

of schedule, Brendan Cronin had boarded a United flight to Reno, taking

advantage of cancellations that had opened up some seats, and intending

to use a small commuter airline from Reno to Elko on Monday.  At the

moment, Brendan was still in the air with United, not yet even as far as

Reno and in no position to be calling anyone, so Michael's message

intrigued Father Wycazik and instantly pried him loose of the planning

session without alerting the visitors that something extraordinary was

happening in the lives of their parish clergy.

Leaving the young priest to conclude matters with the Knights, the

rector hurried to the kitchen phone and took the call meant for Brendan.

Dominick Corvaisis, with a writer's appreciation for the fantastic, and

Stefan, with a priest's appreciation for mystery and mysticism, became

increasingly excited and voluble as they spoke to each other.  Stefan

swapped his knowledge of Brendan's problems and adventures-lost faith,

miraculous cures, strange dreams-for Corvaisis' stories of poltergeist

phenomena, somnambulism, nyctophobia, lunar obsessions, and suicides.

Finally, Stefan could not resist asking, "Mr.  Corvaisis, do you see any

reason for an old unregenerate religious like me to hold out the hope

that what is happening to Brendan is somehow divine in nature?"

"Quite frankly, Father, in spite of the miraculous cures of that police

officer and the little girl you mentioned, I don't see the hand of God

in this.  There are too many indications of human connivery in this to

support the interpretation you'd like to put on it."

Stefan sighed.  "I suppose that's true.  But I'll still cling to the

hope that what Brendan's being called to witness there

in Nevada is something meant to bring him back into the hands of Christ.

I won't give up on the possibility."

The writer laughed softly.  "Father, just from what I've learned of you

during this conversation, I suspect you'd never give up on the

possibility of redeeming any soul, anywhere, any time.  I'd guess you

don't save souls quite the way other priests do-by finesse, by gentle

and genteel encouragement. You strike me more as .  .  .  well, as a

blacksmith of the soul, hammering out the salvation of others by the

sweat of your brow and the application of plenty of muscle.  Please

understand: I mean this as a compliment."

Stefan laughed, too.  "How else could I possibly take it?  I firmly

believe that nothing easy is worth doing.  A blacksmith bent over a

glowing forge?  Yes, I do rather like the image."

"I'll look forward to Father Cronin's arrival here tomorrow.  If he's

anything like you, Father, we'll be glad to have him on our side."

"I'm on your side as well," Father Wycazik said, "and if there's

anything I can do to help with your investigation, please call on me. If

there's the slightest chance these strange events involve the manifest

presence of God, then I do not intend to sit on the sidelines and miss

all the action."

The next entry on the guest list was for Bruce and Janet Cable of

Philadelphia.  Neither of them was having trouble of the sort that

plagued Dom, Ernie, and the others.  However, they were more willing to

hear Dom out than Jim Gestron and Harriet Bellot had been, but in the

end they were no more swayed by his story.

The final name on the list was Thornton Wainwright, who had given a New

York City address and telephone number. When Dom dialed it, he reached a

Mrs.  Neil Karpoly, who said the number had been hers for more than

fourteen years and that she had never heard of Wainwright.  When Dom

read the Lexington Avenue address from the registry and inquired if that

was where Mrs.  Karpoly lived, she asked him to repeat it, then laughed.

"No, sir, that's not where I live. And your Mr.  Wainwright's not a

trustworthy sort if he told you that's my address.  Nobody lives there,

although I'm sure there are thousands who might enjoy it.  I know I

enjoyed working there.  That's the address of Bloomingdale's."

Sandy was astonished when Dom reported this news: "Phony name and

address?  What's that mean?  Was he really a guest that night?  Or did

someone add the name to the registry just to confuse us?  Or .  .  .

what?"

Jack Twist possessed complete sets of sophisticated false IDsdriver's

licenses, birth certificates, Social Security cards, credit cards,

passports, even library cards-in eight names, including "Thornton Bains

Wainwright," and he always employed an alias when planning and executing

a heist.  But he worked anonymously that Sunday afternoon, portioning

out another hundred thousand dollars to startled recipients all over

Manhattan.  The largest gift was fifteen thousand to a young sailor and

his bride of one day, whose battered old Plymouth had broken down on

Central Park South, near the statue of Simon Bolivar.  "Get a new car,"

Jack told them as he stuffed money into their hands and playfully stuck

a wad of bills under the sailor's hat.  "And if you're wise, you won't

tell anyone about this, especially not the newspapers.  That'll just

bring the IRS down on you.  No, you don't need to know my name, and

there's no need to thank me.  Just be kind to each other, all right?

Always be kind to each other, because we never know how much time we

have on this world."

In less than an hour, Jack gave away the entire hundred thousand that he

had taken from the secret compartment in the back of his bedroom closet.

With plenty of time on his hands, he bought a bouquet of coral-red roses

and drove out to Westchester County, an hour from the city, to the

memorial park in which Jenny had been buried over two weeks ago.

Jack had not wanted to put her to rest in one of the city's crowded and

grim cemeteries.  Although he knew he was being sentimental, he felt

that the only suitable resting place for his Jenny was in open country,

where there would be expansive green grassy slopes and shade trees in

the summer and peaceful vistas of snow in the winter.

He arrived at the memorial park shortly before twilight. Although the

uniform headstones were set flush with the earth, with no features to

distinguish one from another, and although most of them were covered

with snow, Jack went directly to Jenny's plot, the location of which was

branded on his heart.

While the dreary day faded into a drearier dusk, in a world colorless

except for the blazing roses, Jack sat in the snow, oblivious of the

dampness and cold, and spoke to Jenny as he had spoken to her during her

years in a coma.  He told her about the Guardmaster heist yesterday,

about giving away all the money.  As the curtain of twilight pulled down

the heavier drape of night, the memorial park's security guard began

driving slowly around the grounds, warning the few late visitors that

the gates would soon close.  Finally Jack stood and took one last look

at Jenny's name cast in bronze letters on the headstone plaque, now

illuminated by the vaguely bluish light of one of the streetlamps that

lined the park's main drive.  "I'm changing, Jenny, and I'm still not

sure why.

It feels good, right .  .  .  but also sort of strange.-,' What he said

next surprised him: "Something big is going to happen, Jenny.  I don't

know what, but something big is going to happen to me." He suddenly

sensed that his newfound guilt and subsequent peace with society were

only the beginning steps of a great journey that would take him places

he could not yet imagine.  "Something big is going to happen," he

repeated, "and I sure wish you were here with me, Jenny."

The blue Nevada sky had been armoring itself with dark storm clouds ever

since Ernie, Ned, and Dom had begun boarding up the diner's broken

windows.  Hours later, when Dom drove his rental car to the Elko airport

to pick up Ginger Weiss, the world turned under a gloomy light, girdled

in battlefield gray.  He was too restless to wait inside the small

terminal. He stood on the windswept tarmac, huddled in his heavy winter

jacket,, so he heard the twin engines of the ten-seat commuter craft

even before he saw it descend through the low clouds.  The roar of the

engines contributed to the mood of impending warfare, and Dom realized

uneasily that, in a sense, they were assembling their army; war against

their unknown enemy loomed nearer day by day.

The plane taxied within eighty feet of the terminal, and Dr.  Weiss was

the fourth passenger to disembark.  Even in a bulky, thoroughly

unattractive carcoat, she looked petite and beautiful.  The wind made a

streaming banner of her silky silver-blond hair.

Dom hurried toward her; she stopped and put down her bags.  They

hesitated, staring at each other in silence, with a peculiar mixture of

amazement, excitement, pleasure, and apprehension.  Then with an

impulsiveness that obviously surprised her as much as it did him, they

virtually threw themselves at each other, embracing as if they were old

and dear friends too long apart.  Dom held her close, and she held him

tightly, and he felt her heart pounding as hard and as fast as his.

What the hell is happening here?  he wondered.

But he was in too much turmoil to analyze the situation. For the moment,

he could feel but not think.

Neither of them wanted to let go, and when they finally separated,

neither could speak.  She tried to say something, but her voice cracked

with emotion, and Dom was incoherent. So she picked up one of her bags,

and he picked up the other, and they went out to the parking lot.

In the car, with the engine running and the heater blowing warm air in

their faces, Ginger said, "What was that all about?"

Still shaken, but curiously not embarrassed by the bold greeting he had

given her, Dom cleared his throat.  "Don't really know.  But I think

maybe, together, you and I went through something so shattering that the

experience created a special bond between us, a powerful bond we weren't

entirely aware of until we saw each other in the flesh."

"When I first came across your picture on the book jacket, it had a very

odd effect on me, but nothing like this.  Stepping off the plane, seeing

you there .  .  .  it was as if we'd known each other all our lives. No,

not exactly that.  More precisely .  .  .  it was as if we'd known each

other far better, more completely, than we'd ever known anyone else, as

if we shared some tremendous secret that all the world might want to

know but that only we possessed.  Does that sound crazy?"

He shook his head.  "No.  Not at all.  You've put into words what I was

feeling .  .  .  as nearly as words can explain it."

"You've met some of the others," Ginger said.  "Was it like this when

you first encountered them?"

"No.  I instantly felt .  .  .  a certain warmth toward them, a strong

sense of community, but nothing a fraction as powerful as what I felt

when you got off that plane.  All of us went through something unusual

that linked our lives, our futures, but evidently you and I shared an

experience even stranger and more affecting than anything we shared with

them.  Damn. It's as layered as an onion, one strangeness on another."

For half an hour they sat in the car, in the airport parking lot,

talking.  Outside, cars and pickups came and went around them, and the

January wind buffeted the Chevy and moaned at the windows; however, they

were seldom aware of anything but each other.

She told him about her fugues, the hypnotic regression sessions with

Pablo Jackson, and the mind-control technique known as the Azrael Block.

She told him about Pablo's murder and her own narrow escape.

Although, clearly, Ginger sought neither sympathy for her suffering nor

praise for the way she hadhandled herself in trying circumstances, Dom's

respect and admiration for her grew by the minute.  She was only

five-two, a hundred pounds, but somehow she had a physical presence more

imposing than many men twice her size.

Dom recounted the events of the past twenty-four hours, and when Ginger

heard about his dream of the previous night and about the new memories

that surfaced in it, she appeared immensely relieved.  In Dom's dream,

there was proof of Pablo Jackson's theory: Her fugues were not caused by

mental aberration; they were, instead, always triggered by objects

associated with her imprisonment at the motel two summers ago.  The

black gloves and dark-visored helmet had terrified her because they made

a direct connection with the repressed memories of the people in

decontamination suits who tended her while she underwent brainwashing.

The drain in the hospital scrub sink threw the panic switch because she

probably had been one of those "detainees" poisoned by Colonel Falkirk

(whoever the hell he was), then forced to vomit up the deadly substance,

just as Dom had been.  While strapped in the motel bed, she must have

undergone many eye examinations to determine the depth of her

drug-induced trance, which was why an ophthalmoscope had sent her

reeling away in a dark terror that night in George Hannaby's office. Dom

saw a relaxation of the tension at this irrefutable evidence that her

blackouts were not a sign of madness and were, in fact, a desperate but

entirely rational method of avoiding the repressed memories that the

mind-control experts had forbidden her to recall.

She said, "But what about the brass buttons on the coat of the man who

killed Pablo?  And on the policeman's uniform?  Why did they terrify me

and throw me into a fugue?"

"We know the military is involved in this cover-up," Dom said, turning

up the heater to counteract the cold air pouring off the car's

wind-buffeted windows, "and officers' uniforms have brass buttons like

that, though not a lion passant.  Most likely .  .  .  raised images of

eagles.  The buttons on the killer's and cop's coats were probably

similar to the buttons on the uniforms of those who imprisoned us in the

motel."

"Okay, but you said they wore decontamination suits, not uniforms."

"Maybe they didn't wear the decon suits for the entire three and a half

days.  At some point they decided it was safe to take them off."

She nodded.  "I'm sure that's right.  Which leaves only one thing. Those

carriage lamps behind the house on Newbury Street, the day Pablo was

murdered.  I told you about them: black iron with pebbled amber panes of

glass.  They had those bulbs that flickered like a gas flame.  Perfectly

innocent lamps. But they kicked me into another blackout."

"The bases of the lamps in the rooms at the Tranquility Motel are

designed like hurricane lamps, with little windows of amber glass."

"I'll be damned.  So every blackout was triggered by an object that

reminded me of something from those days when I was being brainwashed."

Dom hesitated, then reached inside his sweater and withdrew the Polaroid

photograph from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.

She paled and shuddered when she saw herself staring up with vacant eyes

at the camera.  "Gevalt!" She looked away from the picture.

Dom gave her time to recover from the shock of the snapshot.

Outside, in the fading dirty-gray light, a score of vehicles waited

silently like dark, dumb, brooding beasts.  The wind harried collections

of litter, dead leaves, and miscellaneous debris across the macadam.

"It's meshugge," she said, lowering her troubled gaze to the photo

again.  "It's crazy.  What could possibly have happened to us that would

justify this elaborate, risky conspiracy?

What could we have seen that was so dreadfully goddamned important?"

"We'll find out," he promised.

"Will we?  Will they let us?  They killed Pablo.  Won't they do

whatever's necessary to keep us from uncovering the truth?"

Adjusting the heater again, Dom said, "Well, I figure there're two

factions among the conspirators.  There are the hard-asses represented

by Colonel Falkirk and his people, and the better guys-can't call them

good guys exactly-represented by the fella who sent us these snapshots

and by the two men in decontamination suits in my dream last night.  The

hard-asses wanted to kill all of us right at the start, so there'd never

be any doubt that the cover-up would be permanent.  But the better guys

wanted to scrub our memories, use mind-control techniques instead of

violence, so we could go on living, and the better guys must be the

stronger of the two factions because they got their way."

"The gunman who killed Pablo was most likely one of the hard-asses."

"Yeah.  Working for Falkirk.  The colonel's evidently still willing to

kill anyone who jeopardizes the cover-up, which means none of us is

safe.  But there's the other faction that doesn't believe in Falkirk's

ultimate solution, and they're still trying to protect us, I think.  So

we have a chance.  Anyway, we can't walk away.  We can't go home and try

to get on with our lives just because the enemy looks formidable."

"No," Ginger agreed, "we can't.  Because until we find out what

happened, we don't really have lives to get on with."

The wind blew withered leaves against the windshield, over the roof.

Ginger swept the parking lot with her gaze.  "They must know we're

gathering at the motel, that things are falling apart.  Do you think

they're watching us now?"

"Very likely they've got the motel under surveillance," Dom said.  "But

no one followed me to the airport.  I watched for a tail."

"They wouldn't need to tail you here," she said grimly. "They knew where

you were going.  They knew who you were picking up."

"Are we laboring under a delusion of free will?  Are we only bugs on a

giant's palm, and can the giant crush us whenever he wants?"

"Maybe," Ginger Weiss said.  "But by God, we can at least give him a

couple of nasty bites before he smashes us."

She spoke with a fierce determination that was convincing but also

amusing in the context of a metaphor as basically comic as a giant and a

bunch of bugs.  Though he was pleased by her fierce resolution in the

face of such overwhelmingly poor odds, Dom could not help laughing.

Blinking at him in surprise, she laughed too.  "Hey, am I spunky, or

what?  Might be smashed by a giant, but I feel triumphant 'cause I'll be

able to bite him just before he reduces me to a bloody smear."

"Spunky should be your middle name," Dom agreed, laughing harder.

As he watched Ginger laughing at her own expense, Dom was again stricken

by her beauty.  His response to her, on seeing her disembark from the

plane, had been instant and powerful because of unremembered experiences

they shared. But even if they had been complete strangers whose lives

had never crossed, he would have felt something more at the sight of her

than he felt when he saw other beautiful women.  Under any

circumstances, she would have turned his head.  She was special.

He drew a deep breath.  "Shall I take you to meet the others?"

"Oh, yes," she said, dabbing her slender fingers at the corners of her

eyes to wipe away tears that her graveyard laughter had occasioned.

"Yes, I'm eager to meet them.  The other bugs on the giant's hand."

Less than half an hour before nightfall, the shadows on the high plains

were long, and the muddy gray light of the overcast dusk lent an air of

mystery even to such ordinary objects as clumps of sagebrush, rock

formations, and twisted mounds of dead brown bunch-grass.

Before taking her to the motel, Dom Corvaisis had brought Ginger to what

he called "the special place," more than two hundred yards south of

Interstate 80.  The wind rustled halfseen vegetation.  The ice on the

grass and sagebrush, when glimpsed at all, looked black, shiny black.

The writer stood away from her, hands jammed in his jacket pockets,

silent.  He had told her that he did not want to influence her reaction

to the place or color her first feelings with a description of his own.

Ginger wandered slowly back and forth, feeling slightly foolish, as if

taking part in a half-baked experiment in psychic perception, seeking

clairvoyant vibrations.  But she quickly stopped feeling foolish when

the vibrations actually began to shake her.  A queer uneasiness arose,

and she found herself staying away from the deeper pockets of shadows,

as if something hostile lurked in them.  Her heart pounded.  Uneasiness

became fear, and she heard the tempo of her breathing change.

"It's inside me.  It's inside me."

She whirled toward that voice.  It was Dom's voice, but it had not come

from him.  The words had been spoken behind her.  But no one was there:

only dry sagebrush and a thin patch of snow glowing softly, luminously

within a nest of shadows.

"What's the matter?" Dom asked, moving toward her.

She was wrong.  Dom's other voice, the ghostly-sounding voice, had not

come from behind her.  It had come from within her.  She heard that

other Dom again, and she realized she was hearing a fragment of memory,

an echo from the past, something he had said to her that Friday night,

July 6, perhaps when they had both stood in this same place.  The scrap

of memory came with no visual or olfactory element because it was part

of the events locked behind the Azrael Block.  There were just those

three urgent words repeated twice: "It's inside me.  It's inside me."

Abruptly, her simmering fear flashed bright.  The landscape around her

seemed to embody a nameless but monstrous threat.  She started back

toward the highway, walking fast, and Dom asked what was wrong, and she

walked even faster, unable to answer because fear was like a paste in

her mouth and throat.  He called her name, and she began to run.  Every

object in sight seemed to have been wounded on its eastern flank, for

black blood-shadows spilled in that direction.

She was not able to speak until they were back in the Chevy, with the

doors locked, the engine running, and the heater blowing warm air on her

chilled face.  Shakily, she told him about the nameless threat she had

felt on that ordinary-looking piece of ground, and about the memory of

his urgent voice and the three-word sentence.

" 'It's inside me,' " he said thoughtfully.  "You're sure it's really

something I said to you that night?"

"Yes." She shivered.

" 'It's inside me." What in the world did I mean by that?"

"I don't know," Ginger said.  "But it gives me the creeps."

He was silent a moment.  Then he said, "Yeah.  Me, too."

That evening, at the motel, Ginger Weiss felt almost as if she was with

her family on a holiday gathering like Thanksgiving. In spite of the

difficulties in which they found themselves, their spirits were high;

for in the manner of a real family, they drew strength from one another.

The six of them crowded into the kitchen and prepared dinner together,

and through that domestic labor, Ginger got to know the others better

and felt a strengthening of the ties that bound her to them.

Ned Sarver, being a professional cook, prepared the main dish-chicken

breasts baked in a spicy green tomatillo sauce with sour cream.

Initially, Ginger mistakenly thought Ned was a brooding, unfriendly

sort, but she soon changed her opinion.  Taciturnity sometimes could be

a sign of a healthy ego that did not require constant gratification,

which was the case with Ned.  Besides, Ginger could not help but like a

man who loved his wife as deeply as Ned loved Sandy, a love apparent in

every word he spoke to her, in every glance he cast her way.

Sandy, the only one of them to be affected only positively by their

mysterious ordeal, was so sweet-tempered, so delighted with the recent

changes in herself, that she was especially good company.  Together, she

and Ginger prepared the dinner salad and vegetables, and as they worked,

an almost sisterly affection developed between them.

Faye Block made the dessert, a refrigerator pie with a chocolate crust

and banana-cream filling.  Ginger liked Faye, who reminded her of Rita

Hannaby.  That cultured society woman was different from Faye in many

ways, but in fundamental respects they were alike: efficient,

take-charge types, tough of mind, tender of spirit.

Ernie Block and Dom Corvaisis put the extra leaf in the table and

arranged six place settings.  Ernie had seemed gruff and intimidating at

first, but now she saw he was a sweetheart. He inspired much affection

because of his fear of darkness, which made him seem boyish in spite of

his size and age.

Of the five people among whom Ginger found herself, only Dominick

Corvaisis stirred emotions that she could not understand.  For him, she

felt the same friendship that she felt for the others, and she was aware

of a special bond between them related to an unremembered experience

just the two of them had shared.  But she was also sexually attracted to

him. That surprised her because she never felt desire for a man until

she knew him for several weeks, at least, and knew him well.  Wary of

her romantic yearnings, Ginger kept a tight rein on her emotions, and

she tried hard to convince herself that Dom did not feel a similar

attraction for her, which he so patently did.

Through dinner, the six of them continued to discuss their strange

predicament and search for clues that might have been overlooked.

Like Dom, Ginger had no recollection of the toxic spill two years ago,

though the Blocks and Servers recalled it clearly.

I-80 had really been closed, and an environmental emergency had been

declared; there was no doubt about that much.  Last night, however, Dom

convinced the Blocks that their memories of evacuating to Elroy and

Nancy Jamison's mountain ranch were phony and that both they and the

Jamisons had almost surely been kept at the motel.  (According to Faye

and Ernie, the Jamisons had not mentioned having any nightmares or odd

problems lately, so their brainwashing must have been effective, though

it would be necessary to talk to them soon.)  Likewise, Ned and Sandy

had reluctantly concluded that their own recollections of sitting out

the crisis at their trailer were too shallow to be real and that they

had been strapped into motel beds, drugged, and brainwashed like

everyone else in those Polaroids.

"But," Faye wondered, "why wouldn't they give us all approximately the

same false memories?"

Ginger said, "Maybe all you locals have had the toxic spill and the

highway closure woven into your false memories. That'd be necessary

because, later, people would be asking you where you went during the

emergency, and you'd have to know what they were talking about.  But Dom

and I are from distant places, unlikely ever to return, unlikely to run

into anyone who would know that we'd been within the quarantine zone, so

they didn't bother including that bit of reality in the set of fake

memories they gave us."

Sandy paused with a morsel of chicken on her fork.  "But wouldn't it be

safer and easier to make your memories fit the toxic spill, too?"

"Ever since Pablo Jackson helped me discover that my mind had been

tampered with," Ginger said, "I've been reading about brainwashing, and

I think maybe it's a lot less difficult to implant recollections that

are entirely false than it is to weave in threads of reality such as the

environmental emergency and the road closure.  It probably takes a lot

longer to construct fake memories that have some reality to them, and

maybe they simply didn't have time to do that with all of us.  So they

gave the super-deluxe brainwashing job only to you locals."

"That feels like the truth," Ernie said, and everyone agreed.

Faye said, "But did the toxic spill really happen, or was it just a

cover story that gave them an excuse to close I-80 and bottle us up, a

way of preventing us from talking about what we'd seen Friday night?"

"I suspect there was contamination of some sort," Ginger said.  "In

Dom's nightmare, which we know is really more memory than dream, those

men were wearing decontamination suits.  Now, when they came into the

quarantine zone, maybe they'd wear costumes like that for the benefit of

newsmen or other onlookers.  But once here, where only we could see

them, they wouldn't keep the suits on unless they absolutely had to."

Glancing uneasily at the blind-covered window nearest the table, as if

he thought he had seen a trickle of darkness dribbling in from the night

beyond, Ernie cleared his throat and said, "Yeah, uh .  .  .  well,

which was it, do you think?  You're the doctor.  Does it sound like

chemical or biological contamination?  The story they gave the media was

that it involved chemicals being delivered to Shenkfield's testing

facilities."

Ginger had been thinking about this question for some time, long before

Ernie asked it.  Chemical or biological contamination?  She had arrived

at an answer that deeply disturbed her.  "Generally speaking, the suits

required for a chemical spill don't have to be air-tight.  They just

have to cover the worker from head to toe in order to prevent any

caustic or toxic substance from coming into contact with his skin, and

they have to include a respirator, rather like a scuba diver's tank and

mask, so he won't breathe deadly fumes. They're usually made of

lightweight nonporous cloth, and the headgear consists of a simple cloth

hood with a plastic visor. But Dom described heavy-looking suits with an

outer level of thick vinyl, with gloves that were of one piece with the

sleeves, and a hard helmet that locked into an airtight seal at the

collar.  That is unquestionably gear that's been designed to prevent

exposure to a dangerous biological agent, microbes."

For a while no one said a word, pondering this disquieting news.

Then Ned took a long swallow of his Heineken for fortification and said,

"So we must've been infected with something."

Faye said, "Some virus they developed for biological warfare."

"If it was headed for Shenkfield, that's the only kind of bug it

could've been," Ernie said.  "Something mean."

"Yet we lived," Sandy said.

"Because they were immediately able to quarantine us and treat us,"

Ginger said.  "Surely they wouldn't be intending to test a genetically

engineered virus, some new and deadly organism that could be used as a

weapon, unless they had simultaneously developed an effective cure for

it.  So they had a supply of a new antibiotic OT serum to guard against

just such an accident.  If they contaminated us, they also cured US."

Ernie said, "It sounds right, doesn't it?  Maybe it's all starting to

fall together, piece by piece."

Dom disagreed.  "It still doesn't explain what happened on that Friday

night, what we saw that they didn't want us to see.  It doesn't explain

what made the whole damned diner shake or what blew out the

windows-either on that first night or again last night."

"And it doesn't explain the other weird stuff," Faye said. "Like all

those paper moons whirling around Dom in Lomack's house.  Or Father

Wycazik's claim that this young priest's been performing miracle cures."

They looked at one another, waiting in silence for someone to put forth

an explanation that would tie biological contam ination with those

paranormal events, but no one had an answer.

Less than three hundred miles west of the Tranquility Motel, in another

motel in Reno, Brendan Cronin had gone to bed and turned out the lights.

Although it was only a few minutes after nine o'clock, he was still

functioning on Chicago time, so for him it was after eleven.

However, sleep eluded him.  After checking into the motel and having

dinner at a nearby Bob's Big Boy, he had telephoned St.  Bette's rectory

and had spoken with Father Wycazik, who had told him of the call from

Dominick Corvaisis. Brendan was electrified by the news that he was not

the only one caught up in this mystery.  He considered calling the

Tranquility, but they already knew he was on his way, and whatever they

could say on the phone could be said better in person, tomorrow.

Thoughts of tomorrow and speculations about what might happen were what

kept sleep at bay.

He had lain awake less than an hour and his thoughts had drifted to the

eerie luminescence that had filled his rectory bedroom two nights ago,

when suddenly that phenomenon appeared once more.  This time, there was

no visible source of light, not even one so unlikely as the frost-moon

upon the window from which the uncanny radiance had sprung last Friday

night.  Now, the glow appeared above him and on all sides, as if the

very molecules of the air had acquired the ability to produce light.  It

was a lunar-pale, milky shimmer at first, growing brighter by the

second, until it seemed as if he must be lying in an open field, under

the looming countenance of a full moon.

This was different from the peaceful golden light that was featured in

his recurring dream, and as it had done two nights ago, it filled him

with conflicting emotions-horror and rapture, fear and wild excitement.

As in his rectory bedroom, the lactescent light changed color, darkening

to scarlet.  He seemed suspended in a radiant bubble of blood.

It's inside me, he thought, wondering what that meant. Inside me.  The

thought reverberated in his mind.  Suddenly he was cold with fear.

His thundering heart seemed about to explode.  He lay rigid.  In his

hands, the rings appeared.  Throbbing.

2.

Monday, January 13

When they gathered in Ernie and Faye's kitchen for breakfast the next

morning, Dom was excited to learn that the previous night had been an

ordeal for most of them.  "It's unraveling the way I hoped it might," he

said.  "By gathering together here, by re-creating the group that was

gathered here that night, and by working together to get at the truth,

we're putting constant pressure on the memory blocks that've been

implanted in us.  And now, that barrier is crumbling a bit faster."

Last night, Dom, Ginger, Ernie, and Ned experienced exceptionally vivid

nightmares of such similarity that they were surely fragments of

forbidden memories.  In every case they had involved being strapped to

motel beds and tended by men in decontamination suits.  Sandy had a

pleasant dream, although it lacked the clarity and detail of the others'

nightmares.  Faye was the only one who did not dream at all.

Ned had been so disturbed by his nightmare that on Monday morning, when

he and Sandy arrived from Beowawe for breakfast, he announced they were

moving into a room at the motel for the duration.  "During the night,

after the dream woke me, I couldn't get back to sleep.  And while I was

laying there, I got to thinking how lonely it is at our trailer, empty

plains all around.  .  .  .  Maybe this Colonel Falkirk will decide to

kill us like he wanted to do in the first place.  And if he comes for

us, I don't want me and Sandy to be alone out there at the trailer."

Dom sympathized with Ned because these dark and vivid dreams were new to

the cook.  Over recent weeks, Dom, Ginger, and Ernie had learned a

little about coping with the frighteningly powerful nightmares, but Ned

had developed no armor, so he was badly shaken.

And, of course, Ned was well advised to fear Falkirk.  The closer they

came to exposing the conspiracy and learning the truth, the more likely

they were to become targets of a preemptive strike.  Dom did not think

Falkirk would make a move until Brendan Cronin, Jorja Monatella, and

perhaps other victims had gathered at the Tranquility.  But once they

were in one place, they would need to be prepared for trouble.

Now, in the Blocks' kitchen, Ned Sarver picked at his breakfast without

appetite as he spoke of the images that had disturbed his sleep.  At

first he had dreamed of being held prisoner by men in decontamination

suits, but later they had worn either lab coats or military uniforms, an

indication that the biological danger had passed.  One of the uniformed

men had been Colonel Falkirk, and Ned described that officer in detail:

about fifty years old, black hair graying at the temples, gray eyes like

circles of polished steel, a beakish nose, thin lips.

Ernie was able to confirm the word-portrait that Ned painted, for

Falkirk had also been in his nightmare.  The amazing coincidence of the

same man appearing in both Ned's and Ernie's dreams made it clear that

his face was not merely a figment of imagination but a memory of a real

face that both Ernie and Ned had seen two summers ago.

"And in my nightmare," Ernie said, "another Army officer referred to

Falkirk by his first name.  Leland.  Colonel Leland Falkirk."

"He's probably stationed at Shenkfield," Ginger said.

"We'll try to find out later," Dom said.

The barriers to memory were definitely crumbling.  That prospect boosted

Dom's spirits higher than they had been in months.

In Ginger's nightmare, which she recounted for them, she had not been

the only person being brainwashed in Room 5, the room she had occupied

that summer and which she now occupied again.  "There was a rollaway bed

in one corner, and the redhead in it was someone I'd never seen before.

She was about forty years old.  They had her connected to her own IV

drip and EKG machine.  She had that ...  vacant stare."

Just as Ernie and Ned had shared a new developmentthe appearance of

Colonel Falkirk-in their nightmares, Dom and Ginger had shared this

other discovery.  In Dom's dream, there had been a rollaway bed, flanked

by an IV stand and an EKG monitor, and in the bed had been a young man

in his twenties with a pale face, bushy mustache, and zombie eyes.

"What does it mean?" Faye Block asked.  "Did they have so many subjects

for brainwashing that they more than filled all twenty rooms?"

"But," Sandy said, "the registry showed only eleven rooms rented."

Ginger said, "There must've been people on the interstate, in transit,

who saw what we saw.  The Army managed to stop them and bring them here.

None of their names would appear on the registry."

"How many?" Faye wondered.

"We'll probably never know for sure," Dom said.  "We never actually met

them; we only shared rooms with them while we were drugged.  We might

eventually remember the faces of those we saw, but we can't possibly

remember names and addresses we never knew in the first place."

But at least those reprogrammed memories, those tissues of lies, were

dissolving, allowing the truth to show through. Dom was grateful for

that much.  In time, they would uncover the entire story-if Colonel

Falkirk did not first come after them with heavy artillery.

Monday morning, while the group at the Tranquility ate breakfast, Jack

Twist was being escorted to a safe-deposit box in a vault of a Fifth

Avenue branch of Citibank, in New York. The attending bank employee, an

attractive young woman, kept calling him "Mr.  Farnham," for that was

the false identity under which he had acquired the box.

After they used their separate keys to remove the box from the wall of

the vault, when he was alone with it in a cubicle, he opened the lid and

stared in shock at the contents.  The rectangular metal container held

something that he had not put there, which was an impossibility since

only he knew about the box and possessed the only master key.

It should have contained five white envelopes, each filled with five

thousand dollars in hundred-dollar and twenty-dollar bills, and indeed

that money appeared to be untouched.  This was one of eleven emergency

caches he kept in safe-deposit boxes all over the city.  He had set out

this morning to remove fifteen thousand dollars from each, a total of

$165,000, which he intended to give away.  He opened each of the five

envelopes and counted the contents with trembling hands.  Not a single

bill was missing.

Jack was not even slightly relieved.  Though his money was still there,

the presence of the other object proved that his false identity had been

penetrated, his privacy violated, and his freedom jeopardized.  Someone

knew who "Gregory Farnham" really was, and the item that had been left

in the box was a bold notification that his elaborately constructed

cover had been penetrated.

It was a postcard.  There was no writing on the back, no message; the

presence of the card itself was message enough. On the front was a

photograph of the Tranquility Motel.

The summer before last, after he and Branch Pollard and a third man had

burglarized the Avril McAllister estate in Marin County, north of San

Francisco, and after Jack paid a profitable visit to Reno, he rented a

car and drove east, stopping the first night at the Tranquility Motel

along Interstate 80.  He had not thought about the place since, but he

recognized it the instant he saw the photograph.

Who could possibly know he had stayed at that motel?  Not Branch

Pollard.  He'd never told Branch about Reno or about his decision to

drive back to New York.  And not the third man on the McAllister job, a

guy named Sal Finrow from Los Angeles; Jack had never seen him again

after they had split the take from that sour job.

Then Jack realized that at least three of his phony IDs had been

penetrated.  He rented this safe-deposit box as "Farnham" but he stayed

at the Tranquility Motel as "Thornton Wainwright." Both noms de guerre

were now blown, and the only way anyone could have linked them was by

connecting Jack with his "Phillipe Delon" identity, under which he

resided at his Fifth Avenue apartment, so that name was blown as well.

Jesus.

He sat in the bank cubicle, stunned but thinking furiously, trying to

decide who his enemy might be.  It could not be the police or the FBI or

any other legitimate authority, for they would simply have arrested him

once they had accumulated this much evidence; they would not play games.

Nor could it be any of the men with whom he ever worked on a heist, for

he took great care to keep his acquaintances in the criminal underworld

well out of his life on Fifth Avenue.  None of them knew where he really

lived; in the event they scouted a job requiring his planning skills and

special knowledge, they could reach him only through a series of mail

drops or through a chain of pseudonymously listed phone numbers backed

up by answering machines.  He was confident of the effectiveness of

those precautions.  Besides, if some hoodlum had gotten into this box,

he would not have left the twenty-five thousand bucks untouched; he

would have taken every dollar of it.

So who's on to me?  Jack wondered.

He focused on the fratellanza warehouse robbery that he and Mort and

Tommy Sung had pulled off December 3.  Was the mafia after him?  When

they wanted to find someone, those boys had more contacts, sources,

determination, and sheer perseverance than the FBI.  And the fratellanza

would most likely not have taken the twenty-five thousand, leaving it as

dilominous notice that they wanted more than the money he had stolen

from them.  It was also in character for the fratellanza to leave a

teaser like the postcard, because those guys enjoyed making a target

sweat a lot before they finally pulled the trigger.

On the other hand, even if the mob tracked him down, then somehow

searched back through his criminal career to see who else he had hit,

they would not have gone to the trouble of acquiring cards from the

Tranquility Motel just to put the fear of God in him.  If they had

wanted to leave an upsetting teaser in the safe-deposit box, they would

have left a photo of the warehouse that he had robbed in New Jersey.

So it was not the mafia.  Then who?  Damn it, who?

The tiny cubicle began to seem even smaller than it was. Jack felt

claustrophobic and vulnerable.  As long as he was in the bank, there was

nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.  He stuffed the twenty-five thousand

into his overcoat pockets, no longer intending to give away any of it;

suddenly, it had become his escape money.  He put the postcard in his

wallet, closed the empty box, and rang the buzzer for the attendant.

Two minutes later, he was outside, drawing deep breaths of the freezing

January air, studying the people on Fifth Avenue for one who might be

tailing him.  He saw no one suspicious.

For a moment he stood rocklike in the river of people that flowed around

him.  He wanted to get out of the city and the state as quickly as

possible, flee to an unlikely destination, where they would not look for

him.  Whoever they were.  Yet he was not entirely sure that flight was

necessary.  In Ranger training, he had been taught never to act until he

understood why he was acting and until he knew what he hoped to achieve

by his actions.  Besides, fear of his faceless enemy was outweighed by

curiosity; he needed to know who he was up against, how they had broken

his various covers, and what they wanted from him.

Outside the Citibank Building, Jack hailed a cab and went to the corner

of Wall Street and William Street, in the heart of the financial

district, where he had six safe-deposit boxes in six banks.  He went to

five of them, from each of which he collected twenty-five thousand

dollars and a postcard of the Tranquility Motel.

He decided to stop after the fifth, because his coat pockets were

already bulging with $125,000, a sufficiently dangerous sum to be

carrying, and because, by now, he knew beyond a doubt that his other six

phony identities and clandestine safe-deposit boxes had been found out

as well.  He had enough money with which to travel, and he was not

particularly worried about leaving the remaining $150,000 in the other

six boxes.  For one thing, Jack had four million in his Swiss accounts;

and for another thing, the distributor of the postcards would already

have taken the available money if that had been his intention.

By now, he'd had time to think about that motel out in Nevada, and he

had begun to realize something was strange about the time that he had

spent at the place.  He had remained there for three days, relaxing,

enjoying the quiet and the scenery.  But now, for the first time, it

seemed to him that he would have done no such thing.  Not with so much

cash in the trunk of his rental car.  Not when he had already been away

from New York (and Jenny) for two weeks.  He would have driven straight

home from Reno.  Now that he was forced to contemplate it, the three-day

stay at the Tranquility Motel did not make much sense.

Another taxi conveyed him to his Fifth Avenue apartment building, where

he arrived shortly before eleven.  He promptly telephoned Elite Flights,

a company that chartered small jets, with whom he had dealt previously,

and he was relieved to discover that, fortuitously, they had an unhooked

Lear available for departure at his convenience.

He took the twenty-five thousand from the secret compartment in the back

of his bedroom closet.  With the funds he had removed from the

safe-deposit boxes, he now had $150,000 in immediate operating capital,

enough to deal with virtually any contingency that might arise.

He hurriedly packed three suitcases, distributing a few clothes in each,

but leaving most of the space for other items.  He stowed away two

handguns: a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnum, chambered for the

.357 Magnum cartridge but also capable of firing .38 Special cartridges

with considerably less kick; and a .32 Beretta Model 70, its stubby

barrel grooved to accept a screw-on, pipe-type silencer, of which Jack

included two.  He also took an Uzi submachine gun, which he'd illegally

modified for full automatic fire, plus plenty of ammunition.

Jack's newly acquired guilt had substantially transformed him during the

past forty-eight hours, but it had not overwhelmed him to such an extent

that he was incapable of dealing violently with those who might deal

violently with him.  His determination to be an honest and upstanding

citizen did not interfere with his instinct for self-preservation.  And

considering his background, no one was better prepared to preserve

himself than Jack Twist.

Besides, after eight years of alienation and loneliness, he had begun to

rejoin society, had begun to hope for a normal life.  He would not let

anyone destroy what might be his last chance for happiness.

He also packed the portable SLICKS computer, which he had used to get

through the armored transport's sophisticated electronic lock the night

before last in Connecticut.  In addition, he decided he might need a

Police Lock Release Gun, a tool that could instantly open any type of

pin-tumbler lockmushroom, spool, or regular-without damaging the

mechanism, and which was sold only to law-enforcement agencies, And a

Star Tron MK 202A, a compact, hand-held "night vision" device that could

also be rifle-mounted.  And a few other things.

Although he distributed the heaviest weapons and equipment equally among

the three large suitcases, none of the bags was light when he finally

closed and locked them.  Any one who helped him with his luggage might

wonder about the contents, but no one would ask embarrassing questions

or raise an alarm.  That was the advantage of leasing a Lear jet for the

journey: He would not be required to pass through airport security, and

no one would inspect his baggage.

From his apartment, he taxied to La Guardia.

The waiting Lear would take him to Salt Lake City, Utah, the nearest

major airport to Elko, a shade closer than Reno International, and a lot

closer if you considered the necessity of overflying to Reno and then

doubling back in a conventional-engine commuter plane to Elko.  Elite

Flights had told him that Reno was anticipating a major snowstorm that

might close them down later in the day, and the same was true of the two

smaller fields in southern Idaho that were capable of handling Lear-size

jets.  But the weather forecast for Salt Lake City was good throughout

the day.  At Jack's request, Elite was already arranging the lease of a

conventional-engine plane from a Utah company to carry him from Salt

Lake to the little county airport in Elko.  Although it was in the

easternmost fourth of Nevada, Elko was still within the Pacific time

zone, so he would benefit from a gain of three hours, though he did not

think he would arrive in Elko much before nightfall.

That was all right.  He'd need darkness for what he was planning.

To Jack, the taunting postcards, retrieved from his safedeposit boxes,

implied there were people in Nevada who had learned everything worth

knowing about his criminal life.  The cards seemed to be saying that he

could reach those people through the Tranquility Motel or perhaps find

them in residence there.  The postcard was an invitation.  Or a summons.

Either way, he could ignore it only at his peril.

He did not know if he was being followed to La Guardia; he did not

bother looking for a tail.  If his apartment phone was tapped, they knew

he was coming the moment he called Elite Flights.  He wanted them to see

him approaching openly, for then they might be off-guard when, on

arrival in Elko, he suddenly shook loose of them and went underground.

Monday morning, after breakfast, Dom and Ginger went into Elko, to the

offices of the Sentinel, the county's only news paper.  The biggest town

in the county, Elko boasted a population of less than ten thousand, so

its newspaper's offices were not housed in a gleaming glass high-rise

but in a humble one-story concrete-block building on a quiet street.

Like most papers, the Sentinel provided access to its backissue files to

anyone with legitimate research needs, though permission for the use of

the files was granted judiciously.

In spite of the financial success of his first novel, Dom still had

difficulty identifying himself as a writer.  To his own ears, he sounded

pretentious and phony, though he realized his uneasiness was a holdover

from his days as an excessively self-effacing Milquetoast.

The receptionist, Brenda Hennerling, did not recognize his name, but

when he mentioned the title of his novel that Random House had just

shipped to the stores, she said, "It's the book-club selection this

month!  You wrote it?  Really?"

She had ordered it a month ago from the Literary Guild, and it had just

arrived in the mail.  She was (she said) an avid reader, two books a

week, and it was truly a thrill to meet a genuine novelist.  Her

enthusiasm only added to Dom's embarrassment.  He was of a mind with

Robert Louis Stevenson, who had said, "The important thing is the tale,

the well-told tale, not he who tells it."

The Sentinel's back-issue files were kept in a narrow, windowless

chamber.  There were two desks with typewriters, a microfilm reader, a

file of microfilm spools, and six tall filing cabinets with oversize

drawers containing those editions of the newspaper that had not yet been

transferred to film.  The exposed concrete-block walls were painted pale

gray, and the acoustic-tile ceiling was gray, too, and the fluorescent

lights shed a cold glare.  Dom had the odd sensation that they were in a

submarine, far beneath the surface of the sea.

After Brenda Hennerling explained the filing system to them and left

them alone to do their work, Ginger said, "I'm so caught up in our

problems that I keep forgetting you're a famous author."

"So do I," Dom said, reading the labels on the filing cabinets that held

issues of past Sentinels.  "But of course, I'm not famous."

"Soon will be.  It's a shame: With all that's happening to us, you're

getting no chance to savour the publication of your first novel."

He shrugged.  "This isn't a picnic for any of us.  You've had to put an

entire medical career on hold."

"Yes, but now I know I'll be able to go back to medicine once we've dug

to the bottom of this," Ginger said, as if there was no doubt they would

triumph over their enemies.  By now, Dom knew that conviction and

determination were as much a part of her as the blueness of her eyes.

"But this is your first book."

Dom had not yet recovered from his embarrassment at being treated like a

celebrity by the receptionist.  Now Ginger's kind comments kept a blush

on his cheeks.  However, this was not the mark of embarrassment; it was

an indication of the intense pleasure he took in being the object of her

concern.  No woman had ever affected him as this one did.

Together, they went through the file drawers and removed the pertinent

back issues of the Sentinel.  They would not need to use the microfilm

reader, for the newspaper was running two years behind in the

transferral to film.  They withdrew a full week's editions, beginning

with Saturday, July 7, of the summer before last, and took them to one

of the desks, where they both pulled up chairs.

Although the unremembered event that they had witnessed, and the

possible contamination, and the closure of I80 had happened on Friday

night, July 6, the Saturday paper carried no report of the toxic spill.

The Sentinel was primarily a source of local and state news and, though

it included some national and international material, was not interested

in fastbreaking stories.  Its halls would never ring with that dramatic

cry, "Stop press!" There would be no last-minute recomposition of the

front page.  The pace of life in Elko County was rural, relaxed,

sensible, and no one felt a burning need to be breathlessly

up-to-the-minute on anything.  The Sentinel was put to bed late in the

evening, for distribution in the morning; therefore, since no Sunday

edition was published, the story of the toxic spill and the closure of

I-80 did not appear until the edition of Monday, July 9.

But Monday's and Tuesday's editions were emblazoned with urgent

headlines: TOXIC SPILL CLOSES- 80, and ARMY ESTABLISHES QUARANTINE ZONE,

and NERVE GAS LEAKING FROM DAMAGED TRUCK?, and ARMY SAYS EVERYONE

EVACUATED FROM DANGER ZONE, and WHERE ARE EVACUEES?, and SHENKFIELD ARMY

TESTING GROUNDS: WHAT REALLY GOES ON THERE?, and

- 80 CLOSURE ENTERS FOURTH DAY, and CLEAN-UP ALMOST FINISHED; HIGHWAY

OPEN BY NOON.

For both Dom and Ginger, it was eerie to read about these events that

had transpired during days when they remembered nothing more than

relaxing quietly at the Tranquility Motel.  As Dom read about the

crisis, he became convinced Ginger's theory was correct; it seemed

obvious that the mindcontrol technicians would have needed an extra week

or two in order to have incorporated this elaborate toxic-spill cover

story into the phony memories of both Elko County locals and

passers-through, and there was no way they could have kept the highway

closed and the area sealed tight for that long.

The edition of Wednesday, July 11, continued the saga: I80 OPENS!, and

QUARANTINE REMOVED: NO LONG-TERM CONTAMINATION, and FIRST EVACUEES

LOCATED: THEY SAW NOTHIN(;.

Editions of the Sentinel, distinctly a small-town paper, averaged

between sixteen and thirty-two pages.  During those days in July, most

of its news space was given to reports of the toxic crisis, for this

event had drawn reporters from all over the country, and the low-key

Sentinel found itself at the center of a big story.  Poring over that

wealth of material, Dom and Ginger discovered a lot that was pertinent

to their quest and that would help them plan their next move.

For one thing, the degree of security imposed by the United States Army

was soberly instructive of the lengths to which they would go to keep

the lid on the truth.  Although it was not strictly within their

authority to do so, Army units attached to Shenkfield had established

roadblocks and closed a ten-mile stretch of I-80 immediately after the

accident; they had not even informed the Elko County Sheriff or the

Nevada State Police of the crisis until they had secured the quarantine

zone.  That was a startling breach of standard procedure. Throughout the

emergency, the sheriff and state police complained with increasing

vehemence that the Army was freezing them out of every aspect of crisis

management and usurping civilian authority; state and local police were

neither included in the maintenance of the quarantine line nor consulted

on essential contingency planning for the possibility that increased

winds or other factors might spread the nerve gas beyond the initial

area of danger.  Clearly, the military trusted only its own people to

keep the secret of what was actually happening in the quarantine zone.

Following two days of frustration, Foster Hanks, the Elko County

Sheriff, had complained to a Sentinel reporter that: "This here's my

bailiwick, by God, and the people elected me to keep peace.  This is no

military dictatorship.  If I don't get some cooperation from the Army,

I'll see a judge first thing tomorrow and get a court order to make them

respect the legal jurisdictions in this matter." The Tuesday Sentinel

reported that Hanks had, indeed, gone before a judge, but before a

determination could be made, the crisis was drawing to an end and the

argument about jurisdiction was moot.

Huddling over the newspaper with Dom, Ginger said, "So we don't have to

worry that all authorities are aligned against us in this.  The state

and local police weren'tpart of it.  Our only adversary is-"

"The United States Army," Dom finished, laughing at the unconscious

element of graveyard humor in her assessment

of the enemy.

She also laughed sourly.  "Us against the Army.  Even with state and

local police out of the battle, it's hardly a fair match,

is it?"

According to the Sentinel, the Army kept sole and iron control of the

roadblocks on I-80, the only east-west artery through forbidden

territory, and also closed eight miles of the north-south county road.

Civilian air traffic was restricted from passing over the contaminated

area, necessitating the rerouting of flights, while the Army maintained

continuous helicopter patrols of the perimeter of the proscribed land.

Obviously, substantial manpower was required to secure eighty square

miles, but regardless of expense and difficulty, they were determined to

stop anyone entering the danger zone on foot, on horseback, or in

four-wheel-drive vehicles.  The choppers flew in daylight and after

dark, as well, sweeping the night with searchlights.  Rumors circulated

that teams of soldiers, equipped with infrared surveillance gear, were

also patrolling the perimeter at night, looking for interlopers who

might have slipped past the big choppers' searchlights.

"Nerve gases rate among the deadliest substances known to man," Ginger

said as Dom turned a page of the newspaper they were currently perusing.

"But even so, this much security seems excessive.  Besides, though I'm

no expert on chemical warfare, I can't believe any nerve gas would pose

a threat at such a distance from a single point of release.  I mean,

according to the Army, it was only one cylinder of gas, not an enormous

quantity, not a whole tanker truck as Ernie and Faye remembered it.  And

it's the nature of gas to disperse, to expand upon release.  So by the

time the stuff spread a couple of miles, it would've been diluted to

such a degree that surely the air would've contained no more of it than

a few parts per billion.  In three miles ...  not even one part per

billion.  Not enough to endanger anyone."

"This supports your idea that it was biological contamination."

"Possibly," Ginger said.  "It's too early to say.  But it was certainly

more serious than the nerve-gas story they put out."

By Saturday, July 7, less than one day after the interstate was closed,

an alert wire-service reporter had noted that the uniforms of many of

the soldiers in the quarantine operation bore-in addition to rank and

standard insignia-an unusual company patch: a black circle with an

emerald-green star in the center.  This was different from the markings

on the uniforms of the men from Shenkfield Testing Grounds.  Among those

wearing the green star, the ratio of officers to enlisted men was high.

When questioned, the Army identified the green-star soldiers as a

little-known, super-elite company of Special Forces troops.  "We call

them DERO, which stands for Domestic Emergency Response Organization,"

an Army spokesman was quoted by the Sentinel.  "The men of DERO are

superbly trained, and they've all had extensive field experience in

combat situations, and all of them carry topsecurity clearances, as

well, which is essential because they may find themselves operating in

highly classified areas, witness to sensitive sights."

Dom translated that to mean DERO men were chosen, in part, for their

ability and willingness to keep their goddamn mouths shut.

The Sentinel quoted the Army spokesman further: "They're the cream of

our young career soldiers, so naturally many have attained the rank of

at least sergeant by the time they qualify for DERO.  Our intention is

to create a superbly trained force to deal with extraordinary crises,

such as terrorist attacks on domestic military installations, nuclear

emergencies on bases housing atomic weapons, and other unusual problems.

Not that there's any aspect of terrorism involved in this case. And

there's no nuclear emergency here, either.  But several DERO companies

are stationed around the country, and since one was near when this

nerve-gas situation arose, it seemed prudent to bring in the best we had

to insure public safety." He refused to tell reporters where this DERO

company had been stationed, how far they had been flown, or how many

were involved.  "That's classified information."

Not one of the DERO men would speak with any member of the press.

Ginger grimaced and said, "Shmontses!"

Dom blinked.  "Huh?"

"Their whole story," she said, leaning back in her chair and rolling her

head from side to side to work out a cramp in her lovely neck.  "It's

all just shmontses."

"But what's shmontses?"

"Oh.  Sorry.  Yiddish word, adapted from German, I guess. One of my

father's favorites.  It means something of no value, something foolish,

absurd, nonsense, worthy of contempt or scorn.  This stuff the Army put

out is just shmontses." She stopped rolling her head, leaned forward in

her chair, and stabbed one finger at the newspaper.  "So this DERO team

just happened to be hanging around here in the middle of nowhere

precisely when this crisis arose, huh?  Too damned neat.

Dom frowned.  "But, Ginger, according to these stories, although the

roadblocks on I-80 were set up by men from Shenkfield, the DERO team

took over little more than an hour later.  So if they didn't just happen

to be nearby, the only way they could've gotten here so quickly was if

they were airborne and on their way before the accident ever happened."

"Exactly."

"You're saying they knew in advance there'd be a toxic spill?"

She sighed.  "At most, I'm willing to accept a DERO team might've been

at one of the nearest military bases ...  in western Utah or maybe up in

southern Idaho.  But even that's not near enough to make the Army's

scenario work.  Even if they dropped everything and flew in here the

moment they heard about the spill, they couldn't have been manning those

roadblocks within an hour.  No way.  So, yeah, it sure looks to me as if

they had a little advance warning that something was going to happen out

at the western end of Elko County. Not much warning, mind you.  Not

days.  But maybe a oneor two-hour advance notice."

"Which means the toxic spill couldn't have been an accident.  In fact,

probably wasn't a spill at all, neither chemical nor biological.  So why

in hell were they wearing decontamination suits when they were treating

us?" Dom was frustrated by the elaborate maze of this mystery, which

twisted and turned inward but not toward a solution, toward nothing but

twistier and more complex pathways that led into ever deeper puzzlement.

He had the irrational urge to tear the newspapers to shreds, as if, by

ripping them to pieces, he would also be ripping apart the Army's lies

and would somehow find the truth revealed, at last, in the resultant

confetti.

With a note of frustration that matched his own, Ginger said, "The only

reason the Army called in a DERO company to enforce the quarantine was

because the men patrolling the zone would have a view of something

highly classified, something absolutely top-secret.  The Army felt they

couldn't trust ordinary soldiers who didn't have the very highest

security clearance.  That's the sole reason the DERO team was used."

"Because they could be trusted to keep their mouths shut."

"Yes.  And if it'd been nothing more than a toxic spill out there on

I-80, the DERO men wouldn't have been required for the job.  I mean, if

it was just a spill, what would there've been to see except maybe an

overturned truck and a damaged, leaking canister of gas or liquid?"

Turning their attention once more to the newspapers spread before them,

they found additional evidence indicating the Army had had at least some

warning that unusual and spectacular trouble would erupt in western Elko

County that hot July night.  Both Dom and Ginger distinctly remembered

that the Tranquility Grille had been filled with a strange sound and

shaken by earthquake-like tremors about half an hour after full darkness

had settled on the land; and because sunset came later during the summer

(even at 41 degrees North Latitude), the trouble must have started

approximately at eight-ten.  Their memory blocks began at the same time,

which further pinpointed The Event.  Yet Dom spotted a line in one of

the Sentinel's stories stating that the roadblocks on I-80 had been

erected almost at eight o'clock on the dot.

Ginger said, "You mean the Army had the highway closed off five or ten

minutes before the 'accidental' toxic spill even happened?"

"Yeah.  Unless we're wrong about the time of the sunset."

They checked the weather column in the July 6 edition of the Sentinel.

It painted a more than adequate portrait of that fateful day.  The high

temperature had been expected to hit ninety degrees, with an overnight

low of sixty-four.  Humidity between twenty and twenty-five percent.

Clear skies.  Light to variable winds.  And sunset at seven-thirty-one.

"Twilight's short out here," Dom said.  "Fifteen minutes, tops.  Figure

full darkness at seven-forty-five.  Now, even if we're wrong to think it

was half an hour after nightfall that trouble hit, even if it came just

fifteen minutes after dark, the Army still had its roadblocks up first."

"So they knew what was coming," Ginger said.

"But they couldn't stop it from happening."

"Which means it must've been some process, some series of events, that

they initiated and then were unable to control."

"Maybe," Dom said.  "But maybe not.  Maybe they weren't really at fault.

Until we know more, we're just speculating. No point to it."

Ginger turned the page of the Sentinel's edition for Wednesday, July 11,

which they were currently examining, and her gasp of surprise directed

Dom's attention to a headand-shoulders photograph of a man in an Army

officer's uniform and cap.  Although Colonel Leland Falkirk had appeared

in neither Dom's nor Ginger's dreams last night, they both recognized

him at once because of the description that Ernie and Ned had supplied

from their nightmares: dark hair graying at the temples, eyes with an

eerie translucency, a beakish nose, thin lips, a face of flat hard

planes and sharp angles.

Dom read the caption under the picture: Colonel Leland Falkirk,

commanding officer of the company of DERO troops manning the quarantine

line, has been an elusive target for reporters.  This first photograph

was obtained by Sentinel photographer, Greg Lunde.  Caught by surprise,

Falkirk was angry about being photographed.  His answers to the few

questions asked of him were even shorter than the standard "no comment."

Dom might have smiled at the quiet humor in the last sentence of the

caption, but Falkirk's stony visage chilled him. He instantly recognized

the face not only because of Ernie's and Ned's description, but because

he had seen it before, the summer before last. Furthermore, there was a

ferocity in that hawklike countenance and in those predatory eyes that

was dismaying; this man routinely got what he wanted.  To be at his

mercy was a frightening prospect.

Staring at the photograph of Falkirk, Ginger softly said, "Kayn

aynhoreh.  " Aware of Dom's puzzlement, she said, "That's Yiddish, too.

Kayn aynhoreh.  It's an expression that's used to .  .  .  to ward off

the evil eye.  Somehow, it seemed appropriate."

Dom studied the photograph, half mesmerized by it.

After a moment, he said, "Yes.  Quite appropriate."

Colonel Falkirk's sharply chiseled face and cold pale eyes were so

striking that it seemed as if he were alive within this photograph, as

if he were returning their scrutiny.

While Dom and Ginger were examining the back-issue files at the Elko

Sentinel, Ernie and Faye Block were working in the office of the

Tranquility Motel, trying to contact the people whose names were on the

guest list for July 6, two summers ago, but who had thus far been

unreachable.  They were behind the check-in counter, sitting opposite

each other at the oak desk, which had kneeholes on both sides.  A pot of

coffee stood within reach on an electric warming-plate.

Ernie composed a telegram to Gerald Salcoe, the man who had rented two

rooms for his family on July 6, the summer before last, and who was

unreachable by phone because his number in Monterey, California, was

unlisted.  Meanwhile, Faye went back through last year's guest book, day

by day, looking for the most recent entry for Cal Sharkle, the trucker

who had stayed with them on that July 6.  Yesterday, Dom had tried the

telephone number Cal had printed in the guest registry that night, but

it had been disconnected.  The hope was that a more recent entry would

provide his new address and phone number.

As they performed their separate tasks, Ernie was reminded of countless

other times throughout their thirty-one years of marriage when they had

sat facing each other at a desk or, more often, at a kitchen table.  In

one apartment or another, in one house or another, at one end of the

world or another, from Quantico to Pendleton to Singapore, nearly

everywhere the Marines sent him, the two of them had spent long evenings

at a kitchen table, working or dreaming or worrying or happily planning

together, often late into the night.  Ernie was suddenly filled with

poignant echoes of those thousands of huddled conferences and shared

labors.  How very fortunate he had been to find and marry Faye.  Their

lives were so inextricably linked that they might as well have been a

single creature.  If Colonel Falkirk or others resorted to murder to

terminate this investigation, if anything happened to Faye, then Ernie

hoped he would die, too, simultaneously.

He finished composing the telegram to Gerald Salcoe, called it in to

Western Union, and requested immediate deliveryall the while warmed by a

love that was strong enough to make their dangerous situation seem less

threatening than it really was.

Faye found five occasions during the past year when Cal Sharkle had

stayed overnight, and in every case he had listed the same Evanston,

Illinois, address and phone number that he had entered in the registry

for July 6 of the previous year. Apparently, he had not moved, after

all.  Yet, when they dialed this number, they obtained the recording

that Dom had gotten yesterday, informing them that the telephone had

been disconnected and that no new Evanston listing existed.

On the chance that Cal had moved out of Evanston into the "Windy City"

itself, Faye dialed Area Code 312 Information and asked if there was a

number for Calvin Sharkle in Chicago.  There was not.  Using a map of

Illinois, she and Ernie placed calls to Information in the Chicago

suburbs: Whiting, Hammond, Calumet City, Markham, Downer's Grove, Oak

Park, Oakbrook, Elmhurst, Des Plaines, Rolling Meadows, Arlington

Heights, Skokie, Wilmette, Glencoe.  .  .  .  No luck.  Either Cal

Sharkle had moved out of the Chicago area, or had dropped off the face

of the earth.

While Faye and Ernie worked in the first-floor office, Ned and Sandy

Sarver were already preparing dinner in the kitchen upstairs.  This

evening, after Brendan Cronin arrived from Chicago, after Jorja

Monatelia and her little girl flew in from Vegas, there would be nine

for dinner, and Ned did not want to leave preparations until the last

minute.  Yesterday, when all six of them joined forces to prepare and

serve the evening meal, Ginger Weiss had observed that the occasion was

almost like a family holiday gathering; and indeed, they felt an

extraordinary closeness though they hardly knew one another.  With the

idea that reinforcement of their special affection and camaraderie might

give them strength to face whatever lay ahead of them, Ned and Sandy had

decided that tonight's meal ought to be like a Thanksgiving feast.

Therefore, they were preparing a sixteen-pound turkey, pecan stuffing,

scalloped potatoes, baked corn, carrots with tarragon, pepper slaw,

pumpkin pie, and made-from-scratch crescent rolls.

As they chopped celery, diced onions, cubed bread, and grated cabbage,

Ned occasionally wondered if what they were cooking was not only a

family feast but also the last hearty meal of the condemned.  Each time

that morbid thought rose, he chased it away by pausing to watch Sandy as

she worked. She smiled almost constantly, and sometimes softly hummed a

song.  Surely, an event that had induced this radical and wonderful

change in Sandy could not ultimately culminate in their deaths.  Surely,

they had nothing to worry about.  Surely.

After three hours at the Elko Sentinel, Ginger and Dom ate a light

lunch-chef's salads-at a restaurant on Idaho Street, then returned to

the Tranquility Motel at two-thirty.  Faye and Ernie were still in the

office, which was filled with appetizing aromas drifting down from the

apartment upstairs: pumpkin, cinnamon, nutmeg, onions fried lightly in

butter, the yeasty odor of baking bread dough.

"And you can't smell the turkey yet," Faye said.  "Ned just put that in

the oven half an hour ago."

"He says dinner's at eight," Ernie told them, "but I suspect the

odors'll drive us mad and force us to storm the kitchen before then."

Faye said, "Learn anything at the Sentinel?"

Before Ginger could tell them what she and Dom had uncovered, the front

door of the motel office opened, and a slightly pudgy man entered in a

burst of cold whirling wind. He had hurried from his car without

bothering to put on a topcoat; although he wore gray slacks, a dark blue

blazer, a light blue sweater, and an ordinary white shirt, rather than a

black suit and Roman collar, his identity was not for a moment in doubt.

He was the auburn-haired, green-eyed, round-faced young priest in the

Polaroid snapshot that the unknown correspondent had sent to Dom.

"Father Cronin," Ginger said.

She was as immediately and powerfully drawn to him as she'd been to

Dominick Corvaisis.  With the priest as with Dom, Ginger sensed a shared

experience even more shattering than the one which she had shared with

the Blocks and Servers.  Within The Event that they had all witnessed

that Friday in July, there had been a Second Event experienced by only

some of them.  Although it was a frightfully improper way to greet a man

who was a virtual stranger and a priest, Ginger rushed to Father Cronin

and threw her arms around him.

But apologies were not required, for Father Cronin evidently sensed the

same thing she did.  Without hesitation, he returned her hug, and for a

moment they clung to each other, not as if they were strangers but

brother and sister greeting each other after a long separation.

Then Ginger stepped back as Dom said, "Father Cronin," and came forward

to embrace the priest.

"There's no need to call me 'Father." At the moment I neither want nor

deserve to be considered a priest.  Please just call me Brendan."

Ernie shouted upstairs to Ned and Sandy, then followed Faye out from

behind the check-in counter.  Brendan shook Ernie's hand and embraced

Faye, obviously feeling great affection for them, though not a closeness

as powerful and inexplicable as the tremendous emotional magnetism that

pulled him toward Dom and Ginger.  When Ned and Sandy came downstairs,

he greeted them the same as he had Ernie and Faye.

Just as Ginger had done last night,- Brendan said, "I have a truly

wonderful sense of .  .  .  being among family.  You all feel it, don't

you?  As if we've shared the most important moments of our lives .  .  .

went through something that'll always make us different from everyone

else."

In spite of his insistence that he did not deserve the deference

accorded a priest, Brendan Cronin had a profoundly spiritual air about

him.  His somewhat pudgy face, sparkling eyes, and broad warm smile

conveyed joy; and he moved among them, touched them, and spoke with an

ebullience that was infectious and that somehow lifted Ginger's soul.

Brendan said, "What I feel in this room only reassures me that I've made

the right decision in coming.  I'm meant to be with you.  Something will

happen here that'll transform us, that's already begun to transform us.

Do you feel it?  Do you feel it?"

The priest's soft voice sent a pleasant shiver up Ginger's spine, filled

her with an indescribable sense of wonder reminiscent of what she'd felt

the first time that, as a medical student, she had stood in an operating

room and had seen a patient's thorax held open by surgical retractors to

reveal the pulsing, mysterious complexity of the human heart in all its

crimson grandeur.

"Called," Brendan said.  The softly spoken word echoed eerily around the

room.  "All of us.  Called back to this place."

"Look, " Dom said, packing a paragraph of amazement into that one

syllable, raising his arms and holding his hands out to show them the

red rings of swollen flesh that had appeared in his palms.

Surprised, Brendan raised his hands, which were also branded by the

strange stigmata.  As the men faced each other, the air thickened with

unknown power.  Yesterday, on the telephone, Father Wycazik had told Dom

that Brendan was relatively certain no religious element was involved in

the miraculous cures and other events that had recently transformed the

young priest's life.  Yet the motel office seemed, to Ginger, to be

filled with a force that, if not supernatural, was certainly beyond the

ken of any man or woman.

"Called," Brendan said again.

Ginger was gripped by breathless expectancy.  She looked at Ernie, who

stood behind Faye with his hands on her shoulders, and both their faces

were full of tremulous suspense. Ned and Sandy, who were by the rack of

postcards, holding hands, were wide-eyed.

Ginger felt the flesh prickling on the back of her neck.  She thought,

Something's going to happen, and even as the thought took form,

something did.

Every lamp in the motel office was aglow in deference to Ernie's

uneasiness in the presence of deep shadows, but abruptly the place was

even brighter than it had been.  A milkywhite light filled the room,

springing magically from molecules of air.  It shimmered on all sides

but rained mostly from overhead, a silvery mist of luminosity.  She

realized this was the same light that featured in her unremembered lunar

dreams. She turned in a circle, looking around and up through spangled

curtains of brilliant yet soft radiance, not in search of the source but

with the hope of remembering her dreams and, ultimately, the events of

that long-lost summer night that had inspired the dreams.

Ginger saw Sandy reach into the glowing air with one hand, as if to

grasp a fistful of the miraculous light.  A tentative smile pulled at

Ned's mouth.  Faye smiled, too, and Ernie's expression of childlike

wonder was almost laughably out of place on his ruggedly hewn face.

"The moon," Ernie said.

"The moon," Dom echoed, the stigmata still blazing on his hands.

For one thrilling moment, Ginger Weiss was poised on the brink of

complete understanding.  The black, blank membrane of her memory block

trembled; revelation pressed strenuously against the far side, and that

membrane seemed certain to split and spill forth everything that had

been dammed beyond it.

Then the light changed from moon-white to blood-red, and with it the

mood changed from wonder and growing delight to fear.  She no longer

sought revelation but dreaded it, no longer welcomed understanding but

withdrew from it in terror and revulsion.

Ginger stumbled back through the bloody glow, bumped against the front

door.  Across the room, beyond Dom and Brendan, Sandy Sarver had ceased

reaching up to seize a handful of light; she was holding tightly to Ned,

whose smile had become a rictus of repulsion.  Faye and Ernie were

pressing back against the check-in counter.

As scarlet incandescence welled like fluid into the room and filled it

from corner to corner, the stunning visual phenomena were augmented by

sound.  Ginger jumped in surprise as a loud three-part crash shook the

sanguineous air, jumped once more as it repeated, then flinched but did

not jump when it came again.  It had a cardiac quality, like the

thunderous beating of a great heart, though it featured one more stroke

than a usual heartbeat: LUB-DUB-dub, LUBDUB-dub, LUB-DUB-dub....  She

knew at once that it was the apparitional noise of which Father Wycazik

had spoken in his telephone conversation with Dom, the noise that had

arisen in Brendan Cronin's bedroom and had shaken St. Bernadette's.

But she also knew that she had heard this very thing before. This entire

display-the moonlike light, the blood-red radiance, the noise-was part

of something that had happened the summer before last.

LUB-DUB-dub ...  LUB-DUB-dub ...

The window frames rattled.  The walls shook..The bloody light and the

lamplight began to pulse in time with the pounding.

LUB-DUB-dub ...  LUB-DUB-dub ...

Again, Ginger was approaching a shocking recollection. With each crash

of sound and throb of light, long-buried memories surged nearer.

However, her inhibiting fear grew; a towering black wave of terror bore

down on her.  The Azrael Block was doing what it was designed to do;

rather than let remembrance have its way with her, she would plunge into

a fugue state, as she had not done since the day Pablo Jackson had been

killed, one week ago.  The familiar signs of oncoming blackout were

present: She was having difficulty breathing; she trembled with a sense

of mortal danger so strong it was palpable; the world around her began

to fade; an oily darkness seeped in at the edges of her vision.

Run or die.

Ginger turned her back on the phenomenal events transpiring in the

office.  With both hands, she gripped the frame of the front door, as if

to anchor herself to consciousness and thwart the black wave that sought

to sweep her away.  In desperation, she looked through the glass at the

vast Nevada landscape, at the somber winter sky, trying to block out the

stimuli-the impossible light and sound-that pushed her toward a dark

fugue.  Terror and mindless panic grew so unbearable that escape into a

hateful fugue seemed almost preferable, yet she somehow held fast to the

doorframe, held tight, held on, shaking and gasping, held on, terrified

not so much by the strange events occurring behind her but by the

unremembered events of that summer of which these phenomena were only

dim echoes, and still she held on, held on ...  until the three-stroke

thunder faded, until the red light paled, until the room was silent, and

until the only light was that coming through the windows or from

ordinary lighting fixtures.

She was all right now.  She was not going to black out.

For the first time, she had successfully resisted a seizure. Maybe her

ordeal of the past few months had toughened her. Maybe just being here,

within reach of all the answers to the mystery, had given her the heart

to resist.  Or maybe she had drawn strength from her new "family."

Whatever the reason, she was confident that, having once fended off a

fugue, she would find it easier to deal with future attacks.  Her memory

blocks were crumbling.  And her fear of facing up to what had happened

that July 6 was now far outweighed by the fear of never knowing.

Shaky, Ginger turned toward the others again.

Brendan Cronin tottered to the sofa and sat, trembling visibly.  The

rings were no longer visible in either his hands or Dom's.

To the priest, Ernie said, "Did I understand you?  That same light

sometimes fills your room at night?"

"Yes," Brendan acknowledged.  "Twice before."

"But you told us it was a lovely light," Faye said.

"Yeah," Ned agreed.  "You made it sound .  .  .  wonderful."

"It is," Brendan said.  "Partly, it is.  But when it turns red .  .  .

well, then it scares the hell out of me.  But when it first starts .  .

.  oh, it uplifts me and fills me with the strangest joy."

The ominous scarlet light and the frightening three-part hammering had

generated such terror in Ginger that she had temporarily forgotten the

exhilarating moon-white glow that had preceded it and that had filled

her with wonder.

Wiping his palms on his shirt, as if the vanished rings had left an

unwanted residue upon his hands, Dom said, "There was both a good and

evil aspect to the events of that night. We long to relive a part of

what happened to us, yet at the same time it scares us .  .  .  scares

us .

"Scares us shitless," Ernie said.

Ginger noticed that even Sandy Sarver, who heretofore had perceived only

a benign shape to the mystery, was frowning.

When Jorja Monatella buried her ex-husband, Alan Rykoff, at eleven

o'clock Monday morning, the Las Vegas sun beamed down between scattered

iron-gray clouds.  A hundred shafts of golden sunshine, some half a mile

across, some only a few yards wide, like cosmic spotlights, left many

buildings in winter shadows while highlighting others.  Several shafts

of sunshine moved across the cemetery, harried by the rushing clouds,

sweeping eastward across the barren floor of the desert.  As the portly

funeral director concluded a nondenominational prayer, as the casket was

lowered into the waiting grave, a particularly bright beam illuminated

the scene, and color burst from the flowers.

In addition to Jorja and Paul Rykoff-Alan's father, who had flown in

from Florida-only five people had shown up. Even Jorja's parents had not

come.  By his selfishness, Alan had assured an exit from life

accompanied by a minimum of grieving.  Paul Rykoff, too like his son in

some respects, blamed Jorja for everything.  He had been barely civil

since his arrival yesterday.  Now that his only child was in the ground,

he turned from Jorja, stone-faced, and she knew she would meet him again

only if his stubbornness and anger eventually were outweighed by a

desire to see his grandchild.

She drove only a mile before she pulled to the side of the road,

stopped, and finally wept.  She wept neither for Alan's suffering nor

for the loss of him, but for the final destruction of all the hope with

which their relationship had begun, the burnt-out hopes for love,

family, friendship, mutual goals, and shared lives.  She had not wished

Alan dead.  But now that he was dead, she knew it would be easier to

make the new beginning toward which she had been planning and working,

and that realization made her feel neither guilty nor cruel; it was just

sad.

Last night, Jorja told Marcie her father was dead, though not that he'd

committed suicide.  Initially, Jorja had not intended to tell her until

this afternoon, in the presence of Dr. Coverly, the psychologist.  But

the appointment with Coverly had to be canceled because, later today,

Jorja and Marcie were flying to Elko to join Dominick Corvaisis, Ginger

Weiss, and the others.  Marcie took the news of Alan's death

surprisingly well.  She cried, but not hard or long.  At seven, she was

old enough to understand death, but still too young to grasp the cruel

finality of it.  Besides, by his abandonment of Marcie, Alan unwittingly

had done the girl a favor; in a sense, for her, he had died more than a

year ago, and her mourning had already been done.

One other thing had helped Marcie overcome her grief: her obsession with

the collection of moon pictures.  Only an hour after she learned of her

father's death, the child was sitting at the dining room table, eyes

dry, small pink tongue poked between her teeth in total concentration, a

crayon stub in one hand.  She'd begun the moon-coloring project on

Friday evening and pursued it through the weekend.  By breakfast this

morning, every one of the photographs and all but fifty of the hundreds

of hand-drawn moons had been transformed into fiery globes.

Marcie's obsession would have disturbed Jorja even if she had not known

others shared it and that two had killed themselves.  The moon was not

yet the focus of the girl's every waking hour.  However, Jorja required

little imagination to see that, if the obsession progressed, Marcie

might travel irretrievably into the land of madness.

Her anxiety about Marcie was so acute that she quickly overcame the

tears that had forced her to pull to the side of the road.  She put the

Chevette in gear and drove to her parents' house, where Marcie waited.

The girl was at the kitchen table with the wiquitous album of moons,

applying a scarlet crayon.  She glanced up when Jorja arrived, smiled

weakly, and returned at once to the task before her.

Pete, Jorja's father, was also at the table, frowning at Marcie.

Occasionally, he thought of a stratagem to interest her in some activity

less bizarre and more wholesome than the endless coloring of moons, but

all his attempts to lure her away from the album failed.

In her parents' bedroom, Jorjia changed from her dress into jeans and a

sweater for the trip north, while Mary Monatella badgered her.  "When

will you take that book away from Marcie?  Or let me take it away?"

"Mother, I told you before: Dr.  Coverly believes taking the book from

her right now would only reinforce her obsession."

"That doesn't make any sense to me," Jorja's mother said.

"Dr.  Coverly says if we make an issue of the moon collection at this

early stage, we'll be emphasizing its importance and-" "Nonsense.  Does

this Coverly have kids of his own?"

"I don't know, Mom."

"I'll bet he doesn't have kids of his own.  If he did, he wouldn't be

giving you such dumb advice."

Having put her dress on a hanger, having stripped down to bra and

panties, Jorja felt naked and vulnerable, for this situation reminded

her of when her mother used to watch her dress for dates with boys who

did not meet approval.  No boy ever met Mary's approval.  In fact, Jorja

married Alan in part because Mary disapproved of him.  Matrimony as

rebellion. Stupid, but she had done it and paid dearly.  Mary had driven

her to it-Mary's suffocating and authoritarian brand of love. Now, Jorja

grabbed the jeans that were laid out on the bed and slipped into them,

dressing fast.

Mary said, "She won't even say why she's collecting those things."

"Because she doesn't know why.  It's a compulsion.  An irrational

obsession, and if there's a reason for it, the reason is buried down in

her subconscious, where even she can't get a look at it."

Mary said, "That book should be taken away from her."

"Eventually," Jorja said.  "One step at a time, Mom."

"If it was up to me, I'd do it right now."

Jorja had packed two big suitcases and had left them here earlier.  Now,

when it was time to go to the airport, Pete drove, and Mary went along

for the opportunity to engage in more nagging.

Jorja and Marcie shared the back seat.  On the way to the airport, the

girl paged continuously, silently back and forth through her album.

Between Jorja and Mary, the subject of conversation had changed from the

best way to deal with Marcie's obsession to the imminent trip to Elko.

Mary had doubts about this expedition and did not hesitate to express

them.  Was the plane just a twelve-seater?  Wasn't it dangerous to go up

in a bucket of bolts owned by a small-time outfit that was probably

short of cash and skimped on maintenance?  What was the purpose of

going, anyway?  Even if some people in Elko were having problems like

Marcie's, how could it possibly have anything to do with the fact that

they'd all stayed at the same motel?

"This Corvaisis guy bothers me," Pete said as he braked for a red

traffic light.  "I don't like you getting involved with his kind."

"What do you mean?  You don't even know him."

"I know enough," Pete said.  "He's a writer, and you know what they're

like.  I read once that Norman Mailer hung his wife out a high window by

her heels.  And isn't it Hemingway who's always getting into

fist-fights?"

Jorja said, "Daddy, Hemingway's dead."

"See?  Always getting in fights, drunk, using drugs.  Writers are a

flaky bunch.  I don't like you being involved with writers."

"This trip is a big mistake," Mary said flatly.

It never ended.

At the airport, when she kissed them goodbye, they told her they loved

her, and she told them the same, and the strange thing was that they

were all telling the truth.  Though they continuously sniped at her and

though she had been deeply wounded by their sniping, they loved one

another. Without love, they would have stopped speaking long ago. The

parent-child relationship was sometimes even more perplexing than the

mystery of what had happened at the Tranquility Motel two summers ago.

The feeder line's bucket of bolts was more comfortable than Mary would

have believed, withsix well-padded seats on each side of a narrow aisle,

free headphones providing bland but mellowing Muzak tapes, and a pilot

who handled his craft as gently as a new mother carried her baby.

Thirty minutes out of Las Vegas, Marcie closed the album and, in spite

of the daylight streaming through the portholes, she drifted off to

sleep, lulled by the loud but hypnotic droning of the engines.

During the flight, Jorja thought about her future: the business degree

toward which she was working, her hope of owning a dress shop, the hard

work ahead-and loneliness, which was already a problem for her.  She

wanted a man.  Not sexually.  Although that would be welcome too!  She

had dated a few times since the divorce but had been to bed with no one.

She was no female eunuch.  Sex was important to her, and she missed it.

But sex was not the main reason she wanted a man, one special man, a

mate.  She needed someone to share her dreams, triumphs, and failures.

She had Marcie, but that was not the same.  The human species seemed

genetically compelled to make life's journey two-by-two, and the need

was particularly strong in Jorja.

As the plane droned north-northeast, Jorja listened to Mantovani on the

headphones and indulged in a bit of uncharacteristic, girlish

fantasizing.  At the Tranquility Motel, perhaps she would meet a special

man with whom she could share this new beginning.  She recalled Dominick

Corvaisis' gentle but confident voice, and included him in her fantasy.

If Corvaisis was the one for her, imagine what her father would say when

he learned she was marrying one of those flaky, drunken writers who held

their wives by the heels and dangled them out high windows!

She scrapped that particular fantasy soon after the plane landed, for

she quickly perceived that Corvaisis' heart was already claimed.

At four-thirty in Elko, half an hour before sunset, the sky was plated

with dark clouds, and the Ruby Mountains were purple-black on the

horizon.  A penetratingly cold wind, sweeping in from the west, was

ample proof that they had come four hundred miles north from Las Vegas.

Corvaisis and Dr.  Ginger Weiss were waiting on the tarmac beside the

small terminal, and the moment that Jorja saw them, she had the odd but

reassuring feeling that she was among family.  That sensation was

something of which Corvaisis had spoken on the phone, but Jorja had not

understood what he meant until she experienced it.  And it was quite

separate from the feelings she had for Ginger as her roadside savior.

Even Marcie-bundled in coat and scarf, her eyes still puffy from the nap

on the plane, the album clutched to her chest was stirred from her moody

trancelike state by the sight of the writer and the physician.  She

smiled and answered their questions with more enthusiasm than had marked

her speech in days.  She offered to show them her album, and she

submitted with a giggle when Corvaisis scooped her up in his arms to

carry her to the parking lot.

We were right to come, Jorja thought.  Thank God we did.

Carrying Marcie, Corvaisis led the way to the car, while Jorja and

Ginger followed with the suitcases.  As they walked, Jorja said, "Maybe

you don't remember, but you provided emergency treatment for Marcie that

Friday evening in July, even before we checked into the Tranquility."

The physician blinked.  "In fact, I hadn't remembered.  Was that you and

your late husband?  Was that Marcie?  But of course it was!"

"We had parked along I-80, five miles west of the motel," Jorja

recalled.  "The view to the south was so spectacular, such a wonderful

panorama, that we wanted to use it as a backdrop for some snapshots."

Ginger nodded.  "And I was driving east in your wake.  I saw you up

ahead, parked along the shoulder.  You were focusing the camera.  Your

husband and Marcie had stepped over the guardrail and were standing a

few feet farther out, posing at the edge of the highway embankment."

"I didn't want them standing so close to the brink.  But Alan insisted

it was the best position for the best picture, and when Alan insisted on

something, there was no use arguing with him."

However, before Jorja had been able to click the shutter, Marcie had

slipped and fallen backward, over the edge, tumbling down the thirty- or

forty-foot embankment.  Jorja screamed-"Marcie!"-flung the camera aside,

vaulted the guardrail, and started down toward her daughter.  Fast as

she was, however, Jorja had just reached Marcie when she heard someone

shouting: "Don't move her!  I'm a doctor!" That had been Ginger Weiss,

and she had descended the slope so rapidly that she had arrived at

Marcie's side simultaneously with Alan, who had started down before her.

Marcie was still and silent but not unconscious, only stunned, and

Ginger quickly determined that the girl had not sustained a head injury.

Marcie began to cry, and because her left leg was tucked under her at a

somewhat odd angle, Jorja was certain it was broken.  Ginger was able to

allay that fear, too.  In the end, because the slope was rock-free and

cushioned by bunchgrass, Marcie came through with only minor injuries-a

few scrapes and bruises.

"I was so impressed by you," Jorja said.

"Me?" Ginger looked surprised.  She waited for an incoming single-engine

plane to pass overhead.  Then: "I did nothing special, you know.  I only

examined Marcie.  She didn't need heroic care, just Band-Aids."

As they put the suitcases in the trunk of Dom's car, Jorja said, "Well,

I was impressed.  You were young, pretty, feminine, yet you were a

doctor-efficient, quick-thinking.  I'd always thought of myself as a

born cocktail waitress, nothing more, but that encounter with you

started a fire in me.  Later, when Alan walked out on us, I didn't fall

apart.  I remembered you, and I decided to make more of myself than I'd

ever thought I could.  In a way, you changed my life."

Closing the trunk lid, locking it, handing the keys to Dom (who had

already put Marcie in the car), Ginger said, "Jorja, I'm flattered.  But

you're giving me much too much credit. You changed your own life."

"It wasn't what you did that day," Jorja said.  "It's what you were. You

were exactly the role model I needed."

Embarrassed, the physician said, "Good God!  No one's ever called me a

role model before!  Oh, honey, you're definitely unbalanced!"

"Ignore her," Dom told Jorja.  "She's the best role model I've ever

seen.  Her humble mutterings are pure shmontses.

Ginger Weiss whirled on him, laughing.  "Shmontses?"

Dom grinned.  "I'm a writer, so it's my job to listen and absorb.  I

hear a good expression, I use it.  Can't fault me for doing my job."

"Shmontses, huh?" Ginger Weiss said, pretending anger.

Still grinning, the writer said, "If the Yiddish fits, wear it."

That was the moment when Jorja knew Dominick Corvaisis' heart was

already claimed and that she would have to exclude him from any romantic

fantasies she might cook up in the future.  The spark of desire and

glimmer of deep affection shone brightly in his eyes when he looked at

Ginger Weiss.  The same heat warmed the physician's gaze.  The funny

thing was, neither Dom nor Ginger appeared quite to realize the true

power of their feelings for each other.  Not quite yet, butsoon.

They drove out of Elko, toward the Tranquility, thirty miles to the

west.  As twilight faded toward night in the east, Dom and Ginger told

Jorja what had happened prior to her and Marcie's arrival.  Jorja found

it increasingly difficult to hold the good mood she'd been in since

stepping off the plane.  As they sped through the gloom-mantled barrens,

with craggy and threatening black mountains thrusting up at the horizon

under a blood-dark sky, Jorja wondered if this place was, as she had

thought, the threshold of a new beginning .  .  .  or a doorway to the

grave.

After the Lear landed in Salt Lake City, Utah, Jack Twist quickly

transferred to a chartered Cessna Turbo Skylane RG piloted by a polite

but tight-lipped man with a huge handlebar mustache.  They arrived in

Elko, Nevada, at four-fifty-three, in the last light of day.

The airport was too small to have Hertz and Avis counters, but a local

entrepreneur operated a modest little taxi company.  Jack had the cab

take him-and his three big suitcases-to a local Jeep dealership, where

they were getting ready to close, and where he startled the salesman by

paying cash for a four-wheel-drive Cherokee wagon.

To this point, Jack, took no evasive action to shake off a tail or even

to determine if he had one.  His adversaries clearly possessed great

power and resources, and regardless of how frantically he tried to elude

them, they would have sufficient manpower to keep tabs on a lone target

trying to escape on foot or by taxi in a town as small as Elko.

Once the Cherokee was his, Jack drove away from the dealership, and for

the first time he looked for a tail.  He glanced repeatedly at the

rearview and side mirrors, but he spotted no suspicious vehicles.

He went directly to an Arco Mini-Mart that he had noticed during the

taxi ride from the airport.  He parked at the dark end of the lot,

beyond the reach of the are lamps, got out of the wagon, and surveyed

the shadowy street behind for an indication of a pursuer.

He saw no one.

That didn't mean they weren't out there.

In the Mini-Mart, the blindingly excessive fluorescent lighting and

chrome display fixtures made him long for the good old days of quaint

corner groceries operated by immigrant couples who spoke with appealing

accents, where the air would have been redolent of Mama's homemade baked

goods and Papa's made-to-order deli sandwiches.  Here, the only aromas

were a vague trace of disinfectant and the thin odor of ozone coming off

the motors of refrigerated display cases.  Squinting in the glare, Jack

bought a map of the county, a flashlight, a quart of milk, two packages

of dried beef, a little box of small chocolate doughnuts-and, on a

morbid impulse, something called a "Hamwich," which was "a guaranteed

delicious onepiece sandwich of pulverized, blended, remolded ham paste,

bread, and spices," and which was claimed to be especially "convenient

for hikers, campers, and sportsmen." Ham paste?

At the bottom of the airtight plastic package was this legend: REAL

MEAT.

Jack laughed.  They had to tell you it was "real meat" because, even

though it was wrapped in clear plastic, you couldn't tell what the hell

it was by looking at it.  Yes, siroh, yes-ham paste and real meat: That

was why he had gone to Central America to fight for his country.

He wished Jenny were alive and here with him.  Real meat. As opposed to

fake, polyester meat.  She'd have gotten a kick out of that.

When he walked out of the Mini-Mart, he paused to study the street

again, but again he saw no one suspicious.

He returned to the Cherokee at the dark end of the lot and put up the

tailgate.  He opened one of his suitcases, withdrew an empty nylon

rucksack, the Beretta, a loaded clip, a box of .32 ammunition, and one

of the pipe-type silencers.  As his breath steamed from him in the cold

air, he transferred the groceries from the paper bag to the rucksack. He

screwed the silencer onto the gun, slammed the loaded clip into the

butt.  When he had distributed all the loose ammunition among the many

pockets of his heavily insulated leather jacket, he closed the tailgate.

Behind the wheel of the Cherokee once more, Jack put the Beretta on the

seat beside him and set the rucksack on top of it for concealment. Using

the new flashlight, he passed a few minutes studying the map of Elko

County.  When he switched the flashlight off and put the map away, he

was ready to engage the enemy.

For the next five minutes, he drove through Elko, using every trick he

knew to reveal a tail, staying on quiet residential streets where

traffic was light and where a surveillance team would be as obvious as a

festering cold sore, no matter how good they were.  Nothing.

He parked at the end of a cul-de-sac and got an anti-surveillance

broadband receiver from one of the suitcases.  This device, the size of

two packs of cigarettes, with a short antenna that telescoped out of the

top, received all possible radio bands from 30 to 120, including FM from

88 to 108.  If a transmitter had been fixed to the Jeep while he was in

the market, enabling a tail to follow at a distance, his broadband

receiver would pick up the signals; a feedback loop would cause the

receiver to emit an ear-piercing squeal.  He pointed the antenna at the

Jeep and slowly circled the vehicle.

The Cherokee had not been bugged.

He put the broadband receiver away and got behind the wheel of the wagon

again, where he sat for a minute in thought. He was under neither visual

nor electronic surveillance.  Did that make sense?  When his adversaries

put those Tranquility Motel postcards in his safe-deposit boxes, they

must have known he would come to Nevada at once.  Surely they also knew

that he was a potentially dangerous man, and surely they would not allow

him to plot against them on their own turf unobserved.  Yet that seemed

to be precisely what they were doing.

Frowning, Jack twisted the key in the ignition.  The engine roared.

On the Lear from New York, he had pondered the situation at length and

had arrived at several theories (most of them half-baked) as to the

identity and intentions of his adversaries. Now he decided that nothing

he dreamed up was half as strange as whatever was actually happening.

No one was watching.  That spooked him.

The inexplicable always spooked him.

When you couldn't understand a situation, that usually meant you were

missing something important.  If you were missing something important,

that meant you had a blind side. If you had a blind side, you could get

your ass shot off when you were least expecting it.

Alert, cautious, Jack Twist drove north from Elko on State Route 51.

After a while, he turned west, following a series of gravel and dirt

tracks, sneaking behind the Tranquility Motel instead of making an open

approach on I-80.  Eventually he was reduced to traveling overland on

sometimes dangerous terrain, from an elevation as high as four thousand

feet, down across sloping foothills toward the plains.  When the clouds

parted, revealing a three-quarter moon, he switched off the headlights

and continued, guided only by the glow of the lunar lamp, and his eyes

soon adjusted to the night.

Jack topped a rise and saw the Tranquility Motel, a lonely group of

lights in a vast dark emptiness, a mile and a half below and southwest

of him, this side of I-80.  There were not as many lights as there ought

to have been; either the place had little business or it was not open.

He did not want to advertise his arrival, so he would proceed on foot.

He left the Beretta in the Jeep and took the Uzi submachine gun.

Actually, he did not expect trouble.  Not yet.  His adversaries, whoever

the hell they were, had not teased him into coming all this way merely

to kill him.  They could have killed him in New York if that was all

they wanted.  Nevertheless, he was prepared for violence.

In addition to the Uzi-and a spare magazine-he took the rucksack of

groceries, a battery-powered directional microphone, and the Star Tron

night-vision device.  He pulled on gloves and a toboggan cap.

Jack found the hike invigorating.  The night was cold, and when the wind

gusted, it stung but not unpleasantly.

Because he'd expected to go to ground immediately upon arrival in

Nevada, he had dressed suitably when he left New York.  He wore

high-topped hiking shoes with hard rubber soles and heavy tread,

longjohns and jeans, a sweater, and a leather jacket with a thick

quilted lining.  The crew of the chartered Lear was surprised by his

appearance, but they treated him as if he were in tuxedo and top hat;

even an ugly man with one cast eye, dressed like an ordinary laborer,

elicited respect when he could afford to lease a private jet rather than

fly commercial airlines.

Now Jack walked.  Ragged tears in the clouds disrobed the moon, and the

few widely scattered patches of snow shone brightly, as if they were

shards of bone glimpsed in the darker carcass of the hump-backed hills;

the bare earth, rock formations, sagebrush, and plentiful dry grass

accepted the caress of moonlight and were limned in a vague milky-blond

hue.  But when the moon slipped behind the clouds, deep rich darkness

flooded forth.

At last he reached a suitable observation point on the southern slope of

a hill, only a quarter of a mile behind the Tranquility Motel.  He sat

down, putting the Uzi and his rucksack aside.

The Star Tron night-vision device took available lightstarlight,

moonlight, the natural phosphorescence of snow and of certain plants,

meager electric light if any-and am plified it eighty-five thousand

times.  With the gadget's single lens, Jack could transform all but the

very blackest nights into gray daylight or better.

He propped his elbows on his knees, held the Star Tron in both hands,

and focused on the Tranquility.  The rear of the structure popped into

view with sufficient clarity for him to determine that no lookouts were

posted in any shadowed niches.  None of the motel units had windows

along the back wall, so no guards could be watching from those rooms.

The center third of the motel had a second floor, probably the owner's

apartment, and light shone at most of those windows. However, he could

not see into the apartment because the drapes and blinds were drawn.

He put the Star Tron in the rucksack and picked up the battery-powered,

hand-held, directional microphone, which resembled a futuristic gun.

Only a few years ago, "rifle mikes" were effective to a distance of only

two hundred yards.  But these days, a good power-amplified unit could

suck in a conversation up to a quarter of a mile, much farther if

conditions were ideal.  The device included a pair of compact earphones,

which he put on.  He aimed the mike at a window shielded by drapes, and

at once heard animated voices.  However, he got only scraps of their

conversation because he was trying to pull their voices out of a closed

room and through a quartermile of blustery wind.

With great caution, he grabbed the Uzi and other gear, and moved closer,

choosing a second observation point less than a hundred yards from the

building.  When he aimed the mike at the window again, he picked up

every word spoken beyond the glass, in spite of the muffling draperies.

He heard six voices, maybe more.  They were eating dinner and

complimenting the cook (someone named Ned) and his helper (Sandy) on the

turkey, the pecan stuffing, and other dishes.

They're not just eating dinner, Jack thought enviously, they're having a

damned banquet in there.

He'd eaten a light lunch on the Lear but had taken nothing since.  He

was still on Eastern Standard Time, so for him it was almost eleven

o'clock.  He would probably be eavesdropping for hours, piecing together

these people's identities, gradually determining if they were his

adversaries.  He was too hungry to wait that long for his own dinner,

such as it was.  With a few rocks, he made a brace for the microphone to

keep it angled toward the window.  He unwrapped the Hamwich and bit into

that "pulverized, blended, and remolded" treat.  It tasted like sawdust

soaked in rancid bacon fat.  He spat out the gummy mouthful and settled

down to a meager meal of dried beef and doughnuts, which would have been

more satisfying if he had not had to listen to those strangers indulging

in a modern version of a harvest feast.

Soon, Jack had heard enough of the conversation in the apartment to know

these people were not his enemies. Strangely, one way or another, they

had been drawn or summoned here, as he'd been.  Monitoring them, he

began to think their voices were curiously familiar, and he was overcome

with the feeling that he belonged among them as a brother among family.

A woman named Ginger and a man-either Don or Dombegan to tell the others

about research they'd done earlier in the offices of the Elko Sentinel.

Listening to talk of toxic spills, roadblocks, and highly trained DERO

troops, Jack felt his appetite fading.  DERO!  Shit, he'd heard about

the DERO companies, though they'd been formed after he'd left the

service.  They were gung-ho types who'd happily accept an order to go

into a pit against a grizzly bear, armed only with a meat grinder; and

they were tough enough to make sausages out of the bear.  Forced to

choose between a quick, painless suicide and hand-to-hand combat with a

DERO, the ordinary man would be well-advised to blow his own brains out

and save himself pain.  Jack realized he was involved in something far

bigger and more dangerous than fratellanza revenge or any of the other

things he had hypothesized during his flight from New York.

Although the picture he got from eavesdropping was full of holes, he

began to grasp that these people had come together to discover what had

happened to them the summer before last, the same weekend Jack had

stayed here.  They'd made considerable headway in their investigation,

and Jack winced as they openly discussed their progress.  They were so

naive that they thought closed doors and covered windows ensured

privacy.  He wanted to shout: Hey, for God's sake, shut up already!  If

I can hear you, they can hear you.

DERO.  That bit of news made him even sicker than the Hamwich.

In the motel they continued to chatter, revealing their strat egy to the

enemy even as they worked it out, and at last Jack tore off the

earphones, frantically grabbed his guns and equipment, and hurried down

through the darkness toward the Tranquility Motel.

The apartment had no dining room, just the alcove in the kitchen, but

that area was too small to seat nine.  In the living room, they moved

the furniture against the walls, brought in the kitchen table, and used

both extra leaves to extend it, accommodating everyone.  To Dom, the

impromptu arrangements contributed to the feeling of a family gathering

and to the mood of cautious festivity.

Rather than have to repeat themselves, Dom and Ginger had waited until

dinner, when the group was gathered, to report on their research at the

newspaper in Elko.  Now, over the clinking of silverware, they revealed

that the Army had blockaded I-80 minutes before the toxic spill that

Friday night. Which meant that choppers full of soldiers had been

dispatched from distant Shenkfield at least half an hour earlier, and

that the Army knew in advance the "accident" was going to happen.

Tearing a crescent roll, Dom said, "If Falkirk and a DERO company flew

in and took over security on the quarantine line so soon after the

crisis hit .  .  .  well, it means the Army must've had advance

warning."

"But then why didn't they stop it from happening?" Jorja Monatella asked

as she cut her daughter's serving of turkey into bite-size pieces.

"Apparently, they couldn't stop it," Dom said.

"Maybe there was a terrorist attack on the truck, and maybe Army

Intelligence only got wind of it just before it went down," Ernie said.

"Maybe," Dom said doubtfully.  "But they would've gone public with that

kind of story if it happened.  So it must've been something else.

Something involving top-secret data of such importance that only DERO

troops could be trusted to keep quiet about it."

Brendan Cronin had a heartier appetite than anyone at the table, but his

temporal appetite did not diminish the spiritual air that had surrounded

him.  He swallowed some baked corn and said, "This explains why there

weren't hundreds of people on those ten miles of interstate when the

thing happened, as there should've been at that hour.  If the Army

sealed it off ahead of the event, they had time to get most traffic out

of the danger zone before anything actually happened."

Dom said, "Some didn't get out, saw too much, and were held and

brainwashed with the rest of us who were already here at the motel."

For a while everyone joined in the discussion and arrived at all the

same theories and unanswerable questions that had occurred to Dom and

Ginger at the newspaper offices earlier in the day.

Finally, Dom told them about the important discovery he and Ginger had

made when, as an afterthought, they had looked through issues of the

Sentinel published during the weeks following the toxic spill.  When

they had finished poring through editions for the week of the crisis,

Ginger had suggested that clues to the secret of what really happened on

the closed highway that night might be hidden in other news, in unusual

stories that appeared to have nothing to do with the crisis but were, in

fact, related to it.  They pulled more issues from the files, and by

studying every story from a paranoid perspective, they soon found what

they hoped for.  One place in particular figured in the news in such a

way that it seemed linked to the closure of I-80.

"Thunder Hill," Dom said.  "We believe that's where our trouble came

from.  Shenkfield was just a ruse, a clever misdirection to focus

attention away from the real source of the crisis.  Thunder Hill."

Faye and Ernie looked up from their plates in surprise, and Faye said,

"Thunder Hill's ten or twelve miles northnortheast of here, in the

mountains.  The Army has an installation up there, too-the Thunder Hill

Depository.  There're natural limestone caves in those hills, where they

store copies of service records and a lot of other important files, so

they won't lose all copies if military bases in other parts of the

country are wiped out in a disaster ...  nuclear war, like that."

Ernie said, "The Depository was here before Faye and me. Twenty years or

more.  Rumors have it that files and records aren't the only things in

storage there.  Some believe there's also huge supplies of food,

medicines, weapons, ammunition. Which makes sense.  In case a big war

breaks out, the Army wouldn't want all its weapons and supplies on

ordinary military bases because those would be the first nuked. They've

surely got fallback caches, and I guess Thunder Hill is one of those."

"Then anything might be up there," Jorja Monatella said uneasily.

"Anything," Ned Sarver said.

"Is it possible the place isn't just a storage dump?" Sandy asked.

"Could they also maybe be doing some kind of experiments up there?"

"What kind of experiments?" Brendan asked, leaning over to look past

Ned, beside whom he was seated.

Sandy shrugged.  "Any kind."

"It's possible," Dom said.  The same thought had occurred to him.

"But if there wasn't a toxic spill on I-80, if it was something at

Thunder Hill that went wrong," Ginger said, "how could it have affected

us, more than ten miles to the south?"

No one could think of an answer.

Marcie, who had been preoccupied with her moon collection for most of

the evening and who had said nothing during dinner, put down her fork

and piped up with a question of her own: "Why's it called Thunder Hill?"

"Sweetie," Faye said, "that's one I can answer.  Thunder Hill's really

one of four huge, connecting mountain meadows, a long sloping piece of

high pastureland.  It's surrounded by a great many high peaks, and

during a storm, the place acts like a sort of .  .  .  well, a sort of

funnel for sound.  The Indians named it Thunder Hill hundreds of years

ago because thunder echoes between those peaks and rolls down the

mountainsides, and it all pours in on that one particular meadow in a

most peculiar way, so that it seems as if the roar isn't coming out of

the sky, but as if it's coming right up out of the ground around you."

"Wow," Marcie said softly.  "I'd probably pee my pants."

"Marcie!" Jorja said as everyone broke into laughter.

"Well, gee, I probably would," the child replied.  "You member when

Grandma and Grandpa came over to dinner at our place, and there was a

big storm, really big, and some lightning struck the tree in our yard,

and there was this boom!

and I peed my pants?" Looking around the table at her new extended

family, she said, "I was soooo embarrassed."

Everyone laughed again, and Jorja said, "That was more than two years

ago.  You're a bigger girl now."

To Dom, Ernie said, "You haven't told us yet why Thunder Hill is the

place, rather than Shenkfield.  What'd you find in the newspaper?"

In the Sentinel for Friday, July 13, exactly one week after the closure

of I-80 and three days after its reopening, there was a report of two

county ranchers-Norvil Brust and Jake Dirkson-who were having trouble

with the Federal Bureau of Land Management.  A disagreement between

ranchers and the BLM was not unusual.  The government owned half of

Nevada, not merely deserts but a lot of the best grazing land, some of

which it leased to cattlemen for their herds.  Ranchers were always

complaining that the BLM kept too much good land out of use, that the

government ought to sell off part of its holdings to private interests,

and that leases were too expensive.  But Brust and Dirkson had a new

complaint.  For years they leased BLM land surrounding a

three-hundredacre Army installation, the Thunder Hill Depository.  Brust

held eight hundred acres to the west and south, and Dirkson was using

over seven hundred acres on the east side of Thunder Hill.  Suddenly, on

Saturday morning, July 7, though four years remained on Brust's and

Dirkson's leases, the BLM took five hundred acres from Brust, three

hundred from Dirkson; and at the request of the Army, those eight

hundred acres were incorporated into the boundaries of the Thunder Hill

Depository.

"Which just happens to be the very morning after the toxic spill and the

closure of I-80," Faye observed.

"Brust and Dirkson showed up Saturday morning to inspect their herds,

per their usual routine," Dom said, "and both discovered that their

livestock had been driven off most of the leased pasture.  A temporary

barbed-wire fence was being thrown into place along the new perimeter of

the Thunder Hill Depository."

Having finished dinner, Ginger pushed her plate aside and said, "The BLM

simply told Brust and Dirkson it was unilaterally abrogating their

leases, without compensation.  But they didn't receive an official

written notice till the following Wednesday, which is extremely unusual.

Ordinarily, a notice of termination comes sixty days in advance."

"Was that kind of treatment legal?" Brendan Cronin asked.

"Right there's the problem of doing business with the government," Ernie

told the priest.  "You're dealing with the very people who decide what's

legal and what isn't.  It's like playing poker with God."

Faye said, "The BLM's despised around these parts.  No bunch of

bureaucrats is more high-handed."

"That's what we gathered from reading the Sentinel, " Dom said.  "Now,

Ginger and I might've figured the Thunder Hill business was just

coincidental, that the BLM just happened to go after that land the same

time as the crisis on I-80.  But the way the government dealt with Brust

and Dirkson after the land was seized was so extraordinary it made us

suspicious.  When the ranchers hired attorneys, when stories about the

cancellation of their leases began appearing in the Sentinel, the BLM

did a sudden about-face and offered compensation, after all."

"That's not a bit like the BLM!" Ernie said.  "They'll always make you

drag them into court, hoping litigation will wear you down."

"How much were they willing to pay Brust and Dirkson?" Faye asked.

"The figure wasn't revealed," Ginger said.  "But it was evidently darned

good, because Brust and Dirkson accepted it overnight."

"So the BLM bought their silence," Jorja said.

"I think it was the Army working secretly through the BLM," Dom said.

"They realized the longer the story was in the news, the more chance

there was of someone wondering about a link between the crisis on I-80

that Friday night and the unorthodox seizure of land the very next

morning, even if the two events were ten or twelve miles apart."

"Surprises me somebody didn't make the connection," Jorja said.  "If you

and Ginger could spot it this long after the fact, why didn't anyone

think of it then?"

"For one thing," Ginger said, "Dom and I had the enormous benefit of

hindsight.  We know there was a lot more going on during the days of the

crisis than anyone suspected at the time.  So we were specifically

looking for connections. But that July, all the hoopla about a toxic

spill diverted attention from Thunder Hill.  Furthermore, there was

nothing extraordinary about ranchers fighting the BLM, so nothing in the

situation linked it in anyone's mind with the I-80 quarantine.  In fact,

when the BLM made that totally out-of-character offer to Brust and

Dirkson, a Sentinel editorial praised the repentant attitude of the

government and prophesied a new age of reason."

"But from what you've told us," Dom said to Faye and Ernie, "and from

what else we've read, that was the first and last time the Bureau of

Land Management dealt reasonably with ranchers.  So it wasn't a new

policy-just a one-time response to a crisis.  And it's too coincidental

to believe that the crisis evolving at Thunder Hill was unrelated to the

crisis simultaneously under way here along the interstate."

"Besides," Ginger said, "once our suspicion was aroused, we got to

thinking that if the trouble that night had been related to Shenkfield,

there'd have been no need for the Army to use DERO troops for security.

Because the soldiers stationed at Shenkfield would already have full

security clearance in all matters related to that base, and there

would've been nothing about a Shenkfield crisis too sensitive for them

to see.  The only reason DERO would've been called in is if the crisis

was utterly unrelated to Shenkfield, involving something the soldiers at

that base were not cleared for."

"So if there're answers to our problems," Brendan said, "we'll most

likely find them at the Thunder Hill Depository."

"We already suspected the story about a spill was less than half true,"

Dom said.  "Maybe there was no truth to it at all. Maybe the crisis had

nothing to do with Shenkfield.  If the real source was Thunder Hill, the

rest was just smoke they blew in the public's eyes."

"It sure feels right," Ernie said.  He had finished dinner, too.  His

silverware was neatly arranged on the plate, which was almost as clean

as before dinner, evidence that his military discipline and order had

not departed him.  "You know, part of my service career was in Marine

Intelligence, so I'm speaking with some experience when I say this

Shenkfield stuff truly does smack of an elaborate cover-story."

Ned's frown exaggerated his pronounced widow's peak. "There're a couple

of things I don't understand.  The quarantine didn't extend from Thunder

Hill all the way down here. There were miles of territory in between

that weren't sealed off.  So how did the effects of an accident on

Thunder Hill leap-frog over all that distance and come down on our

heads, without causing trouble between there and here?"

"You're not dull-witted," Dom said.  "I can't explain it, either."

Still frowning, Ned said, "Another thing: The Depository doesn't need a

lot of land, does it?  From what I've heard, it's underground.  They've

got a couple of big blast-doors in the side of the hill, a road leading

up to the doors, maybe a guard post, and that's it.  The three hundred

acres you mentioned-the area around the entrance-is plenty big enough

for a security zone.  So why the land-grab?"

Dom shrugged.  "Beats me.  But whatever the hell happened up there on

July sixth, it prompted two emergency actions on the part of the Army:

first, a temporary quarantine down here, ten or twelve miles away, until

we witnesses could be dealt with; second, an immediate enlargement of

the security zone around the Depository, up there in the mountains; a

secondary quarantine that's still in effect.  I have a hunch ...  if

we're ever going to find out what happened to us-what's still

happening-we're going to have to dig into the activities up on Thunder

Hill."

They were all silent.  Though everyone was finished with dinner, no one

was ready for dessert.  Marcie was using her spoon to draw circles in

the greasy residue of turkey gravy on her plate, creating fluid and

temporary moon-forms.  No one moved to clear away the dirty dishes, for

at this point in the discussion, no one wanted to miss a word.  They

were at the crux of their dilemma: How were they to move against enemies

as mighty as the U S.  Government and Army?  How were they to penetrate

an iron wall of secrecy that had been forged in the name of national

security, with the full power of the state and the law behind it?

"We've put together enough to go public," Jorja Monatella said.  "The

deaths of Zebediah Lomack and Alan, the murder of Pablo Jackson.  The

similar nightmares that many of you have shared.  The Polaroids.  It's

the kind of sensational stuff the media thrives on.  If we let the world

know what we think happened to us, we'll have the power of the press and

public opinion on our side.  We won't be alone."

"No good," Ernie said.  "That kind of pressure'll just make the military

stonewall like hell.  They'll construct an even more confusing and

impenetrable cover-up.  They don't crack under pressure the way

politicians do.  On the other hand, as long as they see us stumbling

around on our own, fumbling for explanations, they'll be confident-which

might give us time to probe for their weak spots."

"And don't forget," Ginger warned, "apparently Colonel Falkirk advocated

killing us instead of just blocking our memories, and we've no reason to

believe he's mellowed since then.  He was obviously overruled, but if we

tried to go public, he might be able to persuade his superiors that a

final solution is required, after all."

"But even if it's dangerous, maybe we've got to go public," Sandy said.

"Maybe Jorja's right.  I mean, there's no way we can get inside the

Thunder Hill Depository to see what's going on.  They've got lots of

security and a pair of blast-doors built to take a nuclear hit."

Dom said, "Well, it's like Ernie told us ...  we'll have to just stay

loose and search for their weaknesses until we find a way."

"But it looks like they don't have any weaknesses," Sandy said.

"Their cover-up has been falling apart ever since they brainwashed us

and let us go," Ginger said.  "Each time one of us remembers another

detail, that's another gaping hole in their cover-up."

"Yeah," Ned said, "but seems to me they're in a better position to keep

patching the holes than we are to keep poking new ones."

"Let's can the goddamn negative thinking," Ernie said gruffly.

Smiling beatifically, Brendan Cronin said, "He's right.  We must not be

negative.  We need not be negative because we're meant to win." His

voice was again infused with the eerie serenity and certitude which

arose from his belief that the revelation of their special fate was

inevitable.  At moments like this, however, the priest's tone and manner

did not comfort Dom, as they were meant to but, for some odd reason,

stirred up a sediment of fear and muddied his emotions with anxiety.

"How many men are stationed at Thunder Hill?" Jorjia asked.

Before Dom or Ginger could respond with information they'd gleaned from

the Sentinel, a stranger appeared in the doorway at the head of the

stairs that led up from the motel office.  He was in his late thirties,

lean and tough-looking, dark-haired, dark-complexioned, with a crooked

left eye that was not coordinated with his right.  Though the downstairs

door was locked, and although the linoleum on the stairs did nothing to

quiet ascending footsteps, the intruder appeared with magical silence,

as if he were not a real man but an ectoplasmic visitation.

"For God's sake, shut up," he said, sounding every bit as real as anyone

else in the room.  "If you think you can plot in privacy here, you're

badly mistaken."

Eighteen miles southwest of the Tranquility Motel, at Shenkfield Army

Testing Grounds, all the buildings-laboratories, administration offices,

security command center, cafeteria, recreation lounge, and living

quarters-were underground. In the blazing summers on the edge of the

high desert and in the occasionally bitter winters, it was easier and

more economical to maintain a comfortable temperature and humidity level

in underground rooms than in structures erected on the

less-than-hospitable Nevada barrens.  But a more important consideration

was the frequent open-air testing of chemicaland occasionally even

biological-weapons.  The tests were conducted to study the effects of

sunlight, wind, and other natural forces on the distribution patterns

and potency of those deadly gases, powders, and superdiffusible mists.

If the buildings were aboveground, any unexpected shift in the wind

would contaminate them, making unwilling guinea pigs of base personnel.

No matter how involved they became in work or leisure, the staff of

Shenkfield never forgot they were beneath the earth, for they had two

constant reminders of their condition: the lack of windows; plus the

susurration of the piped-in air coming through the wall vents, and the

echoing hum of the motors that fanned the air along the pipes.

Sitting alone at a metal desk in the office to which he had been

temporarily assigned, waiting impatiently and worriedly for the phone to

ring, Colonel Leland Falkirk thought: God, I hate this place!

The never-ending whine and hiss of the air-supply system gave him a

headache.  Since his arrival on Saturday, Falkirk had been eating

aspirin as though they were candy.  Now he tipped two more out of a

small bottle.  He poured a glass of ice-water from the metal carafe that

stood on the desk, but he did not use it to wash down the pills.

Instead, he popped the dry aspirin into his mouth and chewed them.

The taste was bitter, disgusting, and he almost gagged. But he did not

reach for the water.

He did not spit out the aspirin, either. He persevered.

A lonely, miserable childhood filled with uncertainty and pain, followed

by an even worse adolescence, had taught Leland Falkirk that life was

hard, cruel, and utterly unjust, that only fools believed in hope or

salvation, and that only the tough survived.  From an early age, he had

forced himself to do things that were emotionally, mentally, and

physically painful, for he had decided that self-inflicted pain would

toughen him and make him less vulnerable.  He tempered the steel of his

will with challenges that ranged from chewing dry aspirin to major tests

like the outings that he called "desperation survival treks." Those

expeditions lasted two weeks or longer, and they put him face-to-face

with death.  He parachuted into a forest or jungle wilderness, far from

the nearest outpost, without supplies, with only the clothes on his

back. He carried no compass or matches.  His only weapons were his bare

hands and what he could fashion with them.  The goal: reach civilization

alive.  He spent many vacations in that self-imposed suffering, which he

judged worthwhile because he came back a harder and more self-reliant

man than he'd been at the start of each adventure.

Now he crunched dry aspirin.  The tablets were reduced to powder, and

the powder turned his saliva to an acidic paste.

"Ring, damn you," he said to the telephone on the desk. He was hoping

for news that would get him out of this hole in the ground.

In DERO, the Domestic Emergency Response Organization, a colonel was

less a desk-jockey and more a field officer than in any other branch of

the Army.  Falkirk's home base was in Grand Junction, Colorado, not

Shenkfield, but even in Colorado, he spent little time in his office. He

thrived on the physical demands of the job, so the low-ceilinged,

windowless rooms of Shenkfield felt like a many-chambered coffin.

If he had been engaged upon any mission but this one, he might have

established temporary unit headquarters up at Thunder Hill Depository.

That place was also underground but its caves were huge, high-ceilinged,

not like these tombsized rooms.

But there were two reasons he had to keep his men away from Thunder

Hill.  First, he dared not draw attention to the place because of the

secret it harbored.  Several ranchers lived in the highlands along the

road leading to the gated Thunder Hill turnoff.  If they spotted a fully

equipped DERO company moving into the Depository, they'd speculate about

it.  Locals must not start wondering about Thunder Hill.  Two summers

ago, he'd used Shenkfield as a red herring to divert attention from the

Depository.  Now, with another crisis building, he would stay here at

Shenkfield again, so he would be in position to spread the same kind of

disinformation to the press and public that he'd spread before.  The

second reason he set up HQ at Shenkfield was because he had certain dark

suspicions about everyone in the Depository: He trusted none of them,

would not feel safe among them.  They might be .  .  .  changed.

The residue of crushed aspirin had been in his mouth so long that he had

adjusted to the bitter taste.  He was no longer sickened, no longer had

to struggle against the gag reflex, so it was all right to drink the

water now.  He drained the glass in four swallows.

Leland Falkirk suddenly wondered if he had crossed the line that

separated the constructive use of pain from the enjoyment of it.  Even

as he asked the question, he knew the answer: Yes, to some degree, he

had become a masochist. Years ago.  He was a very well-disciplined

masochist, one who benefited from the pain he inflicted on himself, one

who controlled the pain instead of letting it control him, but a

masochist nonetheless.  At first he subjected himself to pain strictly

to make himself tough.  But along the way, he began to enjoy it, too.

That insight left him blinking in surprise at the empty water-glass.

An outrageous image formed in his mind: himself more than a decade from

now, a sixty-,year-old pervert sticking bamboo shoots under his

fingernails every morning for the thrill and to get his heart running.

That grotesque picture was grim.  It was also funny, and he laughed.

As recently as a year ago, Leland would not have been capable of

self-critical insights of this nature.  He had never been much of a

laugher, either.  Until recently.  Lately, he was not merely

noticing-and being amused by-traits in himself that he had never noticed

before, but he was also becoming aware that he could and should change

some of his attitudes and habits.  He saw that he could become a better

and more satisfied person, without losing the toughness he prized.  This

was a strange state of mind for him, but he knew the cause of it.  After

what had happened to him two summers ago, after all the things that he

had seen, and considering what was happening right now up at Thunder

Hill, he could not possibly go on with his life exactly as before.

The telephone rang.  He grabbed it, hoping it was news about the

situation in Chicago.  But it was Henderson from Monterey, California,

reporting that the operation at the Salcoe house was going smoothly.

The summer before last, Gerald Salcoe, with his wife and two daughters,

rented a pair of rooms at the Tranquility Motel. On the wrong night.

Recently, all of the Salcoes had experienced marked deterioration of

their memory blocks.

The CIA's experts in brainwashing, who were usually used only in covert

foreign operations, had been borrowed for the Tranquility job that July

and had promised to repress witnesses' memories without fail; now they

were embarrassed by the number of subjects whose conditioning was

breaking down.  The experience these people had undergone was too

profound and shattering to be easily repressed; the forbidden memories

possessed mythopoeic power and exerted relentless pressure on the memory

blocks.  The mind-control experts now claimed that another three-day

session with the subjects would guarantee their eternal silence.

In fact, the FBI and CIA, working in conjunction, were illegally holding

the Salcoe family incommunicado in Monterey at this very moment, putting

them through another intricate program of memory repression and

alteration.  Although Cory Henderson, the FBI agent on the phone,

claimed it was going well, Leland decided it was a lost cause.  This was

one secret that could not be kept.

Besides, too many agencies were involved: FBI, CIA, one entire DERO

company, others.  Which made too many chiefs and not enough Indians.

But Leland was a good soldier.  In charge of the military side of the

operation, he'd carry out his assignment even if it was hopeless.

In Monterey, Henderson said, "When are you moving in on the other

witnesses at the motel?"

That was the word they used for everyone who had been brainwashed that

July-witnesses.  Leland thought it was apt, for in addition to its

obvious meaning, it also embodied mystical and religious overtones.  He

remembered, as a child, being taken to tent revivals at which scores of

Holy Rollers writhed upon the floor while the raving minister screamed

at them to "be a witness to the miraculous, be a heartfelt witness for

the Lord!" Well, what the witnesses at the Tranquility Motel had seen

was every bit as paralyzing, amazing, humbling, and terrifying as the

face of God that those spasming Pentecostals had longed to see.

To Henderson, Leland said, "We're standing by, ready to seal off the

motel with half an hour's notice.  But I'm not giving the go-ahead until

someone straightens out the mess in Chicago with Calvin Sharkle.  Not

until I know for sure what's going on out in Illinois."

"What a screwup!  Why was the situation with Sharkle allowed to

deteriorate so far?  He should've been grabbed, put into a new

memory-repression program days ago, like we've done with the Salcoes

here."

"Wasn't my screwup," Leland said.  "Your Bureau is in charge of

monitoring the witnesses.  I only come in and mop up after you."

Henderson sighed.  "I wasn't trying to shift the blame to your men,

Colonel.  And hell, you can't blame us, either.  The trouble is, even

though we're only doing visual surveillance of each witness four days a

month and listening to only about half the tapes of their phone calls,

we need twenty-five agents. But we only have twenty.  Besides, the damn

case is so highly classified that only three of the twenty know why the

witnesses have to be watched.  A good agent doesn't like being kept in

the dark like that.  Makes him feel he's not trusted.  Makes him sloppy.

So you get a situation like this Sharkle: The witness starts breaking

through his memory block, and nobody notices until it's at crisis stage.

Why'd we ever think we could maintain such an elaborate deception for an

unlimited length of time?  Nuts.  I'll tell you what our problem was: We

believed the CIA's brain-scrubbers.  We believed those motherfuckers

could do what they said they could do.  That was our mistake, Colonel."

"I always said there was a simpler solution," Leland reminded him.

"Kill them all?  Kill thirty-one of our own citizens just because they

were in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"I wasn't proposing it seriously.  My point was that, short of

barbarism, we couldn't contain the secret and shouldn't have tried."

Henderson's silence made it clear he did not believe Leland's

disclaimer.  Finally: "You will move on the motel tonight?"

"If the Chicago situation clears up, if I can figure what's going on

there, we'll move tonight.  But there're questions need answers.  These

strange .  .  .  psychic phenomena.  What's it mean?  We both have

ideas, don't we?  And we're scared pukesick.  No, sir, I'm not moving

against the motel and jeopardizing my men until I understand the

situation."

Leland hung up.

Thunder Hill.  He wanted to believe that what was happening up in the

mountains would lead to a better future than mankind deserved.  But in

his heart he was afraid it was, instead, the end of the world.

When Jack stepped into the living room-which they had converted to a

dining room-and spoke to the group, some gasped in surprise and started

to rise, bumping the table in their eagerness to turn around, sending up

a clatter of dishes and flatware.  Others flinched in their chairs as if

they thought he had been sent to kill them.  He'd left the Uzi

downstairs to avoid causing just such a panic, but his unexpected

arrival still scared them.  Good.  They needed a nasty shock to make

them more cautious.  Only the little girl, playing in her gravysmeared

plate with a spoon, did not react to his arrival.

"All right, okay, be calm.  Sit down, sit," Jack said, gesturing

impatiently.  "I'm one of you.  That night, I registered at the motel as

Thornton Wainwright.  Which is how you've probably been looking for me.

But that's not my real name. We'll get into that later.  For now-"

Suddenly, everyone was excitedly pitching questions at him.

"Where did you-"

-scared the bejesus-"

"How did you-"

"-tell us if-"

Raising his voice enough to silence them, Jack said, "This isn't the

place to discuss these things.  You can be heard here, for God's sake.

I've been eavesdropping for nearly an hour. And if I can listen in on

everything you say, then so can the people you're pitted against."

They stared dumbly at him, startled by his assertion that their privacy

was an illusion.  Then a big, blocky man with gray brush-cut hair said,

"Are you telling us these rooms are bugged?  'Cause I find that hard to

believe.  I mean, I've searched, you know; I've checked, found nothing.

And I've had some experience in these matters."

"You must be Ernie," Jack said, speaking in a sharp cold tone of voice

meant to keep them on edge and get his message through to them.  They

had to understand, right away, that their conversations must be far

better guarded, and the lesson had to be driven into them so hard and

deep that they would not forget it.  "I heard you mention your years in

Marine Intelligence, Ernie.  Christ, how long ago was that?  Better part

of a decade, I'll bet.  Things have changed since then, man.  Haven't

you heard about the high-tech revolution?  Shit, they don't need to come

in here and physically plant listening devices.  Rifle mikes are a hell

of a lot better than they used to be.  Or they can just hook up an

infinity transmitter to their phone and dial your number." Jack pushed

rudely past Ernie and stepped to the living room extension, which stood

on a table by the sofa.  He put his hand on the phone.  "You know what

an infinity transmitter is, Ernie?  When they dial your number here, an

electric tone oscillator deactivates the bell while it simultaneously

opens the microphone in your telephone handset.  There's no ringing for

you to hear; you've no way of knowing you've been called, that your

line's wide open.  But they can monitor you in any room where you've got

an extension." He plucked up the handset and held it toward them with a

calculated look of scorn.  "Here's your bug.  You had it installed

yourself." He slammed the handset back into the cradle.  "You can bet

your ass they've been tuning in on you a lot lately.  Probably listened

all through dinner. You people keep this up, you might as well just cut

your own throats and save everybody a lot of trouble."

Jack's caustic performance had been effective.  They were stunned.  He

said, "Now, is there a room without windows,

big enough to hold a war council?  Doesn't matter if there's a phone;

we'll just unplug it."

An attractive middle-aged woman, apparently Ernie's wife, whom Jack

vaguely remembered from checking into the motel two summers ago, thought

for a moment and said, "There's the restaurant, the diner, next door."

"Your restaurant doesn't have any windows?" Jack asked.

"They were .  .  .  broken," Ernie said.  "Right now they're boarded

up."

"Then let's go," Jack said.  "Let's work out our strategy in privacy,

then come back here for some of that pumpkin pie I heard you talking

about.  I had a lousy dinner while you people were in here eating

yourselves into a stupor."

Jack went quickly down the stairs, confident they would follow.

Ernie loathed the crooked-eyed bastard for five minutes.  But slowly,

the hatred turned to grudging respect.

For one thing, Ernie admired the caution and stealth with which the guy

had answered his own call to the Tranquility Motel.  He had not just

walked in like the others.  He'd even brought a submachine gun.

But as he watched "Thornton Wainwright" slip the carrying-strap of the

Uzi over one shoulder and head out the front door of the motel office,

Ernie was still stung by the criticism he had endured.  In fact, his

rage was so great he did not pause to grab a coat, as most of the others

did, but plunged after the stranger, through the door and across the

macadam toward the diner, keeping pace with him in order to chew him

out.  "Listen, what the hell's the point of being a wise-ass?  You

could've made your point without being so goddamn snide."

The stranger said, "Yeah, but I couldn't have made it as fast."

Ernie was about to reply when he abruptly realized he was outside,

vulnerable, at night, in the dark.  Halfway between the office and the

diner.  His lungs seemed to collapse; he could not draw the slightest

wisp of breath.  He made a disgustingly pitiful mewling sound.

To Ernie's surprise, the newcomer immediately grasped his arm, providing

support, with no trace of the scorn he'd shown

before.  "Come on, Ernie.  You're halfway there.  Lean on me, and you'll

make it."

Furious with himself for letting this bastard see him disabled and weak

with childish fear, furious with the guy, too, for playing the

Samaritan, humiliated, Ernie jerked his arm away from the helping hand.

"Listen," the newcomer said, "while I was eavesdropping, I heard about

your problem, Ernie.  I don't pity you, and I don't find your condition

amusing.  Okay?  If your fear of the dark has something to do with this

situation we all find ourselves in, it's not your fault.  It's those

bastards who messed with us.  We need one another if we're going to get

through this thing.  Lean on me.  Let me help you over to the diner,

where we can turn on some lights.  Lean on me."

When the newcomer began to talk, Ernie was unable to breathe, but by the

time the guy finished his spiel, Ernie had the opposite problem; he was

hyperventilating.  As though pulled by a magnetic force, he turned from

the diner and looked southeast, out into the terrifyingly immense

darkness of the barrens.  And suddenly he knew the darkness itself was

not what he feared, but something that had been out there on the night

of July 6, that bad summer.  He was looking toward that special place

along the highway, where they had gone yesterday to commune with the

land in search of clues. That strange place.

Faye had arrived, and Ernie had not shaken loose of her when she had

taken hold of him.  But now the crooked-eyed man tried to take his arm

again, and he was still angry enough to reject that assistance.

"Okay, okay," the guy said.  "You're a bull-headed old Leatherneck

bastard, and it's going to take your hurt pride a while to heal.  If you

want to be a thick-skulled mule, go ahead, stay pissed at me.  It was

only your blind anger that got you this far into the dark, wasn't it?

Sure as hell wasn't Marine backbone.  Just dumb blind anger.  So if you

stay pissed at me, maybe you'll be able to get to the diner."

Ernie knew the crooked-eyed man was cleverly taunting him into

completing the trip to the Tranquility Grille, that he was not really

being cruel.  Hate me enough, the guy was saying, and you'll fear the

darkness less.  Focus on me, Ernie, and take one step at a time.  This

was not much different than taking the guy's arm and leaning on it, and

if Ernie had not been scared half to death by the surging night on all

sides of him, he would have been amused at being conned this way. But he

held fast to his anger, fanned the flames of it, and used it to light

his way to the diner.  He stepped through the door after the newcomer,

and sighed with relief when the lights came on.

"It's freezing in here," Faye said.  She went directly to the thermostat

to switch on the oil furnace.

Sitting in a chair in the center of the room, his back to the door,

Ernie recuperated from his ordeal as the others entered behind him.  He

watched the crooked-eyed newcomer moving from window to window, checking

the plyboard slabs that had been nailed up to replace the shattered

glass.  And that was when, to Ernie's surprise, he realized he no longer

loathed the guy, merely harbored an extreme dislike for him.

The newcomer examined the payphone near the door.  Being a coin-operated

unit, it did not unplug, so he lifted the receiver, tore the cord free

of the wall-mounted box, and threw the useless handset aside.

"There's a private phone back of the counter," Ned said.

The newcomer told him to unplug it, and Ned obliged.

Then he told Brendan and Ginger to push three tables together and pull

up chairs to accommodate everyone, and they did as they were told.

Ernie watched the crooked-eyed man with keen interest.

The newcomer was concerned about the diner's front door, which had not

shattered during the weird phenomena on Saturday night because it was

made of much thicker glass than the windows had been.  It was not

boarded up, so it offered a weak point to anyone trying to monitor them

with a directional microphone.  He wanted to know if any plywood was

left from the window job, and Dom told him there was, and he sent Ned

and Dom to bring back a suitable piece from the stack in the maintenance

room behind the motel.  They soon returned with a section of wood that

was slightly larger than the door, and the newcomer stood it in front of

the glass portal, bracing it in place with a table.  "Not perfect," he

said, "but good enough to defeat a rifle mike, I think." Then he headed

toward the back of the restaurant to "have a look in the storeroom," and

on his way he told Sandy to plug in the jukebox, switch it to free-play,

and punch in some songs. "Some background noise makes eavesdropping more

difficult." Even before he explained why he wanted music, Sandy jumped

up and headed for the jukebox, quick to obey him.

Abruptly, Ernie realized why the crooked-eyed man fascinated him.  The

guy's quick thinking, precision movements, and ability to command

indicated that he was-or had once been-a career soldier, an officer, a

damn good one.  He could tune an intimidatingly hard edge into his voice

one moment, and the next moment tune it out in favor of cajolery.

Hell, Ernie thought, he's fascinating because he reminds me of me!

That was also why the newcomer had been able to needle Ernie so

effectively back in the apartment.  The guy knew just where to stick the

sharp points because he and Ernie were, in some ways, two of a kind.

Ernie laughed softly.  Sometimes, he thought, I can be such a perfect

jackass.

The crooked-eyed man returned from the storeroom and smiled with

satisfaction when he saw everyone seated at the long table which he had

told Brendan and Ginger to put together from three smaller ones.  He

came to Ernie and said, "No hard feelings?"

"Hell, no," Ernie said.  "And thanks ...  thanks a lot."

The newcomer went to the head of the table, where a chair had been left

for him.  With Kenny Rogers crooning on the jukebox, the guy said, "My

name's Jack Twist, and I don't know any more than you what in hell's

happening, probably less than you know.  The whole thing gives me the

heebiejeebies, but I also have to tell you this is the first time in

eight years that I've really and truly felt like I'm on the right side

of an issue, the first time I've felt like one of the good guysand dear

God in Heaven, you can't know how much I've needed to feel that!"

Lieutenant Tom Forner, Colonel Falkirk's aide-decamp, had enormous

hands.  The small tape recorder was totally concealed in his right hand

when he carried it into the windowless office.  His fingers were so

large that he seemed certain to have trouble using the little control

buttons.  But he was remarkably dextrous.  He produced the recorder,

placed it on the desk, switched it on, and set it in the playback mode.

The tape had been duplicated from the reel-to-reel machine on which all

phone-monitored conversations were recorded. It was a portion of an

exchange that had taken place between several people at the Tranquility

only minutes ago.  The first part of the tape concerned the witnesses'

discovery that the source of their trouble was not Shenkfield but

Thunder Hill. Leland listened with dismay.  He had not anticipated that

their quest would take the right trail so soon.  Their cleverness

worried and angered him.

On the tape: "For God's sake, shut up.  If you think you can plot in

privacy here, you're badly mistaken."

"That's Twist," Lieutenant Forner said.  He had a big voice, too, which

was as well controlled as his enormous hands: a soft rumble.  He stopped

the tape.  "We knew he was coming here.  And we know he's dangerous.  We

figured he'd be more cautious than the others, sure, but we didn't

expect him to act as if he was at war from the get-go."

As far as they knew, Jack Twist's memory block had not seriously

deteriorated.  He was not suffering fugues, sleepwalking, phobias, or

obsessions.  Therefore, only one thing might have motivated him to

suddenly lease a plane and fly to Elko County: mail from the same

traitor who had sent Polaroids to Corvaisis and to the Blocks.

Leland Falkirk was furious that someone involved in the cover-up,

probably someone at Thunder Hill, was sabotaging the entire operation.

He had made this discovery only last Saturday night, when Dominick

Corvaisis and the Blocks had sat at the kitchen table and discussed the

strange snapshots they'd been sent.  Leland had ordered an immediate

investigation and intense screening of everyone at the Depository, but

that was going a lot slower than he had anticipated.

"There's worse," Horner said.  He switched on the tape again.

Leland listened to Twist tell the others about rifle microphones and

infinity transmitters.  Shocked, they adjourned to the diner, where they

could discuss their strategy without being overheard.

"They're in the diner now," Horner said, shutting off the recorder.

"Ripped out the phones.  I've spoken by radio with the observers we have

stationed south of I-80.  They watched the witnesses move to the Grille,

but they haven't had any luck tuning in with a rifle mike."

And won't," Leland said softly.  "Twist knows what he's doing."

"Now that they 're aware of Thunder Hill, we've got to move on them as

soon as possible."

"I'm waiting to hear from Chicago."

'Sharkle's still barricaded in his house?"

'Last I heard, yes," Leland said.  "I've got to know if his memory block

has completely crumbled.  If it has, and if he gets a chance to tell

anyone what he saw that summer, then the operation's blown, anyway, and

it'd be a mistake to move against the witnesses at the motel.  We'll

have to fall back to another plan."

Under the diner's wagonwheel lights, safe in her mother's lap, Marcie

dozed off even as Jack Twist introduced himself. In spite of the nap the

girl had taken on the plane, sooty rings of weariness encircled her

eyes, and a tracery of blue veins marked her porcelain-pale skin.

Jorja was tired, too, but Twist's dramatic arrival was an effective

antidote to the narcotizing effects of the dinner.  She was wide awake

and eager to hear what he had to tell them of his own tribulations.

He began by briefly mentioning his imprisonment in Central America, with

which his military career had ended.  He made the experience sound more

boring and frustrating than frightening, but Jorja sensed that he had

endured grueling hardship.  From his matter-of-fact tone, she had the

impression that he was a man so secure in his self-image, so certain of

his emotional and physical and intellectual strengths, that he never

needed to boast or to hear the praise of others.

When he spoke of Jenny, his late wife, he was less able to maintain an

air of detachment.  Jorja heard the cadences of lingering grief in this

part of his story; a river of love and longing flowed beneath his

feigned placidity.  The intimacy of mind and spirit between Jack Twist

and Jenny, prior to her coma, had surely been extraordinary, for only a

special and magical relationship would have ensured his unflagging

devotion through the woman's long deathlike sleep.  Jorja tried to

imagine what a marriage of that sort might be like, then realized that,

regardless of how magical their marriage had been, Jack would not have

committed himself so totally to his afflicted wife if he'd been any less

than the man he was. Their relationship had been special, yes, but even

more special was this man himself.  That realization increased Jorja's

already strong interest in Twist and his story.

He was vague in describing the enterprises by which he had financed

Jenny's long stay at a sanitarium.  He made it clear only that what he

had done was illegal, that he was not proud of it, and that his lawless

days were over.  "At least I never killed any innocent bystanders, thank

God.  Otherwise, I think it's best if you don't know any details that

might somehow make you accessories-after-the-fact."

Their mutual unremembered ordeal had affected Jack Twist. But as with

Sandy, the mysterious events of that July night had wrought only

beneficial changes in him.

Ernie Block said, "I think what you've indirectly told us is that you

were a professional thief." When Jack Twist said nothing, Ernie

continued: "It occurs to me that you were almost certainly forced to

reveal your criminal life to the people who brainwashed us.  In fact,

from what little you've said, I figure those safe-deposit boxes in which

the postcards turned up were kept under the identities you also used

when committing robberies; therefore, since that July, the Army and

government must've known about your illegal activities."

Jack's silence was confirmation that he had, indeed, been a thief.

Ernie said, "Yet, once they'd blocked your memories of what really

happened here that summer, they turned you loose and let you continue

with what you'd been doing.  Why in the hell would they do that?  I can

understand the Army and government bending-even breaking-the law to hide

whatever happened at Thunder Hill if it involves national security.  But

otherwise, you'd expect them to uphold the law, wouldn't you?  So why

wouldn't they at least anonymously inform the New York police or arrange

for you to be caught in the middle of a crime?"

Jorja said, "Because from the start they've not been certain that our

memory blocks would hold up.  They've been monitoring us, at least

checking in on us once in awhile, to be sure we don't need a refresher

course in forgetfulness.  What happened to Ginger and Pablo Jackson

seems to prove they're watching, all right.  And if they decided it was

necessary to grab Jack-or any of us-and put him through another session

with the mind-control doctors, they'd want him where they could reach

him without too much trouble.  It'd be a lot easier to snatch Jack out

of his apartment or from his car than to spirit him out of prison."

"Good grief," Jack said, smiling at her, "I think you've hit on it.

Absolutely." Although Jorja had been slightly chilled by his smile the

first time she'd seen it, she perceived it differently now; it was a

warmer smile than it had seemed initially.

Marcie murmured wordlessly in her sleep.  Suddenly and curiously shy

about meeting Jack Twist's eyes, Jorja used her daughter's dreamy

mutterings as an excuse to look away from him.

Jack said, "Whatever secret they're protecting is so important they had

to let me carry on with whatever crimes I chose to commit."

Ginger Weiss shook her head.  "Maybe not.  Maybe they engineered this

guilt.  Maybe they planted the seed, so you'd change."

"No," Jack said.  "If they didn't have time to weave the story of the

toxic spill into everyone's false memories, they sure wouldn't have had

time to finesse me toward the straightand-narrow path.  Besides .  .  .

this is difficult to explain .  .  .

but, since coming here tonight, I feel in my heart that I've learned

guilt and found my way back into society because something so important

happened to us two summers ago that it put my own suffering in

perspective and made me see that none of my bad experiences was so bad

as to justify the warping of my entire life."

"Yes!" Sandy said.  "I feel that, too.  All the hell I went through as a

child .  .  .  none of it matters after what happened that July."

They were silent, trying to imagine what experience could have been so

shattering as to make even the most painful of life's tricks seem of

little consequence.  But none of them could puzzle it out.

After he selected more songs on the jukebox, Jack asked a lot of

questions of the others, filling the gaps in his knowledge of their

various ordeals and putting together a complete picture of their

discoveries to date.  That done, he guided them through a discussion of

strategy, formulating a set of tasks for tomorrow.

Jorja was again intrigued by Jack's leadership skills.  By the time the

group discussed what steps should be taken next and settled on an

agenda, they had agreed to undertake precisely the tasks Jack thought

ought to be accomplished, though there was never a sense that he had

commanded or manipulated them.  When he'd first appeared in the Blocks'

apartment, he'd proved he could take control of a situation and, by

sheer force of personality, make people obey him.  But now he chose

indirection, and the speed with which everyone came around to his

purposes was proof this was the right tactic.

Jorja realized that he impressed her for many of the same reasons that

Ginger Weiss had impressed her.  She saw in him the kind of person she

had been struggling to become since her divorce-and the kind of man that

Alan could never have been.

The final problem the group dealt with was the danger of an attack by

Falkirk's men.  Now that there was a real chance their memory blocks

would substantially decay-or crumble completely-in the near future, they

posed a greater threat to their enemy than at any time since July, the

summer before last.  Tomorrow, they would be separated most of the day

as they carried out their various tasks and researches, but tonight they

were in danger if they all stayed at the motel, making one easy target.

Therefore, they agreed that most of them would go to bed now, while two

or three drove into Elko and spent part of the night circling through

town, always on the move, alert.  Assuming that the Tranquility was

under observation, the enemy would at once realize they could no longer

seize everyone in a clean sweep.  At four o'clock in the morning, a

second group of outriders could rendezvous with the first team in Elko

and relieve them, so they could come back here and get some sleep.

"I'll volunteer for the first team," Jack said.  "I just have to fetch

my Cherokee from the hills, where I left it.  Who'll go with me?"

"I will," Jorja said at once, then became aware of the weight of her

daughter on her lap.  "Uh, that is, if someone'll let Marcie sleep in

their room tonight."

"No problem," Faye said.  "She can stay with Ernie and me .

Jack said they ought to divide their numbers further, and Brendan Cronin

volunteered to join him and Jorja on the first team.  The priest's

response triggered a peculiar feeling in Jorja, a pang she would not

identify as disappointment until much later.

Because everyone else had errands to run early tomorrow, the second team

was composed of only Ned and Sandy.  A rendezvous between the teams was

set for four o'clock in the morning at the Arco Mini-Mart.

"If you get there first," Jack said, "for God's sake don't buy a

Hamwich.  Okay, I guess that's it.  We should get moving."

"Not quite yet," Ginger said.  The physician folded her hands and looked

down at her interlaced fingers, collecting her thoughts.  "Since this

afternoon, when Brendan first arrived, when the rings appeared on his

and Dom's hands, when the motel office was filled with that strange

noise and the light ...  I've been chewing over everything we've been

able to learn, trying to make those bizarre phenomena fit in somehow.

I've hit on an explanation for some of it; not all, but some of it."

Everyone expressed an eagerness to hear the theory, halfformed though it

might be.

Ginger said, "As different as our dreams are, one element links all of

them: the moon.  Okay.  Our other dreams-decon suits, IV needles, beds

with restraining straps-proved to be based on real experiences, real

threats.  In fact, they weren't dreams but memories surfacing in the

form of dreams.  So it seems reasonable to suppose the moon also

featured prominently in whatever happened to us, that the moon, too, is

a memory trying to surface in our dreams.  Agreed?"

"Agreed," Dom said, and everyone else nodded.

"We've seen how Marcie's lunar obsession changed to a fascination with a

scarlet moon," Ginger continued.  "And Jack's told us that, a couple

nights ago, the ordinary moonlight in his own nightmare turned into a

bloody glow.  None of the rest of us has dreamed of a red moon yet, but

I submit that the appearance of this scarlet image in Marcie's and

Jack's dreams is proof that it's also a memory.  In other words, on the

night of July 6, we saw something that made the moon turn red.  And the

apparitional light, which sometimes fills Brendan's bedroom, which some

of us witnessed today in the motel office, is a strange sort of

reenactment of what happened to the real moon on the night in July. The

apparitional light is a message meant to nudge our memories."

"Message," Jack said.  "All right.  But who the devil's sending the

message?  Where's the light come from?  How is it generated?"

"I've got an idea about that," Ginger said.  "But let me take this one

step at a time.  First, let's consider what might've happened to make

the moon turn red that night."

Jorja listened, as did the others, with interest at first and then with

growing uneasiness, while Ginger got up from her chair and, pacing,

outlined an unnerving explanation.

Ginger Weiss wholeheartedly embraced the scientific worldview.  To her,

the universe unfailingly operated by the rules of logic and reason, and

no mystery could long endure once attacked in a logical fashion.  But

unlike some in the scientific community-and many in the

medical'community-she did not believe that a vivid imagination was

necessarily a hindrance to logic and reason.  Otherwise, she might not

have devised the theory she now conveyed to the others in the

Tranquility Grille.

It was a pretty strange theory, and she was nervous about how the others

would receive it.  So she paced to the jukebox, over to the service

counter, back to the table, moving constantly as she talked:

"The men who dealt with us in the first day or two of imprisonment were

wearing decontamination suits designed to handle biological risks.  They

must've been worried we were infected with something.  So perhaps part

of what we saw was a scarlet cloud of biological contaminant.  When it

passed overhead, it turned the moon red."

"And we were all infected with some strange disease," Jorja said.

Ginger said, "That may be why, yesterday at the special place along the

highway, I had the memory-flash of Dom shouting, 'It's inside me.  It's

inside me." That would have been a logical thing for him to shout if,

that night, he had found himself caught up in a red cloud of some

contaminant and realized he was breathing it in.  And Brendan's told us

that the same words-'It's inside me'-came spontaneously to his lips last

night in Reno, when the red apparitional light filled his room."

"Bacteria?  Disease?  Then why didn't we get sick?" Brendan said.

"Because they treated us immediately," Dom said.  "We've already worked

that one out, Brendan-yesterday, before you got here.  But, Ginger, the

light that filled the office this afternoon was too bright to represent

moonlight filtered through a red cloud."

"I know," Ginger said, pacing.  "Underdeveloped as it is, my idea

doesn't explain everything-like the rings on your hands.  So maybe it's

not the right idea.  On the other hand, it does explain some things, and

maybe if we think about it long enough, we'll see how it explains these

other puzzles, as well.  And as a theory, it has one big plus."

"What's that?" Ned asked.

"It could explain why Brendan was involved in two miracle cures in

Chicago.  It could explain the whirling paper moons in Zebediah Lomack's

house.  And the destruction here at the diner on Saturday night, when

Dom was trying to recall what had happened the summer before last.  It

could explain the source of the apparitional light."

On the jukebox, the last of a series of songs had faded to its end as

Ginger began to speak.  But no one got up to choose more music, for they

were riveted by her promise to explain the inexplicable.

"To this point," Ginger said, "the theory's pretty mundane. A red cloud

of contaminant.  Nothing hard to accept in that. But now .  .  .  you've

got to take a big leap of imagination with me.  We've been assuming that

the miraculous healing and certainly the poltergeist phenomena have some

mysterious external source.  Father Wycazik, Brendan's rector, thinks

that external source is God.  The rest of us don't feel it's exactly

divine.  We don't know what the hell it is, but we all assume that it's

an external power, something out there somewhere that's taunting us or

trying to reach us with a message or threatening us.  But what if these

wonders have an internal source.  Suppose Brendan and Dom really possess

some power, and suppose that they possess it because of what happened

during the night of the red moon.  Suppose they have telekinesis-which

is the power to move objects without touching them, which would explain

the whirling paper moons and the destruction in the diner."

Everyone looked at Dom and Brendan in amazement, but no one was more

startled than those two men, who gaped at Ginger, shocked.

Dom said, "But that's ridiculous!  I'm no psychic, no sorcerer."

"Me neither," Brendan said.

Ginger shook her head.  "Not consciously, no.  I'm saying maybe the

power is in you, and you're just not aware of it. Bear with me.  Think

about it.  The first time the rings appeared on Brendan's hands, the

first time he exercised his healing power, was when he was combing the

hair of the little girl in the hospital.  He's said he was overwhelmed

with pity for her and filled with frustration and anger that he couldn't

help her.  Maybe it was his intense frustration and anger that freed the

power in him, even though he wasn't aware of it. He couldn't be aware of

it because the acquisition of this power is part of what he's been made

to forget.  Okay, the second time, with the wounded policeman, Brendan

found himself in an extreme crisis, which might trigger these powers."

She began pacing and talking more rapidly to prevent debate until she'd

finished.  "Now think about Dom's experiences.  The first one, in Reno,

at Lomack's house.  The way you told it to us, Dom ...  as you wandered

through the house, you became so frustrated by the ever-deepening nature

of the mystery that you wanted to rush through those rooms and tear

those paper moons off the walls.  Those were your very words.  And, of

course, that's what happened: You pulled those moons off the walls, not

with your hands but with this power.  And remember, the pictures only

fell to the floor when you shouted, 'Stop it, stop it!" When it did

stop, you thought something had heard you and obeyed or relented, but in

fact you stopped it yourself."

Brendan, Dom, and a couple of the others still looked skeptical.

But Ginger had captured Sandy Server's imagination.  "It makes sense! It

makes even more sense if you think about what happened here on Saturday

night, right in this very room.  Dom was trying to remember back to that

Friday in July, trying to remember what happened right up to the second

where his memory block took effect.  And while he was struggling to

remember .  .  .  all of a sudden this strange noise, this thunder,

started to rumble through the diner, and everything started to shake. He

could've been unconsciously using this power of his to re-create the

effects of whatever happened back then."

"Good!" Ginger said encouragingly.  "See?  The more you think about it,

the more it hangs together."

"But the strange light," Dom said.  "You're saying Brendan and I somehow

manufactured that?"

"Yes, possibly," Ginger said, returning to the table, leaning on her

empty chair.  "Pyrokinesis.  The ability to spontaneously generate heat

or fire with the power of the mind alone."

"This wasn't fire," Dom said.  "It was light."

"So .  .  .  call it 'photokinesis,' " Ginger said.  "But I think when

you and Brendan met, you subconsciously recognized the power in each

other.  On a deep level, you were both reminded of what happened to you

that July night, the thing you've been forced to forget.  And both of

you wanted to blast those memories into view.  So unwittingly you

generated that weird light, which was a re-creation of the way the moon

changed from white to red on the night of July 6.  It was your

subconscious trying to jolt the memory through the block."

Ginger could see that their minds were spinning with all these odd

ideas, and she wanted to keep them unsettled a while longer, because

when they were unsettled they were more likely to absorb what she was

saying.  Given time for quiet reflection, the heavy armor of skepticism

would fall back into place, and her ideas would bounce off.

Ernie Block shook his head.  "Wait a minute.  You're losing me now.  You

started all this by suggesting that what turned the moon red was a

scarlet cloud of some biological contaminant.  Then you jumped way the

hell to one side and started talking about how the thing that happened

to us was responsible for Dom and Brendan developing these supposed

powers.  Where's the connection?  What does biological contamination

have to do with all this psychic stuff, anyway?"

Ginger took a deep breath because they had come to the core of her

theory, the wildest part of it.  "What if .  .  .  what if we were

contaminated by some virus or bacterium that, as a side-effect, causes

profound chemical or genetic or hormonal changes in its host, changes in

the host's brain?  And what if those changes leave the host with

something very like psychic powers, even once the infection is gone?"

They stared at her with a variety of expressions, though not as if they

thought her mad, and not as if she was too imaginative for her own good.

Rather, they seemed impressed by the complex chain of logic which she

had forged and by the inevitability of the final link.

"Good God," Dom said, "I doubt that it's the right answer, but it's sure

the prettiest, most neatly constructed theory I ever expect to hear.

What a concept for a novel!  A genetically engineered virus that, as a

surprise side-effect, causes a sort of forced evolution of the human

brain, resulting in psychic powers.  For the first time in weeks, I have

a terrific urge to rush to a typewriter.  Ginger, if we get out of this

alive, I'll have to give you a piece of the royalties on the book that's

sure to grow out of that idea."

Gently rocking her slumbering daughter, Jorja Monatella said, "But why

couldn't it be the right answer?  Why does it just have to be a terrific

concept for a novel?"

"For one thing," Jack Twist said, "if it were true, if we'd been

contaminated with a virus like that, we'd all have developed psychic

powers.  Right?"

"Well," Ginger said, "maybe we weren't all contaminated. Or maybe we

were contaminated, but the virus didn't get a foothold in all of us."

Faye said, "Or maybe this special side-effect isn't manifested in

everyone who's infected by the bug."

"Good thought," Ginger said.  She began to pace again: this time, not

because she was nervous but because she was excited.

Ned Sarver pushed one hand through his receding hair and said, "Are you

saying the Army knew about this side-effect of the virus, knew that it

might cause these changes in some of us?"

"I don't know," Ginger said.  "Maybe they knew.  Maybe not."

"I think not," Ernie said.  "Definitely not.  From what you found in the

Sentinel, we know they closed the interstate shortly before the

'accident' happened, which means it was no accident.  So .  .  .  first

of all, I find it hard to believe our own military would intentionally

subject us to contamination with a biological-warfare microorganism in a

hare-brained scheme to test its effectiveness in the field.  But even if

such an atrocity were possible, they wouldn't expose us to a virus that

could transform us in the way Ginger has suggested. Because, my friends,

people with strong psychic powers would be a new species, a superior

breed of humanity.  Formidable psychic power would translate directly

into military, economic, and political power.  So if the government knew

it had a virus that conferred these powers, it would not expose a group

of ordinary people like us.  Not in a million years.  That blessing

would be reserved for those already in positions of high authority, for

the elite.  I agree with Dom: I find the redcloud-of-virus theory quite

fascinating .  .  .  though unlikely. However, if we were contaminated

by such a thing, the sideeffect was unknown to the government."

In light of what Ernie had said, everyone was looking at Brendan and Dom

with a new appreciation composed equally of awe, uneasiness, wonder,

respect, and fear.  Ginger saw both the priest and the writer squirm

with the exhilarating yet frightening realization that they might have

within them the potential for superhuman power, a potential that, if

fulfilled, would forever separate them from the rest of mankind.

"No," Dom said, starting to get up in protest, then sitting back down as

if he did not think his legs would support him. "No, no.  You're not

right, Ginger.  I'm no superman, no wizard, no damn .  .  .  freak.  If

you were right, I'd feel it.  I'd know it, Ginger."

Brendan Cronin, equally shaken, said, "I've thought that somehow I've

been the vehicle for the healing of Emmy and Winton.  I've thought that

something-not God, perhaps, but something-is working through me.  I

never thought of myself as the actual healer.  Listen, I was under the

impression we'd already decided the toxic-spill story was entirely a

fake, a cover, that what happened to us wasn't an accident of any kind,

neither chemical nor biological, but something altogether different."

Jack and Jorja and Faye and Ned started talking at the same time.  The

noise level rose so loud that little Marcie frowned in her sleep, and

Ginger said, "Wait, wait, wait a minute.  There's no point discussing it

because we can't prove there was such a virus any more than we can prove

there wasn't one.  Not yet.  But maybe we can prove the other part."

"What do you mean?" Sandy Sarver asked.

Ginger said, "Maybe we can prove Dom and Brendan have the power.  Not

how they got it, but just that they have it."

Dom was incredulous.  "How?"

"We'll set up a test," Ginger said.

Dom was absolutely certain that it would not work, that they were

wasting time, that the whole idea was foolish.

Yet he was also scared that it would work, and that the proof of his

power would condemn him to the condition of a freak or at least to a

life forever closed to ordinary human relationships.  If he possessed

godlike power, no one would ever regard him without wonder and fear.  In

even the most relaxed or intimate moments with friends or lovers, their

awareness of his extraordinary gifts would intrude, either overtly or in

an unspoken subtext.  Others, perhaps most, would envy or hate him.

The unfairness of his predicament grated on him.  For most of his

thirty-five years, he had been shy and ineffectual, condemned to a drab

existence by his timidity.  Then he had changed, and for fifteen months,

until his sleepwalking began last October, he'd been outgoing.  Now,

that brief, wonderful season of normality might be passing.  If the test

that Ginger outlined were to prove Dom had somehow acquired psychic

powers, he would be isolated again, not by his own sense of inferiority,

as before, but by everyone else's uneasy awareness of his superiority.

The test.  Dom hoped to God he failed.

He and Brendan Cronin were sitting by themselves at the long table, one

at each end.  Jorja Monatella had put her slumbering daughter in a

booth, and the girl had not awakened.  The adults-all seven, including

Jorja-stood in a semicircle around the table, back a couple of paces,

giving Dom and Brendan space to concentrate free of distraction.

A salt shaker stood on the table in front of Dom.  Ginger's test

required that he concentrate on moving the object without touching it.

"Just an inch," she had said.  "If you can evoke just the slightest

perceptible motion in the shaker, we'll know you've got the power."

At the far end of the three joined tables, a pepper shaker stood in

front of Brendan Cronin.  The priest was staring at the small glass

cylinder as intently as Dom was staring at his

own shaker, and his round freckled face was filled with a foreboding

only marginally less grim than Dom's.  Although Brendan had denied that

the hand of God lay behind the miraculous cures and apparitional lights,

it was clear to Dom that the priest secretly and deeply hoped to

discover that, in fact, a divine Presence was at work.  He wanted to be

drawn back into his faith, into the bosom of the Church.  If the

miracles proved to be his own work, accomplished by the exertion of

heretofore unrecognized psychic powers, and if those powers proved to

have been conferred by a mere germ, as Ginger's crazy-but-canny theory

would have it, Brendan's yearning for spiritual elevation and holy

guidance would be unfulfilled.

The salt shaker.

Dom fixed his eyes on it and tried to clear every thought from his mind

except the determined intention to move the shaker.  Although he did not

want to discover that he had these strange talents, he had to make a

sincere attempt to employ them.  He had to know if it were true.

If the power existed, neither Ginger nor any of the others could suggest

techniques for tapping it.  "But," Ginger had said, "if it can explode

spontaneously and spectacularly in moments of stress, surely you can

learn to call upon it and control it whenever and however you desire . .

.  just as a musician can apply his musical talent any time he pleases.

Or just as you apply your writing talent to the blank page."

The salt shaker remained motionless, unaffected.

Dom strove to narrow his attention until that humble glass cylinder-with

its perforated stainless-steel cap and grainy white contents-was the

only thing in his universe.  He brought all his mind to bear upon it,

every speck of his will, and tried to push it along the table, strained

until he realized he was gritting his teeth, fisting his hands.

Nothing.

He changed tack.  Instead of mentally assaulting the shaker as if he

were blasting away with a cannon at the mighty walls of a fortress, he

relaxed and studied the object to get an intimate sense of its size,

shape, and texture.  Perhaps the key was to develop an empathy for the

shaker.  "Empathy" was the word that seemed right to him, though he was

relating to an inanimate and inorganic object; instead of battling it,

perhaps he could empathize and somehow .  .  .  induce it to cooperate

in a short telekinetic journey.  Only an inch.  He leaned forward

slightly to better examine the functional simplicity of its design: five

beveled facets to make it easy to grip and hold; a thick glass bottom to

provide balance and reduce the frequency of spills; a shiny metal

cap....

Nothing.  Standing unaffected on the table before him, the shaker seemed

like the mythical immovable object, heavy beyond weighing, welded

forever to this spot in space and time.

But of course, like all forms of matter in the universe, it was not

immovable, and in some ways it was always moving, never still.  After

all, it was composed of billions of ceaselessly moving atoms, the outer

parts of which orbited, planetlike, around the billions of sunlike

nuclei.  The salt shaker was engaged in uninterrupted motion on a

subatomic level, frantically moving within its structure, so it should

not be difficult to induce it to make one additional movement, one

little jaunt on the macrocosmic level of human perception, just one

little hop and skip, just one Dom felt a sudden buoyancy, almost as if

he himself were going to be moved by some arcane force, but instead-and

at last-the salt shaker moved.  He had become so deeply involved with

that homely object that he had actually forgotten Ginger and the others;

he was reminded of their presence when, as one, they gasped and

exclaimed softly.  The shaker did not simply slide one inch along the

table-or two or ten or twenty.  It rose into the air instead, as if

gravity had ceased to have a claim on it.  Like a tiny glass balloon, it

floated upward: one foot, two, three, and stopped four feet above the

surface on which, only seconds ago, it had appeared immovable.  It

remained suspended several inches above the eye-level of those who were

standing, and they stared up at it in awe.

At the far end of the table, Brendan's pepper shaker rose, too.  Mouth

open, eyes wide, Brendan stared at the rising cylinder.  When it stopped

at precisely the same height as the salt shaker, Brendan finally dared

to take his eyes from it. He looked at Dom, glanced nervously at the

pepper shaker again, as if certain it would crash down the moment he

shifted his gaze, then looked at Dom once more when he realized that

eye-contact was not required to maintain levitation.  several sentiments

were apparent in the priest's eyes: wonder, amazement, puzzlement, fear,

and an emotional acknowledgment of the profound brotherhood that existed

between him and Dom by virtue of the strange power they shared.

Dom was intrigued that he did not need to strain to keep the salt shaker

aloft.  In fact, it seemed hard to believe that he was actually

responsible for its magical performance.  He was not conscious of either

possessing or exerting control of the object.  He felt no power surging

in him.  Evidently, his telekinetic ability functioned automatically, in

a fashion similar to respiration and heartbeat.

Brendan raised his hands.  The red rings had reappeared on them.

Dom looked at his own hands and saw the same inscrutable stigmata

burning brightly.

What did they mean?

Looming overhead, the salt and pepper shakers generated a sense of

expectancy in Dom even greater than he had felt at the beginning of this

test.  Apparently, the others felt it as well, for they began to urge

Dom and Brendan to perform additional feats.

"Incredible," Ginger said breathlessly.  "You've shown us vertical

movement, levitation.  Can you also move them horizontally?"

"Can you lift something heavier?" Sandy Sarver asked.

"The light," Ernie said.  "Can you generate the red light?"

Seeking first to accomplish a more modest task than any they had

proposed, Dom thought about giving the salt shaker a slight spin, and

immediately it began to twirl in midair, eliciting another gasp from the

onlookers.  A moment later, Brendan's pepper shaker began to spin, too.

Reflections of the overhead lights glimmered liquidly across the shiny

metal caps of the spinning dispensers, flashed off the facets of the

glass, traveled scintillatingly along the edges where one facet met

another, so the shakers looked like glittery Christmastree ornaments.

Simultaneously, the two small dispensers began drifting toward one

another, the horizontal movement Ginger had requested, though Dom was

not aware of consciously directing the salt shaker on this course.  He

supposed Ginger's suggestion was accepted by his subconscious, which now

employed psychic energy to accomplish the task, without waiting for him

to make a conscious effort.  It was eerie-the way he controlled the

shaker yet was unaware of how that control was exerted.

Above the centermost point of the three joined tables, the salt and

pepper shakers stopped moving horizontally when they were about ten

inches apart.  They hung side by side, spinning a bit faster than

before, throwing off spangles of reflected light.  Then they began to

revolve around each other in perfectly circular synchronized orbits. But

that lasted only a few seconds.  Suddenly, the shakers were spinning

faster than before, and swinging around each other much faster as well,

and in much more complex, parabolic counterorbits.

Captivated and delighted, the onlookers laughed, applauded.  Dom looked

at Ginger.  Her radiant face shone with an expression of pure, spiritual

uplift that made her more beautiful than ever.  She lowered her gaze

from the salt and pepper shakers to Dom, grinning with wild excitement,

and gave him a thumbs-up sign.  Ernie Block and Jack Twist watched the

aerobatics with open-mouthed wonder that made them look not like

hard-bitten ex-soldiers but like two small boys seeing fireworks for the

first time in their lives.  Laughing, Faye stood with her hands raised

toward the shakers, as if she were trying to feel the miraculous field

of power in which they were suspended.  Ned Sarver was laughing, too,

but Sandy was crying, a sight that startled Dom until he realized she

was also smiling and that the tears on her cheeks were tears of joy.

"Oh," Sandy said, turning to Dom as if she had sensed that he was

looking at her, "isn't it wonderful?  Whatever it means, isn't it just

wonderful?  The freedom...  the freedom of it .  .  .  the breaking away

of all the bonds.....  the rising up and above and away .  .  ."

Dom knew precisely what she was feeling and trying to say, because he

felt it too.  For the moment, he forgot that possession of these

abilities would forever alienate him from people who were without the

talent, and he was filled with a rapturous sense of transcendence, with

an appreciation for what it might mean to take a giant leap up the

ladder of evolution, breaking away from the chains of human limitations.

In the Tranquility Grille tonight, there was a sense of history being

made, a sense that nothing in the world would ever be the same again.

"Do something else," Ginger said.

"Yes!" Sandy said.  "Show us more.  Show us more."

In other parts of the room, other salt shakers flew up from the tables

on which they had been standing: six, eight, ten in all.  They hung

motionless for a moment, then began to spin like the first shaker.

Instantly, an equal number of pepper shakers took flight and began

spinning as well.

Dom still did not know how he was doing these things; he made no effort

to perform each new trick; the thought merely became fact, as if wishes

could come true.  He suspected that Brendan was equally baffled.

The jukebox had been silent.  Now it began to play a Dolly Parton tune,

though no one had punched the programming buttons.

Did I do that, Dom wondered, or was it Brendan?

Ginger said, "My God, I'm so excited I'm going to plotz!"

Laughing, Dom said, "Plotz?  What's that one mean?"

"Bust, explode," Ginger said.  "I'm so excited I'm going to bust!"

Every salt and pepper shaker spun, and the halves of every pair orbited

each other, and now all eleven sets began moving around the room in a

train, faster, faster, making a soft whoosh as they cut the air, casting

off sparks of reflected light.

Abruptly, a dozen chairs rose off the floor, not in the controlled and

playful manner in which the salt and pepper shakers had risen from the

tables, but with such violence and momentum that they shot instantly to

the ceiling, smashing against that barrier with a deafening clatter. One

of the wagonwheel lighting fixtures was struck by two chairs; its

lightbulbs burst, and the room was only three-quarters as brightly

illuminated as it had been.  That wagon wheel broke loose of its anchor

brackets and wires, crashing to the floor a few feet behind Dom.  The

chairs remained against the ceiling, vibrating as if they were a flock

of enormous bats hovering on dark wings.  Most of the salt and pepper

shakers were still whirling maniacally around the room above everyone's

head, though a few had been brought down by the upflung chairs. Now, a

few more stopped spinning, swung erratically out of their orbits, out of

the train as well, wobbled, and shot to the floor.  One of them struck

Ernie's shoulder, and he cried out in pain. Dom and Brendan had lost

control.  And because they had never known exactly how they had

established control in the first place, they did not know how to regain

it.

In a blink, the celebratory mood changed to panic.  The onlookers

scrambled for shelter under the tables, acutely aware that the levitated

chairs-rattling ominously against the ceiling were potentially far more

dangerous missiles than the salt and pepper shakers.  The noise awakened

Marcie.  She sat up in the booth where she had been sleeping, crying now

and calling for her mother.  Jorja pulled the girl off the booth and

scrambled under one of the tables with her, hugging her close, and

everyone was out of the line of fire except Brendan and Dom.

Dom felt as if this psychic power was a live grenade that had been wired

irremovably to his hand.

Overhead, three or four more shakers lost momentum and came down like

bullets.  The dozen levitated chairs began to bounce against the ceiling

more aggressively, shedding small pieces of themselves.

Dom didn't know if he should dive for cover or attempt to regain

control.  He looked at Brendan, who was equally paralyzed.

Overhead, the three remaining wagon-wheel lights swayed wildly on their

chains, causing goblin shadows to leap across the room.

The battering chairs gouged out small chunks of the ceiling.

A salt shaker dropped in front of Dom, impacting like a tiny meteorite

against the table.  The glass was too thick to shatter, but the small

jar cracked into three or four pieces, flinging up what salt it still

contained, and Dom flinched from the white spray.

Remembering the spinning carrousel of paper moons in Lomack's house six

days ago, Dom raised both hands toward the rattling chairs and whirling

shakers.  Clenching his hands into fists, shutting the red-ring stigmata

out of sight, he said, "Stop it.  Stop it now.  Stop it!"

Overhead, the chairs ceased vibrating.  The salt and pepper shakers

halted in midwhirl and hung motionless in the air.

For a second or two, the diner was preternaturally silent.

Then the twelve chairs and the last of the shakers dropped straight

down, bouncing off tables and other chairs that had never taken flight.

When everything at last came to rest in tangled rubble, Dom and Brendan

were as unscathed as those who had taken refuge under the tables.  Dom

blinked at the priest, and around them all was graveyard-still.  This

moment of silence was longer than the first.  It seemed as if time had

stopped, until Marcie's thin whimpering and her mother's murmured

assurances started the engines of reality purring again, drawing the

others from their places of shelter.

Ernie was still massaging his shoulder, where he had been hit by a salt

shaker, but he was not seriously hurt.  No one else was injured, though

everyone was shaken.

Dom saw the way they were looking at him and Brendan. Warity.  Just as

he had figured they would look at him if he proved to have the power.

Just the way he had dreaded being looked at.  Damn.

Ginger seemed to be the only one who was- not put off by his new status.

She enthusiastically embraced Dom and said, "What matters is that you've

got it.  You've got it, and eventuaily you can learn to use it, and

that's wonderful."

"I'm not so sure," Dom said, looking at the broken chairs, fallen

lighting fixtures.  Jack Twist was brushing salt and drywall dust off

his clothes.  Jorja was still comforting her frightened child.  Faye and

Sandy were picking splinters and other bits of debris out of their hair,

and Ned was pondering the danger of the live wires dangling from the

ceiling where the chandelier had torn loose.  Dom said, "Ginger, even

when I was using the power, I didn't know how I was doing it.  And when

it ran wild .  .  .  I didn't know how to stop it."

"But you did stop it," she said.  She kept one arm around his waist as

if she knew-God bless her-that he needed the reassurance of human

contact.  "You did stop it, Dom."

"Maybe next time I won't be able." He realized he was shivering.  "Look

at this mess.  My God, Ginger, someone could've been badly hurt."

"No one was."

"Someone could have been killed.  Next time-"

"It'll be better," she said.

Brendan Cronin came around the long table.  "He'll change his mind,

Ginger.  Give him time.  I know I'm going to try again.  Alone, next

time.  In a couple of days, when I've had time to think it through, I'll

go out somewhere in.  an open field, away from people, where no one can

be hurt except me, and I'll give it another try.  I think it's going to

be difficult to control the .  .  .  energy.  It's going to take a lot

of time, a lot of work, maybe years.  But I'll explore, practice.  And

so will Dom. He'll realize as much when he's had a couple of minutes to

think about it."

Dom shook his head.  "I don't want this.  I don't want to be so

different from other people."

"But now you are," Brendan said.  "We both are."

"That's damn fatalistic."

Brendan smiled.  "Though I'm having a crisis of faith, I'm still a

priest, so I believe in predestination, fate.  That's an article of

faith.  But we priests are a clever bunch, so we can be fatalistic and

believe in free will at the same time!  Both are articles of faith." For

the priest, the psychological effects of these events were far different

from the fear raised in Dom. As he talked, he repeatedly rose onto his

toes as if he were nearly buoyant enough to float away.

At a loss to understand the priest's good humor, Dom changed the

subject.  "Well, Ginger, if we've proved half of your crazy theory, at

least we've disproved the other half."

She frowned.  "What do you mean?"

"In the midst of all that .  .  .  uproar," Dom said, gesturing toward

the battered ceiling, "when I saw the rings appear on my hands again, I

decided the psychic power wasn't a sideeffect of any strange viral

infection.  I know the source of it is something else, something even

stranger, though I don't know what it may be."

"Oh?  Well, which is the case?" she asked.  "Have you merely decided, or

do you really know?"

"I know," Dom said.  "Deep inside, I know."

"Oh, yes, me too," Brendan said happily, as Ernie and Faye and the

others gathered around.  "You were correct, Ginger, when you suggested

the power was in Dom and me. And it's been in us since that July night,

like you said.  However, you're not right about the method by which we

acquired the gift.  Like Dom said .  .  .  in the middle of all the

chaos, I sensed that biological contamination wasn't the right

explanation.  I haven't the foggiest notion what the answer is, but we

can rule out that part of your theory."

Now Dom understood why Brendan was in such good spirits in spite of the

frightening exhibition in which they'd just participated.  Though he

professed to see no religious aspect to recent events, in his heart of

hearts, the priest had retained hope that the miraculous cures and

apparitional lights were of divine origin.  He had been depressed by the

dismayingly secular thought that the gift could have been bestowed on

him not by his Lord but simply as the chance side-effect of an exotic

infection, by the unwitting office of a mindless virusand a man-made

virus, as well.  He was relieved to be able to dismiss that possibility.

His high spirits and good humor, even amidst the destruction of the

diner, arose from the fact that a divine Presence was once again, for

Brendan, at least a viable-if still unlikely-explanation.

Dom wished he, too, could find courage and strength in the notion that

their troubles were part of a divine scheme. But at the moment, he

believed only in danger and death, twin juggernauts that he sensed

bearing down on him.  The personality changes that had occurred in him

during his move from Portland to Mountainview were laughably minor in

comparison to the changes that had begun working in him tonight, with

the discovery of this unwanted power.  He almost felt as if the power

was alive in him, a parasite that in time would eat away everything that

had been Dominick Corvaisis and, having assumed his identity, would

stalk the world in his body, masquerading as human.

Crazy.

Nevertheless, he was worried and scared.

He looked at each of the others who were gathered around him.  Some met

his eyes for a moment, then quickly looked away, just as one might

hesitate to meet the gaze of a dangerous-or intimidating-man.

Others-most notably Jack Twist, Ernie, and Jorja-met his eyes

forthrightly, but were incapable of concealing the uneasiness and even

apprehension with which they now regarded him.  Only Ginger and Brendan

seemed to have suffered no change in their attitude toward him.

"Well," Jack said, breaking the spell, "we should call it a night, I

guess.  We've got a lot to do tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Ginger said, "we'll have cleared up even more of these

mysteries.  We're making progress every day."

"Tomorrow," Brendan said softly, happily, "will be a day of great

revelation.  I feel it somehow."

Tomorrow, Dom thought, we might all be dead.  Or wish we were.

Colonel Leland Falkirk still had a splitting headache.  With his new

talent for introspection-acquired gradually since his involvement in the

emotionally and intellectually shattering events of two summers ago-he

was able to see that, on one level, he was actually glad that the

aspirin had been ineffective.  He thrived on the headache in the same

way he thrived on other kinds of pain, drawing a perverse strength and

energy from the relentless throbbing in his brow and temples.

Lieutenant Horner had gone.  Leland was alone once more in his

temporary, windowless office beneath the testing grounds of Shenkfield,

but he was no longer waiting for the call from Chicago.  It had come

soon after Horner departed, and the news had been all bad.

The siege at Calvin Sharkle's house in Evanston, which had begun earlier

today, was still under way, and that volatile situation would probably

not be brought to an end within the next twelve hours.  If possible, the

colonel did not want to commit his men to another closure of I-80 and

another quarantine of the Tranquility Motel until he could be certain

the operation would not be compromised by revelations that Sharkle might

make either to Illinois authorities or to the news media.  Delay made

Leland nervous, especially now that the witnesses at the motel were

focused on Thunder Hill and were planning their moves beyond the reach

of rifle microphones and infinity transmitters.  He figured he could

afford to wait, at most, one more day.  However, if the dangerous

standoff in Illinois was still under way by sunset tomorrow, he would

give the order to move on the Tranquility in spite of the risks.

The other news from Chicago was that operatives had discreetly

investigated Emmeline Halbourg and Winton Tolk and had found reasons to

believe their amazing recoveries could not be adequately explained by

current medical knowledge.  And a reconstruction of Father Stefan

Wycazik's activities on Christmas Day-including visits to Halbourg and

Tolk, and a stop at the Metropolitan Police Laboratory to consult a

ballistics expert-confirmed that the priest had been convinced that his

curate, Brendan Cronin, had been responsible for those miraculous cures.

Leland had first become aware of Cronin's healing powers just yesterday,

Sunday, when he had monitored a telephone call between Dominick

Corvaisis at the Tranquility and Father Wycazik in Chicago. That

conversation would have been a real shocker if the events of Saturday

night had not prepared him for the unexpected.

Saturday night, when Corvaisis had arrived at the Tranquility, Leland

Falkirk and his surveillance experts had monitored the first

conversations between the Blocks and the writer with growing disbelief.

The outlandish tale of moon photographs animated by a poltergeist in

Lomack's Reno house had sounded like the product of a fevered mind no

longer able to distinguish between fiction and reality.

Later, however, after Corvaisis and the Blocks had eaten dinner at the

Grille, the writer had attempted to relive the minutes just before the

trouble had started on the night of July 6.  What happened then was

astonishing, confirmed both by the hidden surveillance team watching the

Tranquility from a point south of the interstate and by the infinity

transmitter tap on the diner's payphone.  Everything in the Grille had

begun to shake, and a strange rumble had filled the place, then an eerie

electronic ululation, culminating in the implosion of all the windows.

These phenomena came as a total-and nasty-surprise to Leland and to

everyone involved in the cover-up, especially the scientists, who were

electrified.  The following day's discovery of Cronin's healing power

added voltage to the excitement.  At first, these developments seemed

inexplicable. But after only a little thought, Leland arrived at an

explanation that made his blood cold.  The scientists had come to

similar conclusions.  Some of them were as scared as Leland was.

Suddenly, no one knew what to expect.  Anything might happen now.

We believed we were in control of the situation that night in July,

Leland thought somberly, but perhaps it had escalated beyond our control

even before we arrived on the scene.

The single consolation was that, thus far, only Corvaisis and the priest

appeared to be .  .  .  infected.  Maybe "infected" wasn't exactly the

right word.  Maybe "possessed" was better. Or maybe there wasn't a word

for what had happened to them, because what had happened to them had

never happened to anyone else in history, so a specific word for it had

not heretofore been required.

Even if the siege at Sharkle's house ended tomorrow, even if that

possibility of media exposure was eliminated, Leland would not be able

to strike at the group at the motel with full confidence.  Corvaisis and

Cronin-and perhaps the others-might be more difficult to apprehend and

incarcerate than they'd been two summers ago.  If Corvaisis and Cronin

weren't entirely themselves any more, if they were now someone else-or

something else-dealing with them might prove downright impossible.

Leland's headache was worse.

Feed on it, he told himself, getting up from the desk.  Feed on the

pain.  You've been doing that for years, you dumb son of a bitch, so you

can feed on it for another day or two, until you've dealt with this mess

or until you're dead, whichever comes first.

He left the windowless office, crossed a windowless outer chamber,

walked a windowless hall, and entered the windowless communications

center, where Lieutenant Horner and Sergeant Fiw sat at a table in one

corner.  "Tell the men they can hit the sack," Leland said.  "It's off

for tonight.  I'll risk another day to see if the situation at Sharkle's

house gets resolved."

"I was just coming to you," Horner said.  "There's a development at the

motel.  They finally left the diner.  After they came out, Twist brought

a Jeep Cherokee in from the hills behind the motel.  He, Jorja

Monatella, and the priest piled in it and drove off toward Elko."

"Where the hell are they going at this time of night?"

Leland asked, uncomfortably aware that those three might have slipped

through his fingers if he had ordered his men to move against the motel

tonight, for he'd been certain the witnesses were settled down until

morning.

Horner pointed to Fiw, who was wearing headphones and listening to the

Tranquility.  "From what we've heard, the others are going to bed.

Twist, Monatella, and Cronin have gone off as .  .  .  as sort of

insurance against us getting our hands on all the witnesses in one quick

clean sweep.  This had to be Twist's idea."

"Damn." Massaging his throbbing temples with his finger tips, Leland

sighed.  "All right.  We aren't going after them tonight, anyway."

"But what about tomorrow?  What if they split up all day tomorrow?"

"In the morning," Leland said, "we'll put tails on all of them." To this

point, he had seen no need to tail the witnesses everywhere they went,

for he had known that, in the end, they would all wind up at the same

place-the motel-making it easier for him to deal with them.  But now, if

they were going to be spread out when the time came to take them into

custody, he would need to know where they were at all times.

Horner said, "Depending on where they go tomorrow, they're likely to

spot any tails we put on them.  In this kind of open country, it's not

easy to be discreet."

"I know," Leland said.  "So let them see us.  I've wanted to stay out of

sight, but we're at the end of that approach. Maybe seeing us will throw

them off balance until it's too late.  Maybe, scared, they'll even get

back together for protection and make our job easier again."

"If we have to take some of them at a place other than the motel, say in

Elko, it'll be difficult," Horner said worriedly.

"If they can't be taken, they've got to be killed." Leland pulled up a

chair, sat down.  "Let's work out surveillance details now and have the

tails in position before dawn."

3.

Tuesday, January 14

At seven-thirty Tuesday morning, in response to a telephone call from

Brendan Cronin very late the previous night, Father Stefan Wycazik

prepared to set out on a drive to Evanston, to the last known address of

Calvin Sharkle, the trucker who had been at the Tranquility Motel that

summer but whose telephone was now disconnected.  In light of the

enormity of last evening's developments in Nevada, everyone was agreed

that every possible effort must be made to contact the other victims who

had thus far been unreachable.  Standing in the warm rectory kitchen,

Stefan buttoned his topcoat and put on his fedora.

Father Michael Gerrano, who was just sitting down to oat meal and toast

after celebrating sunrise Mass, said, "Perhaps I should know more about

this whole situation, about what on earth's wrong with Brendan, in case

.  .  .  well, in case something happens to you."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Father Wycazik said firmly.  "God

hasn't let me spend five decades learning how the world works just to

have me killed now that I'm able to do my best work for the Church."

Michael shook his head.  "You're always so . "Certain in my faith?  Of

course I am.  Rely on God, and He will never fail you, Michael."

"Actually," Michael said, smiling, "I was going to say: You're always so

bullheaded."

"Such impudence from a curate!" Stefan said, winding a thick white scarf

around his neck.  "Attend thee, Father: What is wanted of a curate is

humility, self-effacement, the strong back of a mule, the stamina of a

plow horse-and an unfailingly adoring attitude toward his rector."

Michael grinned.  "Oh, yes, I suppose if the rector is a pious old

geezer grown vain from the praise of his parishioners-" The telephone

rang.

"If it's for me, I'm gone," Stefan said.

Stefan pulled on a pair of gloves but was not quite able to make it to

the back door before Michael held the receiver toward him.

"It's Winton Tolk," Michael said.  "The cop whose life Brendan saved. He

sounds almost hysterical, and he wants to talk to Brendan."

Stefan took the phone and identified himself.

The policeman's voice was haunted and full of urgency. "Father, I've got

to talk to Brendan Cronin right away, it can't wait."

"I'm afraid he's away," Stefan said, "out at the other end of the

country.  What's the matter?  Can I be of assistance?"

"Cronin," Tolk said shakily.  "Something ...  something's happened, and

I don't understand, it's strange, Jesus, it's the strangest craziest

thing, but I knew right away it was somehow related to Brendan."

"I'm sure I can help.  Where are you, Winton?"

"On duty, end of the shift, graveyard shift, Uptown.  There's been a

knifing, a shooting.  Horrible.  And then .  .  .  Listen,

I want Cronin to come up here, he's got to explain this, he's got to,

right away."

Father Wycazik elicited an address from Tolk, left the rectory at a run,

and drove too fast.  Less than half an hour later, he arrived in a block

of identical, shabby, six-story, brick tenements in the Uptown district.

He was unable to park in front of the address he had been given and

settled for a spot near the corner, for the prime space was occupied by

police vehicles-marked and unmarked cars, an SID wagon-whose radios

filled the cold air with a metallic chorus of dispatchers' codes and

jargon.  Two officers were watching over the vehicles to prevent

vandalism.  In answer to Stefan's question, they told him the action was

on the third floor, in 3-B, the Mendozas' apartment.

The glass in the front door was cracked across one corner, and the

temporary repair with electrician's tape looked as if it had become a

permanent solution.  The door opened on a grim foyer.  Some floor tiles

were missing and others were hidden by grime.  The paint was peeling.

As he climbed the stairs, Stefan encountered two beautiful children

playing "dead doll" with a battered Raggedy Ann and an old shoebox.

When he walked through the open door and into the Mendozas' third-floor

apartment, Father Wycazik saw a beige sofa liberally stained with

still-wet blood, so much that in some places the cushions were almost

black.  Hundreds of drops had sprayed across the pale-yellow wall behind

the sofa, a pattern that evidently had resulted when someone in front of

the wall had been hit by large-caliber slugs that passed through him.

Four bullet holes marred the plaster.  Blood was spattered over a

lampshade, coffee table, bookshelf, and part of the carpet.

The gore was even more disgusting than it might ordinarily have been

because the apartment was otherwise extremely well-kept, which made the

areas of bloody chaos more shocking by comparison.  The Mendozas could

afford to live only in a slum tenement, but like some other poor people,

they refused to surrender to-or become part of-the Uptown squalor.  The

filth of the streets, the grime of public hallways and staircases,

stopped at their door, as if their apartment was a fortress against

dirt, a shrine to cleanliness and order. Everything gleamed.

Removing his fedora, Stefan took only two steps into the living

room-which flowed without interruption into a small dining area., which

itself was separated from a half-size kitchen by a serving counter.  The

place was crowded with detectives, uniformed officers, lab

technicians-maybe a dozen men altogether.  Most of them were not acting

like cops.  Their demeanor puzzled Stefan.  Apparently, the lab men had

completed their work and the others had nothing to do, yet no one was

leaving.  They were standing in groups of two or three, talking in the

subdued manner of people at a funeral parlor-or in church.

Only one detective was working.  He was sitting at the dinette table

with a Madonna-faced Latino woman of about forty, asking questions of

her (Father Wycazik heard him call her Mrs.  Mendoza), and recording her

answers on legal-looking forms.  She was trying to cooperate but was

distracted as she glanced repeatedly at a man her own age, probably her

husband, who was pacing back and forth with a child in his arms.  The

child was a cute boy of about six.  Mr.  Mendoza held the child in one

burly arm, talking constantly to him, patting him, ruffling his thick

hair.  Obviously, this man had almost lost his son in whatever violence

had occurred earliere, and he needed to touch and hold the child to

convince himself that the worst had not actually happened.

One of the patrolmen noticed Stefan and said, "Father Wycazik?"

The officer's voice was soft, but at the mention of Stefan's name, the

entire group fell silent.  Stefan could not remember ever seeing

expressions quite like those that came over the faces of the people in

the Mendozas' small apartment: as if he were expected to deliver unto

them a single sentence that would shed light upon all the mysteries of

existence and succinctly convey the meaning of life.

What in the world is going on here?  Stefan wondered uneasily.

"This way, Father," said a uniformed officer.

Pulling off his gloves, Stefan followed the officer across the room. The

hush prevailed, and everyone made way for the priest and his guide. They

went into a bedroom, where Winton Tolk and another officer were sitting

on the edge of the bed.  "Father Wycazik's here," Stefan's guide said,

then retreated to the living room.

Tolk was sitting bent forward, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden

in his hands.  He did not look up.

The other officer rose from the edge of the bed and introduced himself

as Paul Armes, Winton's partner.  "I ...  I think you'd better get it

directly from Win," Armes said.  "I'll give you some privacy." He left,

closing the door behind him.

The bedroom was small, with space for only the bed, one nightstand, a

half-size dresser, one chair.  Father Wycazik pulled the chair around to

face the foot of the bed and sat down, so he could look directly at

Winton Tolk.  Their knees were almost touching.

Removing his scarf, Father Wycazik said, "Winton, what's happened?"

Tolk looked up, and Stefan was startled by the man's expression.  He had

thought Tolk was upset by whatever had happened in the living room.  But

his face revealed that he was exhilarated, filled with an excitement he

could barely contain.  Simultaneously, he seemed fearful-not terrified,

not quaking with fear, but troubled by something that prevented him from

giving in completely, happily, to his excitement.

"Father, who is Brendan Cronin?" The tremor in the big man's voice was

of an odd character that might have betrayed either incipient joy or

terror.  "What is Brendan Cronin?"

Stefan hesitated, decided on the full truth.  "He's a priest."

Winton shook his head.  "But that's not what we were told."

Stefan sighed, nodded.  He explained about Brendan's loss of faith and

about the unconventional therapy that had included a week in a police

patrol car.  "You and Officer Armes weren't told he was a priest because

you might've treated him differently .  .  .  and because I wished to

spare him embarrassment."

"A fallen priest," Winton said, looking baffled.

"Not fallen," Father Wycazik said confidently.  "Merely faltering. He'll

regain his faith in time."

The room's inadequate light came from a dim lamp on the nightstand and

from a single narrow window, leaving the dark policeman in velvet gloom.

The whites of his eyes were twin lamps, very bright by contrast with the

darknesses of shadows and genetic heritage.  "How did Brendan heal me

when I was shot?  How did he perform that .  .  .  miracle?  How?"

"Why have you decided it was a miracle?"

"I was shot twice in the chest, point-blank.  Three days later I left

the hospital.  Three days!  In ten days, I was ready to go back to work,

but they made me stay home two weeks.  Doctors kept talking about my

hardy physical condition, the extraordinary healing that's possible if a

body's in tip-top shape. I started thinking they were trying to explain

my recovery not to me but to themselves.  But I still figured I was just

really lucky.  I came back to work a week ago, and then .  .  .

something else happened." Winton unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it open,

and lifted his undershirt to reveal his bare chest. "The scars."

Father Wycazik shivered.  Though he was close to Winton, he leaned

closer, staring in amazement.  The man's chest was unmarked.  Well, not

entirely unmarked, but the entry wounds had already healed until they

were just discolored spots as big as dimes.  The surgeon's incisions had

almost vanished thin lines visible now only on close inspection.  This

soon after major trauma, some swelling and inflammation should have been

evident, but there was none.  The minimal scar tissue was pale

pink-brown against dark-brown skin, neither lumpy nor puckered.

"I've seen other guys with old bullet wounds," Winton said, his

excitement still restrained by a rope of fear.  "Lots of them. Gnarly,

thick.  Ugly.  You don't take two .38s in the chest, undergo major

surgery, and look like this three weeks later or ever."

"When's the last time you visited your doctor?  Has he seen this?"

Winton rebuttoned his shirt with trembling hands.  "I saw Dr.  Sonneford

a week ago.  The sutures hadn't been removed long before, and my chest

was still a mess.  It's only been the past four days that the scars

melted away.  I swear, Father, if I stand at a mirror long enough, I can

see them fading."

Finishing with his shirt buttons, Winton said, "Lately, I've been

thinking about your visit to the hospital Christmas Day. The more I've

gone over it in my mind, the more it seems your behavior was peculiar. I

remember some of what you said, some of the questions you asked about

Brendan, and I start wondering.  .  .  .  One thing I wonder about-one

thing I've got to know -is whether Brendan Cronin ever healed anyone

else."

"Yes.  Nothing as dramatic as your case.  But there's an other.  I'm . .

.  not at liberty to reveal who," Stefan said. "But this isn't why you

called the rectory, Winton.  Not to show Brendan how well you've healed.

Your voice was so full of urgency, even panic.  And what about all these

policemen with the Mendozas ...  ?  What's happened here, Winton?"

A mercurial smile appeared on-and quickly faded fromthe man's broad

face, followed by a transient glimmer of fear. Emotional turmoil was

also evident in his voice.  "We're cruising.  Me and Paul.  We get a

call.  This address.  We get here, find a sixteen-year-old kid high on

PCP.  You know what they're like on PCP sometimes?  Crazy.  Animals.

Damn stuff eats brain cells.  Later, after it's over, we find out his

name's Ernesto, son of Mrs.  Mendoza's sister.  He came to live here a

week ago because his mother can't control him any more. The Mendozas ...

they're good people.  You see how they keep this place?"

Father Wycazik nodded.

Winton said, "The kind of people take in a nephew when he's gone wrong,

try to set him straight.  But you can't set a kid like that straight.

You break your heart trying, Father. This Ernesto, he's been in trouble

since he was in fifth grade. Juvenile arrest record.  Six offenses.  Two

of them pretty serious.  We get here, he's naked as a jaybird, screaming

his head off, eyes bugged out like the pressure in his head's going to

blow his skull apart."

Winton's gaze unfocused, as if he were seeing back into time and had as

clear a view of that scene as when he had first encountered it.

"Ernesto's got Hector, the little boy you probably saw when you came in,

he's got him down on the sofa, holding him, and he's got a goddamn

six-inch switchblade at Hector's throat. Mr.  Mendoza ...  well, he's

going crazy, wanting to rush Ernesto and take the knife, but scared

Ernesto will slash Hector.  Ernesto's screaming, he was blissed on angel

dust. He's PCP-crazy, and you can't talk sense to him.  We drew our guns

because you don't just walk up to some doped-out freak with a knife and

shake hands.  But we didn't want to try to shoot him because he had the

knife at Hector's throat, Hector was crying, and Ernesto could've killed

the kid if we made the wrong move.  So we tried to talk him down, talk

him away from Hector, and we seemed to make headway, cause he started to

take the knife off the boy.  But then all of a sudden, Jesus, he slashed

quick, cut Hector's throat almost from ear to ear, deep"-Winton

shuddered-"deep. Then he raised the knife over his head, so we shot him,

I'm not sure how many times, blew him away, and he fell dead on top of

Hector.  We pulled him off, and there was little Hector, one hand trying

to close up the hole in his throat, blood spurting between his fingers,

eyes already glazing over.........

The cop took a deep breath and shuddered again.  His eyes came back into

focus, as if he needed to retreat from the horror of the past.  He

looked toward the window, beyond which the gray winter daylight sifted

like soot over the gray Uptown street.

Stefan's heart had begun to pound, not because of the bloody horror that

Winton had described but because he could see where the cop's story had

to be leading, and he was eager to hear the miracle described.

Looking at the window, Winton continued.  His voice grew shakier as he

spoke: "There's no first aid for that kind of wound, Father.  Severed

arteries, veins.  Big arteries in the neck.  Blood pumps out like water

from a hose, and you can't use a tourniquet, not on a neck, and direct

pressure won't seal up a carotid artery.  Shit, no.  I knelt on the

floor beside the sofa, and I saw Hector was dying fast.  He looked so

little, Father, so little.  That kind of wound, they're gone in two

minutes, sometimes a lot less, and he was so little.  I knew it was

useless, but I put my hands on Hector's neck, like somehow I could hold

the blood in him, hold the life in him.  I was sick, angry, scared, and

it just wasn't right that a boy so little should die that way, that

hard, not right he should die at all, not right, and then .  .  .

then..  .  ."

"And then he healed," Father Wycazik said softly.

Winton Tolk finally looked away from the gray light at the window and

met Stefan's eyes.  "Yes, Father.  He healed.  He was soaked in his own

blood, seconds away from death, but he healed.  I didn't even know what

was happening, didn't feel it happening, nothing special in my hands.

Wouldn't you think I'd feel something special in my hands?  But the

first I realized that something incredible was happening was when the

blood stopped spurting against my fingers, and the boy shut his eyes at

the same time, which was when I thought he was dead for sure, and I just

.  .  .  I shouted, 'No!  God, no!' And I started to take my hands away

from Hector's throat, to look at it, and that's when I saw the wound was

...  the wound was closed up.  It still had a raw, ugly look to it, an

awful line where the knife cut deep, but the flesh was knit together

into a bright red scar, a healing scar."

The big man stopped speaking because shimmery lenses of tears had formed

over his eyes.  He was overcome once more. If he'd been racked by grief,

he probably would have suppressed it, but this was something even more

powerful: joy. Pure wild disbelieving joy.  He could not contain several

explosive, wrenching sobs.

With hot tears in his own eyes, Father Wycazik held out both hands.

Winton took them, squeezed them tight, and did not let go as he

continued: "Paul, my partner, saw it happen.  So did the Mendozas.  And

two other uniforms arrived just as we shot Ernest: They saw it, too. And

when I looked at that red line across his throat, somehow I knew what I

had to do. I put my hands on the boy again, covered up the wound again,

and I thought about him being alive, sort of wished him alive. My mind

was in high gear, and I made the connection with Brendan and me, the

sandwich shop.  I thought about how the scars on my chest had been

disappearing the last few days, and I knew somehow it's connected.  So I

kept my hands on his throat, and in a minute or so he opened his eyes,

he smiled at me, you should've seen that smile, Father, so I took my

hands away again, and the scar was there but lighter.  The boy sat up

and asked for his mother, and that's ...  that's when I went to pieces."

Winton paused and gulped some air. "Mrs.  Mendoza took Hector into the

bathroom, stripped him out of his bloody clothes, bathed him, and all

the time more people from the department kept showing up.  Word was

getting around.  Thank God, the reporters haven't cottoned to it yet."

For a while the two men sat facing each other in silence, gripping

hands.  Then Stefan said, "Did you try to bring Ernesto back?"

"Yes.  In spite of what he'd done, I put my hands on his wounds.  But it

didn't work with him, Father.  Maybe because he was already dead. Hector

was only dying, not yet gone, but Ernesto was dead."

"Did you notice odd marks in your hands, on your palms?

Red rings of swollen flesh?"

"Nothing like that.  What would it've meant if there'd been rings?"

"I don't know," Father Wycazik said.  "But they appear in Brendan's

hands when ...  when these things happen."

They were silent again, and then Winton said, "Is Brendan ...  is Father

Cronin some kind of saint?"

Father Wycazik smiled.  "He's a good man.  But he's no saint."

"Then how did he heal me?"

"I don't know precisely.  But surely it's a manifestation of the power

of God.  Somehow.  For some reason."

"But how did Brendan pass along this power to heal?"

"I don't know, Winton.  If he did pass it along.  Maybe the power isn't

yours.  Maybe it's just God acting through you, first through Brendan

and then through you."

At last Winton let go of Father Wycazik's hands.  He turned his palms up

and stared at them.  "No, the power's still here, still in me.  I know

that.  Somehow.  I feel it.  And not just ...  not just the power to

heal.  There's more."

Father Wycazik raised his eyebrows.  "More?  What else?"

Winton frowned.  "I don't know yet.  It's all so new.  So strange.  But

I feel ...  more.  It'll take time for it to develop."

He looked up from the pale palms of his callused black hands,

awe-stricken and fearful.  "What is Father Cronin, and what has he made

of me?"

"Winton, get rid of the notion there's anything evil or dangerous about

this.  It's entirely a wondrous thing.  Think of Hector, the child you

saved.  Remember what it was like to feel life regaining its hold in his

small body.  We're players in a divine mystery, Winton.  We can't

understand the meaning of it until God allows us to understand."

Father Wycazik said he wanted to have a look at the boy, Hector Mendoza,

and Winton said, "I'm not ready to go out there and face that crowd,

even though they're mostly my people.  I'll stay here a while.  You'll

come back?"

" I've got other rather urgent business this morning, Winton.  I have to

get on with it soon.  But I'll be in touch with you.  Oh, you can be

sure of that!  And if you need me, just call St.  Bette's."

When Stefan left the bedroom, the waiting crowd of policemen and lab

technicians fell silent as before.  They parted in his path as he

crossed to the dinette table, where little Hector was now perched on his

mother's lap, nibbling happily at a Hershey bar with almonds.

The boy was small, even for a six-year-old, with delicate facial bones.

His eyes were bright and full of intelligence, proof that he'd suffered

no brain damage in spite of losing most of his blood.  But even more

astonishing was the fact that his lost blood had evidently been

replaced, without need of transfusions, which made the boy's recovery

even more miraculous than Tolk's.  The power in Winton's hands seemed

greater than it had been in Brendan's.

When Father Wycazik stooped down to be at eye-level with Hector, the

child grinned at him.  "How are you feeling, Hector?"

"Okay," the boy said shyly.

"Do you remember what happened to you, Hector?"

The child licked chocolate from his lips and shook his head: no.

"Is that a good candy bar?"

The boy nodded and offered Father Wycazik a bite.

The priest smiled.  "Thank you, Hector, but that's all yours."

"Mama might give you one," Hector said.  "But don't drop any on the

carpet.  That's big trouble."

Stefan looked up at Mrs.  Mendoza.  "He really doesn't remember .  .

.?"

"No," she said.  "God lifted the memory from him, Father."

"You're Catholic, Mrs.  Mendoza?"

,,Yes, Father," she said, crossing herself with her free hand.

"Do you attend Our Lady of Sorrow?  Yes, well, that's Father Nilo's

parish.  Have you called him?"

"No, Father.  I didn't know if .  .  ."

Father Wycazik looked up at Mr.  Mendoza, who stood on the other side of

his wife's chair.  "Call Father Nilo.  Tell him what's happened, ask him

to come.  Explain that I'll be gone when he gets here but that I'll talk

to him later.  Explain that I've much to tell him, that what he sees

here isn't the whole story."

Mr.  Mendoza hurried to the telephone.

Looking up at one of the detectives who had come close, Stefan said,

"Have you taken pictures of the boy's throat wound?"

The detective nodded.  "Yeah.  Standard procedure." He laughed

nervously.  "What am I saying?  There's nothing standard about this."

"Just so you have photographs to prove this happened," Father Wycazik

said.  "Because I think soon there will be little or no scar."

He turned to the boy again.  "Now, Hector, if it's okay, I'd like to

touch your throat.  I'd like to feel that mark."

The boy lowered the candy bar.

Father Wycazik's fingers were trembling when they touched the fiery scar

tissue and moved slowly around the boy's neck from one end of the wound

to the other.  A strong pulse beat in the carotid arteries on each side

of the slender young throat, and Stefan's heart leapt when he felt the

miracle of life.  Death had been defeated here, and Stefan believed he

had been privileged to witness a fulfillment of the promise which was at

the root of the Church's existence: "Death shall not last; unto you

shall be given life everlasting." Tears rose in the priest's eyes.

When at last Stefan reluctantly took his hand away from the boy and

stood, one of the policemen said, "What's it mean, Father?  I heard you

tell Mr.  Mendoza this wasn't the whole story.  What's happening?"

Stefan turned to look upon the assembly, which now numbered twenty.  In

their faces, he saw a longing to believe, not particularly in the truths

of Catholicism or Christianity, for not all were Catholics or

Christians, but a deep-seated longing to believe in something greater

and better and cleaner than humankind, an intense yearning for spiritual

transcendence.

"What's it mean, Father?" one of them asked again.

"Something's happening," he told them.  "Here, elsewhere. A great and

wonderful something.  This child is part of it.  I can't tell you for

sure what it means or that we've seen the hand of God here, though I

believe we have.  Look at Hector on his mother's lap, eating candy, and

remember God's promise: "There shall be no more death, neither sorrow

nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things

are passed away." In my heart of hearts, I feel that the former things

are about to pass away.  Now I must go.  I've urgent business."

Somewhat to his surprise, even though his explanation had been vague,

they parted to make way for him and did not detain him further, perhaps

because the miracle of Hector Mendoza had not been vague-had in fact

been emphatically specific-and had already given them more answers than

they could handle.  But as Stefan went, some reached out to touch him,

to squeeze his hand or shoulder, not with religious fervor but with an

emotional camaraderie.  Stefan was overcome by the need to touch them as

well, to share a profound sense of the community of humankind, which had

filled everyone -in the room, to share the conviction that they were

being swept toward some great destiny.

In Boston, at ten o'clock, Alexander Christophson, former United States

Senator and Ambassador to Great Britain, former Director of the CIA, now

retired for a decade, was reading the morning newspaper when he received

a telephone call from his brother, Philip, the antiques dealer in

Greenwich, Connecticut.  They spoke for five minutes about nothing

important, just two brothers keeping in touch, but the conversation had

a secret purpose.  At the end Philip said, "Oh, by the way, I spoke with

Diana just this morning.  Do you remember her?"

"I certainly do," Alex said.  "How's she doing?"

"Oh, she has her troubles," Philip said.  "Too boring to discuss.  But

she says hello." Then he changed the subject, recommending two new books

that Alex might enjoy, as if Diana were of no real importance.

Diana was the code word that meant Ginger Weiss had phoned Philip and

needed to speak with Alex.  The moment he had seen Ginger at Pablo's

funeral, her silver-blond hair a-shimmer as if with a light of its own,

she had made him think of Diana, goddess of the moon.

After he said goodbye to Philip, he told his wife, Elena, that he

intended to drive to the mall.  "I want to stop at the bookstore and

pick up a couple of novels that Philip recommended."

He actually went to the mall, but before he bought the books, he found a

public phone booth and, using his AT&T credit card, called Philip to get

the number that Ginger Weiss had left.

"She says it's a pay phone in Elko, Nevada," Philip told him.

When Alex put the Nevada call through, Ginger Weiss did not answer until

the fifth ring.  "Sorry," she said.  "I was in the car, parked beside

the booth.  It was just too cold to stand here and wait."

"What are you doing in Nevada?" Alex asked.

"If I understood you correctly at Pablo's funeral, you really don't want

me to answer questions like that."

"Right.  Less I know, the better.  What did you want to ask me?"

She explained, with a minimum of detail, that she had found others

suffering from memory blocks similar to hers, some with different false

memories covering the same time span.  Since Alex was the expert on

brainwashing, Ginger wanted to know if implanting fake memories that

included threads of reality was more difficult than implanting entirely

false recollections, and he was able to assure her that, indeed, it was.

"That's what we figured," Ginger said.  "But it's good to hear you

confirm it.  Shows we're on the right track.  Now, one more thing: I

want you to get some information for us. We need to know whatever you

can learn about a Colonel Leland Falkirk, an officer in one of the

Army's elite DERO companies.  I also need-"

"Wait, wait," Alex said, looking nervously through the glass door of the

booth at shoppers walking past in the mall, as if he were already under

observation or even targeted for removal.  "At the cemetery, I said I'd

provide advice or background on mind-control techniques.  But I warned

you I wouldn't dig up information.  I explained my position."

"Well, even though you've been retired for years, you must still know

people in many of the right places-"

"Didn't you hear me, Doctor?  I will not get actively involved in your

problems.  I simply can't afford to.  I've got too much to lose."

"Now, don't worry about digging up anything exotic or highly classified.

We don't expect that," she said, as if she had not heard him.  "Just the

bare details of Falkirk's service record might help us understand him

and form an idea of what to expect from him."

"Please, I-" But she was indefatigable: "I also need to know about the

Thunder Hill Depository, an Army facility here in Elko County."

"No."

"It's supposed to be an underground storage facility, and maybe that's

all it was for a long time, or maybe it's always been something else,

but I know it's not just an underground warehouse these days."

"Doctor, I won't do this for you."

"Colonel Leland Falkirk and Thunder Hill Depository.  It's not so much

to ask: no deep snooping, just what details you can glean.  Talk to your

old friends whore still in the game. Then report to either Dr.  George

Hannaby there in Boston or to Father Stefan Wycazik, a priest in

Chicago."." She gave him phone numbers.  "I can get in touch with them,

and they won't mention your name when they tell me what you've reported.

That way you don't have to call me direct, and you stay in the clear."

He tried and failed to control the palsied shaking of his hands.

"Doctor, I'm sorry I volunteered even limited assistance.  I'm an old

man who's afraid to die."

"You're also worried about sins you might've committed in the name of

duty," she said, repeating what he'd told her at the cemetery.  "And

you'd probably like to do something to atone for some of those sins,

real or imagined.  This would be atonement of a sort, Mr.  Christophson.

" She repeated the telephone numbers for Hannaby and Wycazik.

"No.  If you're interrogated, remember I said no, emphatically no."

With maddening good cheer, she said, "Oh, and it would help if you had

something for me within the next six or eight hours.  I know that's a

tall order.  But then again, I'm only asking for basic information,

whatever's in the unclassified files."

"Goodbye, Doctor," he said pointedly.

"I'll look forward to hearing from you."

"You will not hear from me."

"Toodle-oo," she said, and hung up on him first.

"Christ!" he said, slamming the receiver down.

She was an attractive woman, personable, intelligent, appealing in so

many ways.  But her absolute conviction that she would always get what

she wanted-this was a trait he sometimes admired in a man, seldom or

never in a woman.  Well,

she'd be disappointed this time.  This time, she'd not get what she

wanted.  Damned if she would.

Yet ...  with his Cross pen, he had made note of the telephone numbers

for Hannaby and Wycazik, which she had given him.

Dom and Ernie set out early Tuesday morning to reconnoiter at least part

of the perimeter of Thunder Hill Depository. They went in Jack Twist's

new Jeep Cherokee.  Jack himself was sleeping back at the motel, having

gone to bed only a few hours ago, after spending half the night driving

around Elko, staying on the move with Brendan Cronin and Jorja

Monatella.  Both the Cherokee and the motel's Dodge van had four-wheel

drive, but the Jeep was tougher, more maneuverable.  The foothill and

mountain roads up toward Thunder Hill might be icy in spots, and as the

day promised new snow, they wanted the most reliable transportation.

Dom did not like the look of the sky.  Thick dark clouds hung low over

the high plains, lower over the foothills, and obscured the tops of the

mountains.  The weather forecast called for the first big storm of the

year (later than usual this season), as much as fourteen inches of snow

in the higher elevations.  Not a single flake had fallen yet.

The raised and threatening lash of winter did not induce a pensive mood

in Dom or Ernie; they were in high spirits upon setting out from the

motel.  They were finally doing something, acting not just reacting.  In

addition, there was the pleasant fellowship that exists when men who

like each other set out on an adventure together-a fishing trip or an

expedition to a ballpark.  Or a scouting trip to explore the perimeter

defenses of a military installation.

In no little measure, their excellent mood grew from the unexpected

peacefulness of the night just past.  For the first time in weeks, Dom's

sleep hadn't been disturbed by nightmares or sleepwalking.  He'd dreamed

only of an undetailed chamber filled with golden light, evidently the

same place that featured in Brendan's dreams.  Likewise, instead of

lying awake in fear of the shadows beyond the glow of the bedside lamp,

Ernie had drifted off to sleep at once.  The others also said it was the

most restful night in recent memory.  Ginger's theory, put forth over a

quick cup of coffee this morning, was that their worst dreams had been

related not to the mysterious events they'd witnessed on the night of

July 6, but to the subsequent brainwashing.  Therefore, now that they

had an idea of what they'd endured at the hands of the mindcontrol

experts, the subconscious pressure related to those experiences was

relieved, eliminating the source of those particular bad dreams.

And Dom had a reason of his own to feel good about the day.  This

morning, no one had looked warily at him or treated him with deference

because of his telekinetic power.  At first he was baffled by their

quick adjustment to his new status. Then he realized what must be going

through their minds: Since they had shared his experiences of the summer

before last, it was logical that they would also share his strange power

sooner or later.  They must believe their own development of paranormal

abilities was merely lagging behind his.  Eventually, if they did not

acquire the power, they might build the emotional, intellectual, and

psychological walls between them and him that would isolate him, as he

feared.  But for the moment, anyway, they were acting as if no gulf

separated them from him, and he was grateful.

Now, humming softly, Ernie drove north on the two-lane county road,

leaving the motel and the interstate behind them. They climbed some of

the same rugged hills down which Jack Twist had come last night when

making his clandestine approach to the Tranquility (although Jack had

traveled overland), and Dom studied the changing terrain with interest.

The rising land seemed leaner the higher it rose, revealing less flesh

and more rocky bones that poked up everywhere in clavicles and scapulae

and sternums of limestone, in fibulae and femurs of crumbling shale, in

occasional ribs and spines of formidable granite.  As if in awareness of

the colder air of higher altitudes, the land wore more clothes: thicker

petticoats of grass; more lavish skirts of sage and other bushes; then

trees, trees, more trees-mountain mahogany, tall pines, cedar,

quaking-aspen, and on eastern slopes, an occasional spruce or fir.

They'd gone only three miles when they reached the snow line.  A thin

mantle flanked the road at first, but in the next two miles it deepened

to eight inches.  Although a winter drought had held sway from September

until early December, and although no major storm had swept the area yet

this season, a few light snows had put down a respectable groundcover,

also frosting the bristled boughs of the evergreens.

But for a few small scattered patches of ice, the county road was

cleared for easy travel.  "They always keep it clean as far as Thunder

Hill, even in killing weather," Ernie explained.  "But up beyond the

Depository, the road crews don't do as thorough a job."

In no time they had gone ten miles, always following the crest of the

valley that fell away on the east, and always with rising mountains on

the west.  They passed several dirt and gravel lanes leading to isolated

homes and ranches in the eastward-sloping lands to their right, and at

the ten-mile point they reached the guarded entrance road to Thunder

Hill Depository, also on the right.

Ernie slowed the Cherokee but did not turn into the entranceway.

"Haven't been this far up here in a long time. They've made changes

since I saw the place last.  Didn't used to look this formidable."

A sign announced the Depository.  Beside the sign another paved road

branched off the county lane, leading away between towering pines of

such a dark-green hue they seemed nearly black in the somber prestorm

light.  Fifteen feet in from the turnoff, the lane was blocked by long

metal spikes that speared up from the pavement, precisely angled to

puncture the tires of any vehicle that tried to proceed farther, but

also large enough to catch on the axle of a hurtling truck or car and

instantly arrest its progress.  Twenty feet beyond the spikes, there was

a massive steel gate, crowned with spears, painted red.  A

concrete-block guardhouse-twenty feet by ten-stood inside the gate, and

its black metal door looked capable of withstanding a bazooka barrage.

Ernie pulled to the edge of the main road and slowed almost to a full

stop as they eased past the entrance to Thunder Hill. He pointed to a

yard-square post at the verge of the entrance lane, just this side of

the wicked spikes.  "Looks like an intercom to the guardhouse.  Not just

a voice link, either.  One of those systems like they have in drive-in

banks, with a video monitor so they can see you in your car.  The man in

the guardhouse approves' a visitor before the road spikes lower and the

gate opens.  Even then, I'll bet there're permanently emplaced machine

guns to take you out if the guard decides he's been duped after he's

already opened the gates."

From each end of the gate, an eight-foot-high chainlink fence with a

barbed-wire overhang disappeared into the trees, and Dom noted a white

sign with red lettering that warned DANGER-ELECTRiFIED.  Although the

perimeter fence led into the forest, no trees overhung it; from the

small sections that he could see flanking the main gate, there appeared

to be a twenty-foot-wide no-man's-land on each side.

Dom's good mood faded.  He'd thought that the security along the

perimeter of the facility would be minimal.  After all, once you got

onto the grounds, the actual entrance to Thunder Hill was through eight-

or ten-foot-thick blast doors set in the hillside.  That barrier was so

impregnable that it seemed wasteful to install maximum security around

the entire outer edge of the property.  Yet that was what they had done.

Which meant the secret they were guarding was so important that they did

not even trust nuclearproof doors and subterranean limestone vaults to

keep it safe.

"The spikes in the road are new," Ernie said.  "And the gate they had a

couple of years ago was pretty flimsy by comparison.  The fence was

always here, but it wasn't electrified before."

"We've no hope at all of getting a look inside."

Although no one had said as much (for fear of sounding foolish), they

all hoped they might get as far as the blast doors of the facility, have

a look around the newly expanded grounds that had been taken from

ranchers Brust and Dirkson, and be fortunate enough to stumble across

another piece of the puzzle they were committed to solve.  Dom had never

imagined they would actually get inside the underground rooms of Thunder

Hill.  That was an improbable scenario.  But from the comfort of the

Tranquility Motel, getting onto the grounds and snooping around had not

seemed like an impossible dream. Until now.

Dom wondered if his newly discovered telekinetic powers might be used to

circumvent the Depository's fortifications, but he dismissed that

thought as quickly as it occurred to him.  Until he could control the

gift, it was of little use.  It scared him.  He sensed that the power

was sufficient to cause tremendous destruction and death if he lost

control of it, and he would not take the chance again-except under very

tightly controlled conditions.

"Well," Ernie said, "it was never our intention to try waltzing through

the front gate.  Let's have a look along some of the perimeter fence."

He touched his foot lightly on the accelerator.  Looking in the rearview

mirror, he said, "Oh, and by the way, we're being followed."

Startled, Dom turned and looked through the rear window of the Cherokee.

Less than a hundred yards behind was a pickup truck, an all-terrain job,

loftily perched on tires twice as wide and more than twice as high as

ordinary tires.  Spotlights, currently unlit, were mounted on the roof,

and a snowplow, currently raised off the road, was fitted to the front.

Although Dom was certain that private citizens living in the mountains

might own similar trucks, this one had the look of a military vehicle.

The windshield was tinted, the driver unrevealed.

He said, "You sure they're following us?  When did they show up?"

Piloting the Cherokee up the county road, Ernie said, "I noticed them

about half a mile after we left the motel.  When we slow down, they slow

down, too.  When we speed up, so do they."

"You think there's going to be trouble?"

"There will be if they ask for it.  They're probably only Army pussies,"

Ernie said.  He grinned.

Dom laughed.  "Don't get me in a war just to prove Leathernecks are

tougher than GIs.  I'll happily accept your word for it."

The road became steeper.  The somber ashen sky grew lower. The dark

trees drew closer on both sides.  The pickup stayed behind them.

Mrs.  Halbourg, Emmy's mother, answered the door, letting a puff of warm

air out of the house into the frigid Chicago morning.

Father Wycazik said, "Sorry to come unannounced like this, but the most

extraordinary thing is happening, and I had to find out if Emmy-"

He stopped in midsentence when he realized that Mrs. Halbourg was in

terrible distress.  Her eyes were wide with shock-with fear, too.

Before he could ask what was wrong, she said, "My God, it's you, Father.

From the hospital, I remember.  But how did you know to come?  We

haven't called anyone yet.  How'd you know to come?"

"What's happened?"

Rather than answer, she took him by the arm, ushered him inside, slammed

the door, and hurried him upstairs.  "This way.  Quickly."

Coming directly from the Mendozas' apartment Uptown, he expected to find

something odd at the Halbourg place, but not this state of crisis.  When

they reached the second-floor hallway, Mr.  Halbourg was there with one

of Emmy's older sisters.  They were standing halfway down the hall at an

open door, staring into a room at something that seemed equally to

attract and repel them.  In the room, something thumped, rattled, then

thumped twice again, followed by a musical burst of girlish laughter.

Mr.  Halbourg turned, a ghastly expression on his face, and blinked in

surprise at Stefan.  "Father, thank God you're here, we didn't know what

to do, didn't want to make complete fools of ourselves by calling for

help and then maybe nothing's happening when help gets here, you know.

But now you've come, so it's settled, and I'm relieved."

Stefan looked warily through the open doorway and saw the usual

accouterments of a bedroom occupied by a girl of ten-going-on-eleven,

the changeling age between childhood and adolescence: half a dozen teddy

bears; big posters of the current teenage idols, boys utterly unknown to

Stefan; a wooden hat rack hung with a collection of exotic chapeaux

probably purchased from thrift shops; roller skates; a tape deck; a

flute lying in an open case.  Emmy's other sister-in a white sweater,

tartan-plaid skirt, and kneesocks-was standing a few feet inside the

room, pale and half-paralyzed. Emmy was standing up in bed, pajama-clad,

looking even healthier than on Christmas Day.  She was hugging a pillow,

grinning at the same astonishing performance-a poltergeist at play-that

riveted her sister and frightened the rest of her family.

As Father Wycazik stepped into the room, Emmy laughed delightedly at the

antics of two small teddy bears waltzing in midair.  Their movements

were nearly as precise and formal as those of real dancers.

But the bears were not the only inanimate objects infused with magical

life.  The roller skates were not standing still in a corner but were

moving about on separate courses, this one past the foot of the bed and

then to the closet door, that one to the desk, this one to the window,

moving fast, then slow. The hats jiggled on the rack. A Care Bear on a

bookshelf bounced up and down.

Stefan went to the foot of the bed, careful to avoid the roller skates,

and looked up at Emmy, who still stood on the mattress.  "Emmy?"

The girl glanced down at him.  "Pudge's friend!  Hello, Father. Isn't it

terrific?  Isn't it wild?"

"Emmy, is this you?" he asked, gesturing at the capering objects.

"Me?" she said, genuinely surprised.  "No.  Not me."

But he noticed that the flying-waltzing bears faltered when she turned

her attention away from them.  They did not drop to the floor, but

bobbled and turned and bumped against one another in a clumsy and

aimless manner quite different from their previous measured grace.

He also saw indications that the previous phenomena had not all been

this harmless.  A ceramic lamp had been knocked to the floor and broken.

One of the posters was torn.  The dresser mirror was cracked.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, Emmy said, "It was scary at first. But

it calmed down, and now it's just .  .  .  fun.  Isn't it fun?"

As she was speaking, the flute rose out of the open carrying case, up

and up, until it was about seven feet off the floor, only a few feet to

the left of the floating teddy bears.  Out of the corner of her eye, the

girl caught a glimpse of the rising instrument.  When she turned to look

directly at the flute, sweet music began to issue from it, not just

random notes but a well-executed tune.  Emmy jumped up and down on the

bed excitedly.  "That's 'Annie's Song'!  I used to play that."

"You're playing it now," Stefan said.

"Oh, no," she said, still staring at the flute.  "My hands got so bad,

my knuckle joints, that I had to give up the flute a year ago.  I'm

cured now, but my hands still aren't good enough to play."

Stefan said, "But you aren't using your hands to play it,

Emmy."

His meaning finally penetrated.  She looked down at him.

"Me?"

Deprived of her focused attention, the flute produced only a few more

poorly executed notes and fell silent.  It still hung in the air, but

now it bobbled and dipped erratically.  Emmy returned her attention to

the instrument.  It steadied in the air and began to play again.

"Me," she said wonderingly.  She turned to her sister, who was still

paralyzed by fear and amazement.  "Me," Emmy said, then looked at her

parents, who were standing in the doorway.  "Me!"

Stefan appreciated what the child must be feeling, and his throat was

pinched so tightly with emotion that he had difficulty swallowing.  A

month ago, she'd been a cripple, unable to dress herself, with nothing

to look forward to except further deterioration, pain, and death.  Now

she was not only cured and her damaged bones reknit, but she was also in

possession of this spectacular gift.

Father Wycazik wanted to tell her that somehow this gift had been given

to her unwittingly by Brendan Cronin, her Pudge, but then he would have

to explain where Brendan had gotten his gift, and he could not do that.

Besides, he hadn't time even to tell them what he did know.  It was

ninefifteen.  He should have been in Evanston by now.  Time was of the

essence, for Stefan was beginning to suspect that he would be catching a

flight for Nevada before the day ended. Whatever was happening in Elko

County was bound to be even more incredible than what was happening

here, and he was determined to be a part of it.

Emmy looked at the floating bears, and they resumed their formal dance

once more.  She giggled.

Stefan thought about what Winton Tolk had said only a short while ago in

the Mendozas' Uptown apartment: The power's still here, still in me.  I

know .  .  .  I feel it.  And not just .  .  .  not just the power to

heal.  There's more.  Winton had not known what powers he might possess

in addition to the healing touch, but Stefan suspected that the

policeman was in for some surprises similar to those that had thrown the

Halbourg household into turmoil.

"Father, will you do it yourself?" Mr.  Halbourg asked from the doorway,

where he stood with his wife, his voice sharp

with anxiety.

Mrs.  Halbourg said, "Please, we want it to be done as soon as possible.

Immediately.  Can't you begin at once?"

Baffled, Stefan said, "I'm sorry .  .  .  but what is it you want done?"

Mr.  Halbourg said, "An exorcism, of course!"

Stefan stared at them incredulously, only now fully realizing why they

had been in such distress when he had arrived and why they had greeted

him with such relief.  He laughed.  "There won't be any need for an

exorcism.  This isn't Satan at work. Oh, no.  My heavens, no!"

From the corner of his eye, Stefan saw movement on the floor.  He looked

down at a two-foot-high teddy bear that was tottering past him on stiff

little stuffed legs.

Winton Tolk had said that he sensed he would need a long time to learn

what his powers were and to be able to control them.  Either he was

wrong or the task was far easier for Emmy than for him.  That might be

the case.  Children were much more adaptable than adults.

Emmy's parents and her other sister edged into the room, fascinated but

wary.

Stefan understood their wariness.  All seemed well, the power benign.

But the situation was so awesome, so profoundly affecting on a primitive

level, that even an unfaltering optimist like Stefan Wycazik felt a

tingle of fear.

After using a pay phone at a Shell service station in Elko to get in

touch with Alexander Christophson in Boston, Ginger accompanied Faye to

Elroy and Nancy Jamison's ranch in the Lemoille Valley, twenty miles

from Elko.  The Jamisons were the Blocks' friends who had been visiting

on the evening of July 6, the summer before last.  They had surely been

caught up in the unknown events of that night and had been detained at

the motel for brainwashing, with everyone else, though they remembered

differently, of course.  According to their program of false memories,

they had been allowed to evacuate the danger zone, taking Ernie and Faye

with them.  They believed they had returned to their small ranch, where

they and the Blocks had passed the next few days.  That was also what

Faye and Ernie had believed-until recently.

Ginger and Faye were paying a visit to the Jamisons not to inform them

of what had actually happened but to determine, as indirectly as

possible, if the Jamisons were having troubles of the kind afflicting

Ginger, Ernie, Dom, and some

of the others.  If they were suffering, they would be brought into the

mutually supportive community at the motel-the members of which had come

to think of themselves as the "Tranquility family"-and would join the

search for answers.

But if the brainwashing had been effective, the Jamisons would not be

told anything.  To tell the Jamisons would be to endanger them.

Besides, given the urgent strategy developed last night with Jack Twist,

if the Jamisons were not already suffering, there was no point wasting a

lot of time convincing them that they'd' been brainwashed.  Time was

precious, and every passing hour carried the Tranquility family deeper

into danger.  Jack believed-and convinced Ginger-that their enemies

would soon move against them.

The drive from Elko in the motel's van was quick and scenic.  The

picturesque Lemoille Valley-fifteen miles long, four miles wide-began at

the foot of the Ruby Mountains. Wheat, barley, and potato farms occupied

the lowlands, though the fields were unplanted now, slumbering under

scattered patches of snow.

Between the valley floor and the mountains, the higher lands and

foothills offered lush pasturage, and that was where the Jamisons had

their ranch.  At one time, they owned hundreds of acres on which they

raised cattle, but eventually they sold off much of their property,

which had risen substantially in value, and got out of the livestock

business.  Now, in their early sixties and retired, they owned about

fifty acres in the foothills, employed no ranch hands, and kept only

three horses and a few chickens.

As Faye turned off the main valley road onto a lane leading into the

highlands, she said, "I think someone's following US.

The back doors of the van had no windows, so Ginger looked at the

side-mounted mirror.  A nondescript sedan was about a hundred feet

behind them.  "How do you know?"

"Same car's been back there since the Union 76 in town."

"Maybe it's coincidence," Ginger said.

When they had followed the lane over halfway up the valley wall, they

reached the long narrow driveway to the Jamisons' ranch, which led half

a mile back through deep shadows thrown by flanking rows of big pines.

Faye pulled into the driveway and slowed to see what the other car would

do.  Instead of going past, farther up into the hills, it pulled to a

stop and parked along the outer lane, directly across from the entrance

to the Jamisons' property.

In the sideview mirror, Ginger could see that the car was a late-model

Plymouth, painted a flat ugly brown-green.

"Obviously a government heap," Faye said.

"Pretty bold, aren't they?"

"Well, if they've been eavesdropping on us the way Jack says, through

our own telephones, then they know we're on to them, so maybe they

figure there's no point in playing coy with us." Faye took her foot off

the brake and headed up the driveway.

Watching the unmarked Plymouth dwindle in the side mirror, Ginger said,

"Or maybe they're getting in position to take us into custody.  Maybe

they've put tails on all of us, and maybe they're just waiting for the

order to snatch us all at the same time."

On the narrow, gravel driveway, the interlacing shadows of the

overarching pines wove a darkness nearly as deep as night.

As they drove up the two-lane road through the broad snowcovered meadow

toward the massive blast doors, Colonel Falkirk sat in the front

passenger's seat of the Wagoneer, thinking about the catastrophe that

would ensue from the revelation of Thunder Hill's secret.

From a political perspective, this would make the Watergate mess look

like a tea party.  An unprecedented number of competing government

institutions were involved in the cover-up, organizations that often

operated in jealous opposition to one another-the FBI, CIA, National

Security Agency, the United States Army, the Air Force, and others. It

was a testament to the degree of potential danger that these groups

could work together with nary a hitch and without a single leak in more

than eighteen months.  But if the coverup were uncovered, the scandal

would extend throughout so much of the government that the faith of the

American people in their leaders would be severely shaken.  Of course,

very few in any of those organizations knew what had happened, no more

than six in the FBI, fewer in the CIA; most of their men involved in the

cover-up didn't know what they were covering up, which was why there had

been no leaks.  But the numero uno of each organization-the Director of

the FBI, the Director of the CIA, the Chief of Staff of the Armywas

completely in the know.  Not to mention the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs

of Staff.  And the Secretary of State.  And the President, his closest

advisers, the Vice-President.  A lot of prominent men might fall from

grace if this affair was not kept under lock and key.

The political destruction wrought by the release of the secret would be

only a small part of the devastation.  The CISGa think-tank of

physicists, biologists, anthropologists, sociologists, theologists,

economists, educators, and other learned people-had pondered precisely

this crisis at great length and depth, years before it had arisen here

in Nevada.  The CISG had issued a 1220-page top-secret report on its

conclusions, a document that offered some disturbing reading.  Leland

knew that report by heart, for he was the military representative to the

CISG and had helped write several position papers included in the final

text.  Within the CISG, the opinion was unanimous that the world would

never be the same if such an event were to occur.  All societies, all

cultures would be radically changed forever.  Projected deaths over the

first two years ranged in the millions.

Lieutenant Horner, who was driving the Wagoneer, braked twenty feet in

front of the giant blast doors that were set in the sudden steep upper

slope of the meadow.  He didn't wait for the huge barriers to open, for

he was not driving directly into Thunder Hill.  Horner turned right,

into a small parking lot, where three minibuses, four Jeep wagons, a

Land Rover, and several other vehicles stood side by side.

The twin blast doors, each thirty feet high and twenty feet wide, were

so thick they could be opened only at a ponderous pace, producing a

rumble that could be heard a mile away and felt in the air and in the

ground at least half as far.  When a truck-loaded with ammunition,

weapons, or suppliespulled up in front of the drive-in entrance, the

doors required five minutes to roll apart.  Opening those hangar-sized

portals every time a lone man needed to walk in or out was unthinkably

inefficient, so a second, man-sized door-nearly as formidable-was set in

the hillside thirty feet to the right of the main entrance.

There was no better vault than Thunder Hill in which to keep the secret

of July 6.  It was an impregnable fortress.

Leland and Lieutenant Horner hurried through the bitter air to the

walk-in entrance.  The small steel door, almost as blastproof as the

massive versions to the left, had an electronic lock that could be

disengaged only by tapping the proper four numbers on a keyboard.  The

code changed every two weeks, and those entrusted with it were required

to commit it to memory.  Leland punched in the code, and the

fourteen-inchthick, lead-core door slid aside with a sudden pneumatic

whoosh.

They stepped into a twelve-foot-long concrete tunnel about nine feet in

diameter and brightly lit.  It angled to the left. At the end was

another door identical to the first, but it could not be opened until

the outer door was closed.  Leland touched a heat-sensitive switch just

inside the tunnel entrance, and the outer door hissed shut behind him

and Lieutenant Horner.

Immediately, a pair of video cameras, mounted on the ceiling at opposite

ends of the chamber, clicked on.  The cameras tracked the two men as

they walked to the inner door.

No human eyes were watching the colonel and lieutenant on any video

display, for the system was operated entirely by VIGILANT, the security

computer, as a precaution against the possibility that a traitor within

Thunder Hill's own guard unit might open the facility to hostile forces.

VIGILANT was not linked to the installation's main computer or to the

outside world; therefore, it was invulnerable to saboteurs seeking to

take control of it by means of a modern or other electronic tap.

The guard at the perimeter fence had notified VIGILANT that Colonel

Leland Falkirk and Lieutenant Thomas Homer would be arriving.  Now, as

they approached the inner door under the gazes of video cameras, the

computer compared their appearance to stored holographic images of them,

rapidly matching forty-two points of facial resemblance.  It was

impossible to deceive VIGILANT either with makeup or with a look-alike

for an approved visitor.  If Leland or Horner had been an imposter or

unauthorized visitor, VIGILANT would have sounded an alarm,

simultaneously filling the entrance tunnel with a sedative gas.

The lock on the inner door had no keyboard; no code would open it.

Instead, a one-foot-square panel of glass was set in the wall beside the

door.  Leland almost pressed his right hand palm-down against the panel,

hesitated, then used his left, and the glass lit, and a faint humming

arose.  VIGILANT scanned his palmprint and fingerprints, comparing them

to the prints in its files.

Lieutenant Horner said, "Almost as hard to get in here as into heaven."

"Harder," Leland said.

The light behind the milky glass winked out, and Leland took his hand

away.  The inner door opened.

They stepped into a huge natural tunnel that had been improved by human

hands.  The domed rock overhead was lost in darkness because the

lighting fixtures were suspended from black metal scaffolding, creating

the illusion of a ceiling perhaps twenty or thirty feet below the true

ceiling.  The tunnel was sixty feet across and led into the mountain

about a hundred and twenty yards.  In some places the rock walls had

natural contours, but in other places they carried the imprints of

dynamite blasts and jackhammers and other tools that had been used to

widen the narrow portions of the passageway. Incoming trucks could drive

along the concrete floor to unloading bays beside immense cargo

elevators that went down into deeper regions of the facility.

A guard sat at a table beyond the door by which Leland and Horner

entered.  Considering the remoteness of Thunder Hill, the extent of

sophisticated defenses, and the thoroughness with which VIGILANT

examined all visitors, a lone sentry seemed superfluous to Leland.

Evidently, the sentry was of that same opinion, for he was not prepared

for trouble.  His revolver was holstered.  He was eating a candy bar.

Reluctantly, he looked up from an old novel by Jack Finney.

He wore a coat because the open areas of the Depository were never

heated; only the enclosed living quarters and work areas were kept warm.

An enormous power supply was provided by a mini hydroelectric plant that

harnessed an underground river, plus backup diesel generators, but there

was not enough to warm the mammoth caverns.  The subterranean

temperature was a stable fifty-five degrees, quite bearable if one

dressed for long work periods in the chilly air, as the guard had done.

He saluted.  "Colonel Falkirk, Lieutenant Horner, you're cleared to see

Dr.  Bennell.  You know how to find him, of course."

"Of course," Falkirk said.

Ten feet to the left, the burnished steel surface of the giant blast

doors glimmered softly in the fluorescent light, looking rather like the

sheer face of a great glacier.  Leland and Lieutenant Horner turned

right, away from the big doors, and walked deeper into the mountain,

toward the elevators.

Thunder Hill Depository was equipped with hydraulic lifts of three

sizes, the largest of which rivaled the enormous elevators on aircraft

carriers.  A carrier's lifts were used to bring planes from the ship's

hold onto the flight deck, and Thunder Hill's also lowered and raised

planes, among other things.  In addition to 2.4 billion dollars of

equipment and materielfreeze-dried food, medicine, portable field

hospitals, clothing, blankets, tents, handguns, rifles, mortars, field

artillery, ammunition, light military vehicles such as Jeeps and armored

personnel carriers, and twenty backpack nukes-the vast storage dump

contained a variety of useful aircraft.  First, the helicopters: thirty

Sikorsky S-67 Blackhawk antitank gunships; twenty Bell Kingcobras; eight

Anglo-French Westland Pumas, general purpose transports; and three big

Medevac choppers.  No conventional aircraft were stored at Thunder Hill,

but there were twelve vertical takeoff jets of the type manufactured in

England by Hawker Siddeley and known there as Harriers, but which were

called AV-8As when in U S.  service.  Because the Harriers were equipped

with powerful vectored-thrust engines, the craft could land and take off

vertically, without need of a runway.  In a grave crisisfor example,

subsequent to a limited nuclear strike and a land invasion by enemy

troops-the aircraft of Thunder Hill, both choppers and Harriers, could

be lifted to the top level, rolled out through the massive blast doors,

and sent hurtling into the sky.

However, the current crisis did not involve war or require the

unleashing of the Depository's aircraft, so Leland and the lieutenant

bypassed the two immense elevators.  They also passed the two smaller

but still oversize cargo elevators, their footsteps echoing off the

stone walls, and took one of the three smallest cabs-about the size of a

standard lift in a hotel-down into the bowels of Thunder Hill.

Medical supplies, food, guns, and all ammunition were stored on the

third level, the bottom floor of the complex, in a network of chambers

which had been caulked, equipped with pressure-release bores, and fitted

with doors for the purpose of blast containment.  On the second-the

middle-level, all the vehicles and aircraft were kept in other huge

caverns, and it was there, too, that the staff lived and worked.

Leland and Lieutenant Horner got off the lift at the second level.  They

stepped into a lighted, circular, rock-wall chamber three hundred feet

in diameter.  It served as a hub-in fact, persofinel called it The

Hub-from which four other caverns opened; and still more rooms lay

beyond those four.  The larger of those deep vaults contained-among

other thingsthe aircraft, Jeeps, and armored personnel carriers.

There were no doors on three of the four caverns which led off The Hub,

for there was no serious danger of fire or explosion on that level.  But

the fourth chamber did, indeed, have doors, for it contained the secret

of July 6, which Leland and many others had conspired to conceal.  He

stopped now, a few steps out of the elevator, to study those portals,

which were twenty-six feet high and sixty-four feet wide.  They were

made of cross-braced two-by-fours rather than steel, because they had

been jerry-built to meet an emergency situation; there had been no time

to order a fabricated metal door to close off the cavern.  They reminded

the colonel of the enormous wooden doors in the wall that had protected

the frightened natives from the beast on the other half of their island

in the original King Kong.  Considering what lay behind these doors,

that horror-movie image did not inspire confidence. Leland shuddered.

Lieutenant Horner said, "Still gives you the creeps, huh?"

"You mean you're comfortable with it now?"

"Hell, no, sir.  Hell, no."

Inset in the bottom of one of those huge wooden barriers was a much

smaller, man-sized door through which researchers entered and exited the

room beyond.  An armed guard was positioned there to allow entrance only

to those with the proper pass.  The activities in that forbidden chamber

had nothing to do with the other-primary-functions of the Depository,

and ninety percent of the personnel were not permitted access to the

area.  Indeed, ninety percent did not know what was in that cavern.

Around the circumference of The Hub, between the openings to other

caverns, buildings had been erected along the walls and anchored to the

rock.  The structures dated to the first year of the Depository's

construction, back in the early 1960s.  Then, they had served as offices

for engineers, superintendents, and the Army's project officers.  Over

the years, an entire subterranean town had been erected in other

caverns-sleeping quarters, cafeteria, recreation rooms, laboratories,

machine shops, vehicle service center, computer rooms, even a PX, among

other things.  They were now occupied by the military and government

personnel who were doing one- and two-year tours of duty at Thunder

Hill.  In the buildings, there was heat, better lighting, inside and

outside telephone lines, kitchens, bathrooms, and all the myriad

comforts of home.  They were constructed of metal panels coated with

baked blue or white or gray enamel, with only small windows and narrow

metal doors.  Though they had no wheels, they somewhat resembled motor

homes or house trailers drawn in a circle, as if they were the property

of a modern-day encampment of gypsies who had found their way to this

snug haven, 240 feet below the winter snows.

Now, turning from the forbidden chamber with the wooden doors, Leland

walked across The Hub toward a white metal structure-Dr.  Miles

Bennell's offices.  Lieutenant Horner fell in dutifully at his side.

The summer before last, Miles Bennell (whom Leland Falkirk loathed) had

moved into Thunder Hill to head all scientific inquiry into the events

of that fateful July night.  He'd only been out of the Depository on

three occasions since then, never for longer than two weeks.  He was

obsessed with his assignment.  Or something worse than obsessed.

A dozen officers, enlisted men, and civilians were in sight within The

Hub, some crossing from one adjoining cavern to another, some just

standing in conversation with one another. Leland looked them over as he

passed them, unable to understand what kind of person would volunteer to

work underground for weeks and months at a stretch.  They were paid a

thirty percent hardship bonus, but to Leland's way of thinking, that was

inadequate compensation.  The Depository was less oppressive than

Shenkfield's small, windowless warrens, but not by much.

Leland supposed he was slightly claustrophobic.  Being underground made

him feel as if he were buried alive.  As an admitted masochist, he

should have relished his discomfort, but this was one kind of pain he

did not seek or enjoy.

Dr.  Miles Bennell looked ill.  Like nearly everyone in Thunder Hill, he

was pasty-faced from being too long beyond the reach of sunlight.  His

curly black hair and beard only made his pallor more pronounced.  In the

fluorescent glare of his office, he looked almost like a ghost.  He

greeted Leland and Lieutenant Horner curtly, and he did not offer to

shake hands with either of them.

That suited the colonel fine.  He was no friend of Bennell's. A

handshake would have been sheer hypocrisy.  Besides, Leland was

half-afraid that Miles Bennell had been compromised, that the scientist

was no longer who or what he appeared to be ...  was no longer entirely

human.  And if that crazy, paranoid possibility was in fact true, he

wanted no physical contact with Bennell, not even a quick handshake.

"Dr.  Bennell," Leland said coldly, using the hard tone of voice and icy

demeanor that always elicited quaverous obedience, "your handling of

this security breach has been either criminally inept, or you're the

traitor we're looking for.  Now, hear me loud and clear: this time,

we're going to find the bastard who sent those Polaroid snapshots-no

more broken lie detectors, no more botched interrogations-and we're

going to find out if he's the one who teased Jack Twist into returning,

and we're going to come down on him so hard he'll wish he'd been born a

fly and spent his life in a stable sucking up horseshit."

Utterly unruffled, Miles Bennell smiled and said, "Colonel, that was the

best Richard Jaeckel impression I've ever seen, but entirely

unnecessary.  I'm as anxious as you to find the leak and plug it."

Leland wanted to punch the son of a bitch.  This was one reason he

loathed Miles Bennell: The bastard could not be intimidated.

Calvin Sharkle lived on O'Bannon Lane in a pleasant middleclass

residential neighborhood in Evanston.  Father Wycazik had to stop twice

at service stations to ask directions.  When he got to the corner of

O'Bannon and Scott Avenue, only two blocks from Sharkle's address, he

was turned back by policemen manning an emergency barricade formed by

two black-and-white cruisers and one paramedic van.  There were also

television crews running around with minicams.

He also knew at once that the trouble on O'Bannon Lane was not merely

coincidental.  Something was happening at the Sharkle house.

In spite of temperatures in the mid-twenties and wind gusting to thirty

miles an hour, a crowd of about a hundred had gathered outside the

police barricade-on the sidewalks and on the lawns of the corner houses.

Passing traffic on Scott Avenue was slowed by gawkers, and Stefan had to

drive almost two blocks at a frustratingly slow pace before he found a

parking space.

When he walked back to the crowd and became part of it, seeking

information from the well-bundled onlookers, Father Wycazik found that

they were for the most part a friendly and strangely excited group.  But

creepy, too.  Not blatantly weird.  In fact, they were ordinary

people-except for their totally insensitive fascination with the tragedy

unfolding before them, as if it were as legitimate a source of thrills

as a football game.

It was definitely a tragedy, and one of a particularly horrible nature,

which Father Wycazik discovered a minute after he joined the crowd and

began to ask questions.  A florid-faced, mustachioed man in a plaid

hunting jacket and toboggan hat said, "Jesus, man, don't you watch the

goddamned TV?" He was not the least restrained because he did not know

he was talking to a priest; Stefan's topcoat and scarf concealed all

evidence of his holy office.  "Christ, fella, that's Sharkle down there.

Sharkle the Shark, man.  That's what they're callin' him.  Guy's a

dangerous loony.  Been sealed up in his house there since yesterday,

man.  He shot him two of his neighbors and one cop already, and he's got

him two goddamn hostages who, if you ask me, got about as much chance as

a fuckin' cat at a Doberman convention."

Tuesday morning, via Pacific Southwest Airlines, Parker Faine flew into

San Francisco from Orange County, then caught a connecting West Air

flight to Monterey.  It was an hour's trip up the California coast on

PSA, a one-hour layover in San Francisco, and then only thirty-five

minutes to Monterey.  The journey seemed shorter because one of the

other travelers, a pretty young woman, recognized his name, liked his

paintings, and was in the mood to be enthralled by his burly charms.

In Monterey, at the small airport rental agency, he hired a vomit-green

Ford Tempo.  It was an offense to his refined sense of color.

The Tempo's tempo was satisfyingly allegro on flat roads but a bit

adagio on the hills.  Nevertheless, he required less than half an hour

to find the address Dom had given him for Gerald Salcoe, the man who had

stayed at the Tranquility Motel with his wife and two daughters on the

night of July 6, and who had thus far been unreachable by both phone and

Western Union.  It was a big Southern Colonial manor house, hideously

out of place on the California coast, set on a prime half-acre, in the

shade of massive pines, with enough elaborately tended shrubbery to

employ a gardener one full day a week, including beds of impatiens that

blazed with red and purple flowers even now, in January.

Parker swung the Tempo into the majestic circular driveway and parked in

front of broad, flower-bordered steps that led up to a deep pillared

veranda.  In the shadows of the trees, there was sufficient gloom to

require lights indoors, but he saw none at the front windows.  All of

the drapes were tightly shut, and the house had a vacant look.

He got out of the Tempo, hurried up the steps, and crossed the wide

veranda, voicing his objection to the chilly air as he went: "Brrrrrrr."

The area's usual morning fog had cleared from the airport, permitting

landings, but it was still clinging to this part of the peninsula,

bearding the pines, weaving tendrils between their trunks, muting the

impatiens' brilliant blooms.  Winter in northern California was a more

bracing season than in Laguna Beach, and with the added damp chill of

fog, it was not at all to Parker's taste.  He had come dressed for it,

however, in heavy corduroy slacks, a green-plaid flannel shirt, a green

pullover that mocked Izod-Lacoste by featuring a goofy-looking appliqudd

armadillo on the breast instead of an alligator, and a

three-quarter-length navy peacoat with sergeant's stripes on one sleeve:

quite an outfit, especially when accented by Day-Glo-orange running

shoes.  As he rang the doorbell, Parker looked down at himself and

decided that maybe sometimes he dressed too eccentrically, even for an

artist.

He rang the doorbell six times, waiting half a minute between each ring,

but no one came.

Last night, when a man named Jack Twist had called him at eleven o'clock

from a pay phone in Elko, claiming to have a message from Dom, and had

asked him to go to a specific pay phone in Laguna for a callback in

twenty minutes, Parker had still been working on a new and exciting

painting that he had begun at three o'clock that afternoon.

Nevertheless, deeply involved as he was with the work, he had hastened

to the booth as directed.  And he had agreed to the trip to Monterey

without hesitation.  The fact was that he had plunged into work as a

means of taking his mind off Dom and the unfolding events in Elko

County, for that was where he really wanted to be, neck-deep in the

mystery.  When Twist told him about Dom's and the priest's psychic

demonstration-floating salt and pepper shakers, levitating

chairs!-nothing short of World War III could have prevented Parker from

going to Monterey. And now he was not going to be defeated by an empty

house. Wherever the Salcoes were, he would find them, and the best place

to start was with the neighbors.

Because of the half-acre lots and walls of intervening shrubbery, he

could not easily walk next door.  Back in the Tempo, as he put the car

in gear, he glanced at the house again, and at first he thought he saw

movement at one of the downstairs windows: a slightly parted drape

falling back into place.  He sat for a moment, staring, then decided the

movement had been a trick of fog and shadows.  He popped the handbrake

and drove around the second half of the circular driveway, out to the

street, delighted to be playing spy again.

Ernie and Dom parked the Jeep Cherokee at the end of the county road,

and the pickup with the tinted windshield halted two hundred yards

behind them.  Perched on its high allterrain tires, with goggle-eyed

spotlights on its roof, it looked (Dom thought) like a big insect poised

alertly on the downsloping lane, ready to skitter toward a hidey-hole if

it saw someone with a giant economy-size can of Raid.  The driver did

not get out, nor did the passenger, if there was one.

"Think there's going to be trouble here?" Dom asked, getting out of the

Cherokee and joining Ernie at the side of the road.

"If they'd meant trouble, they'd already have made it," Ernie said.  His

breath steamed in the frigid air.  "If they want to tag along and watch,

that's all right by me.  To hell with them."

They got two hunting rifles-a Winchester Model 94 carbine loaded with

.32 special cartridges, and a .30/06 Springfield-from the back of the

Jeep Cherokee, handling the weapons conspicuously in the hope that the

men in the pickup would be encouraged to remain peaceable by the

realization that their quarry could fight back.

The mountain still rose on the western side of the lane, and forest

still clothed those slopes.  But the land that fell away to the east had

become a broad treeless field, the northern end of the series of meadows

that lay along the valley wall.

Although snow had not yet begun to fall, the wind was picking up.  Dom

was thankful for the winter clothes he had purchased in Reno, but he

wished he had an insulated ski suit like Ernie was wearing.  And a pair

of those rugged laceup boots instead of the flimsy zippered pair he now

wore. Later today, Ginger and Faye would stop at a sporting-goods store

in Elko with a list of gear needed for tonight's operation, including

suitable clothes for Dom and everyone else who did not already have

them.  At the moment, however, the insistent wind found entrance at

Dom's coat collar and at the unelasticized cuffs of his sleeves.

Leaving the Cherokee, he and Ernie went over the side of the road, down

into the sloping meadow, continuing their inspection of the Thunder Hill

perimeter on foot.  The high, electrified chainlink fence with the

barbed-wire overhang led out of the trees farther back; it ceased to

parallel the northward course of the county road, turning east and down

toward the valley floor.  The snow in the meadow was ten inches deep,

but still below the tops of their boots.  They slogged two hundred yards

to a point along the fence from which they could see, in the distance,

the enormous steel blast doors set in the side of the valley wall.

Dom saw no signs of human or canine guards.  The snow on the other side

of the fence was not marked by footprints or pawprints, which meant no

one walked the perimeter on a regular schedule.

'A place like this, they're not going to be sloppy," Ernie said.  "So if

there aren't any foot patrols, there must be one hell of a lot of

electronic security on the other side of this fence."

Dom had been glancing toward the top of the meadow, a little worried

that the men in the all-terrain truck might be up to something with the

Cherokee.  This time, when he looked back, he saw a man in dark clothes,

starkly silhouetted against the snow.  The guy wasn't around the

Cherokee and seemed to have no interest in it, but he had come down from

the edge of the county road, descending a few yards into the inclined

meadow.  He was standing up there, unmoving, maybe a hundred and eighty

yards above Dom and Ernie, watching them.

Ernie noticed the observer, too.  He tucked his Winchester under his

right arm and lifted the binoculars he had been carrying on a strap

around his neck.  "He's Army.  At least that looks like a regulation

Army greatcoat he's wearing.  Just watching us."

"You'd think they'd be more discreet."

"Can't follow anyone discreetly, not in these wide-open spaces.  Might

as well be forthright.  Besides, he wants us to see what he's carrying,

so we'll know our rifles don't worry him."

"What do you mean?" Dom asked.  "What's he carrying?"

"A Belgian FN submachine gun.  Damn fine weapon.  It can fire up to six

hundred rounds a minute."

If Father Wycazik had watched television news, he would have heard about

Calvin Sharkle last night, for the man had been a hot story for

twenty-four hours.  However, he'd stopped watching TV news years ago,

for he'd decided that its relentless simplification of every story into

stark black and white issues was intellectually corrupt and that its

gleeful concentration on violence, sex, gloom, and despair was morally

repellent.  He also might have read about the tragedy on O'Bannon Lane

on the front pages of this morning's Tribune and Sun-Times, but he had

left the rectory in such a ' hurry that he'd had no time for newspapers.

Now he pieced the story together from information provided by those in

the crowd behind the police barricades.

For months, Cal Sharkle had been acting .  .  .  odd.  Ordi narily

cheerful and pleasant, a bachelor who lived alone and was well-liked by

everyone on O'Bannon Lane, he'd become a brooder, dour and even grim. He

told neighbors he had "a bad feeling about things," and believed

something "important and terrible is going to happen." He read

survivalist books and magazines, and talked about Armageddon.  And he

was plagued by vivid nightmares.

December first, he quit trucking, sold his rig, and told neighbors and

relatives the end was imminent.  He wanted to sell his house, buy remote

property in the mountains, and build a retreat like those he had seen in

the survivalist magazines.  "But there isn't time," he told his sister,

Nan Gilchrist. "So I'll just prepare this house for a siege." He didn't

know what was going to happen, did not understand the source of his own

fear, though he said he was not concerned about nuclear war, Russian

invasion, economic collapse, or anything else that alarmed most

survivalists.  "I don't know what .  .  .  but something strange and

horrible is going to happen," he told his sister.

Mrs.  Gilchrist made him see a doctor, who found him fit, suffering only

from job-related stress.  But after Christmas, Calvin's previously

garrulous nature gave way to a closedmouth suspicion.  During the first

week of January, he had his phone disconnected, cryptically explaining:

"Who knows how they'll get at us when they come?  Maybe they can do it

over the phone." He was unable or unwilling to identify "they."

No one considered Cal really dangerous.  He had been a peaceful,

kind-hearted man all his life.  In spite of his new eccentric behavior,

there was no reason to think he would turn violent.

Then, yesterday morning at eight-thirty, Cal visited the Wilkersons, the

family across the street, with whom he had once been close but from whom

he had recently kept his distance.  Edward Wilkerson told reporters that

Cal said, "Listen, I can't be selfish about this.  I'm all prepared, and

here you are defenseless.  So when they come for us, Ed, it'll be okay

if you and your family hide out at my place." When Wilkerson asked who

"they" were, Cal said, "Well, I don't know what they'll look like, or

what they'll call themselves. But they're going to do something bad to

us, maybe turn us into zombies." Cal Sharkle assured Wilkerson that he

had plenty of guns and ammunition in his house and had taken steps to

make a fortress of the place.

Alarmed by talk of weapons and shootouts, Wilkerson had humored Cal and,

as soon as the man left, had called his sister.  Nan Gilchrist had

arrived at half-past-ten with her husband and had told a worried

Wilkerson that she would handle it, that she was sure she could persuade

Cal to enter the hospital for observation.  But after she and Mr.

Gilchrist went into the house, Ed Wilkerson decided they might need some

backup, so he and another neighbor, Frank Krelky, went to the Sharkle

house to provide what assistance they could.

Wilkerson expected Mr.  or Mrs.  Gilchrist to answer the bell, but Cal

himself came to the door.  He was distraught, nearly hysterical-and

armed with a .20-gauge semiautomatic shotgun.  He accused his neighbors

of being zombies already. "You've been changed, " he shouted at

Wilkerson and Krelky. "Oh God, I should've seen it.  I should've known.

When did it happen, when'd you stop being human?  My God, now you've

come to get us all in one swoop." Then, with a wail of terror, he opened

fire with the shotgun.  The first blast took Krelky in the throat at

such close range that it decapitated him.  Wilkerson ran, was hit in the

legs as he reached the end of Sharkle's front walk, fell, rolled, and

played dead, a ruse that saved his life.

Now Krekly was in the morgue, and Wilkerson was in the hospital in good

enough condition to talk to reporters.

And Father Wycazik was at the entrance to O'Bannon Lane, where a young

man in the crowd behind the police line was eager to fill in the last of

it for him.  The man's name was Roger Hasterwick, a "temporarily

unemployed beverage concoctionist," which Stefan suspected was an

out-of-work bartender.  He had a disturbing gleam in his eyes that might

have been a sign of intoxication, drug use, lack of sleep, psychopathy,

or all four, but his information was detailed and apparently accurate:

"So, see, the cops close the block, evacuate the people out their

houses, then they try to talk with this Sharkle the Shark. But he don't

have a phone, see, and when they use a bullhorn, he won't answer them.

The cops figure his sister and brotherin-law are in there alive,

hostages, so nobody wants to do nothin' rash."

"Wise," Father Wycazik said bleakly, feeling even colder than the winter

day in which he stood.

"Wise, wise, wise," Roger Hasterwick said impatiently, making it clear

he preferred not to be interrupted.  "So finally, with a half-hour

daylight left, they decide they'll send in the SWAT guys to dig him out,

maybe save the sister and brotherin-law.  So they lob tear gas in there,

see, and the SWAT guys rush the place, but when they get in they hit

trouble.  Sharkle must've been workin' on the house for weeks, settin'

traps. The cops start fallin' over these thin wires he's strung

everywhere, and one gets brained by a deadfall, which don't kill him but

sure does some damage.  Then, Christ, Sharkle opens fire on 'em because

he's wearin' a gas mask same as they are and just waitin' like a cat.

The dude was prepared.  So he blows one cop away, utterly, and wounds

one, then he heads down into the cellar and pulls the door shut, and

nobody can get in after him 'cause it's not any regular cellar door but

a steel door he's put in special.  Not only that, but the outside cellar

door, around back, is steel, too, and what he's done is he's put heavy

sheet-metal shutters over the insides of the cellar windows, so it's

your typical stalemate, see."

By Stefan's calculations, two people were dead, three wounded.

Hasterwick said, "So the cops they pulled in their horns real fast and

figured to wait him out through the night.  This mornin', Sharkle the

Shark slides open one of them sheetmetal shutters on a basement window,

see, and he shouts a bunch of stuff, really crazy stuff, and they figure

somethin' more is gonna go down, but then he closes the shutter again,

and since then nothin'.  I sure hope he does somethin' soon, ,cause it's

cold and I'm beginnin' to get bored."

"What did he shout?" Stefan asked.

"Huh?"

"This morning, what crazy stuff did he yell from the basement?"

"Oh, well, see, what he says .  Roger Hasterwick stopped when he

realized that a piece of news, passing in from the edge of the crowd,

had electrified everyone.  People hurried away from the barricade, some

walking fast and some running south on Scott Avenue.  Appalled by the

prospect of missing new bloodshed, Hasterwick grabbed frantically at a

blotchyfaced man in a deerstalker cap, the flaps of which were down but

flopping loose.  "What is it?  What's happenin'?"

Trying to pull away from Hasterwick, the man in the deerstalker cap

said, "Guy down here has a van with his own police-band radio.  He's

tuned in on the cops, the SWAT team, they're getting ready to wipe that

fuckin' Sharkle off the map!" He wrenched loose of Hasterwick and rushed

away, and Hasterwick hurried after him.

Father Wycazik stared after the departing throng for a moment.  Then he

glanced around at the ten or twelve onlookers who had remained, at the

officers manning the barricade, past the barricade.  More death, murder.

He could sense it coming.  He should do something to stop it.  But he

could not think.  He was numb with dread.  Until now, he had seenand

been able to see-only a positive side to the unfolding mystery.  The

miraculous cures and other phenomena had engendered only joy and an

expectation of divine revelations to come.  But now he was seeing the

dark side of the mystery, and he was badly shaken by it.

Finally, hoping he would not be mistaken for just another ghoul in the

bloodthirsty crowd, Stefan hurried after Roger Hasterwick and the

others.  They had gathered almost a block south of O'Bannon Lane, around

a recreational van, a metallic-blue Chevrolet with a California-beach

mural on the side.  The owner, a huge and hugely bearded man sitting

behind the wheel, had opened both doors and turned up the volume on the

police-band radio, so everyone could hear the cops in action.

In a minute or two, the essentials of their attack plan were clear.  The

SWAT team was already moving into place, back into the first floor of

Sharkle's house.  They would use a small, precisely shaped charge of

plastic explosives to blow the steel cellar door off its pins, not

enough to send shrapnel cutting through the basement.  Simultaneously,

another group of officers would blow off the exterior cellar door with a

similar carefully gauged charge.  Even as the smoke was clearing, the

two groups would storm into the basement and catch Cal Sharkle in a

pincer attack.  That strategy was terribly dangerous for the officers

and the hostages, though the authorities had decided that they would be

in far greater danger if action was delayed any further.

Listening to the radio-relayed voices crackle in the cold January air,

Father Wycazik suddenly knew he must stop the attack.  If it was carried

out, the slaughter would be worse than anyone imagined. He had to be

allowed to go past the barricade, to the house, and talk to Cal Sharkle.

Now.  Right away.  Now.  He turned from the Chevy van and raced back

toward the entrance to O'Bannon Lane, a block away.  He was not sure

what he would say to Sharkle to get through his paranoia. Perhaps, "You

are not alone, Calvin." He'd think of something.

His abrupt departure from the van apparently gave the crowd the idea

that he had heard or seen something happening up at the barricade.  He

was less than halfway back to the entrance to O'Bannon Lane when younger

and fleeter onlookers began to pass him, shouting excitedly, plunging

off the sidewalk and out into the street, bringing a complete halt to

the already crawling traffic on Scott Avenue.  Brakes barked. Horns

blew.  There was the thud of one bumper hitting another.  Stefan was

jostled by runners and struck so hard that he fell to his hands and

knees on the pavement.  No one stopped to help him.  Stefan got up and

ran on.  The air seemed to have thickened with animal madness and

bloodlust.  Stefan was horrified at the behavior of his fellow men, and

his heart was pounding, and he thought, This is what it might be like in

Hell, running forever in the midst of a frantic and gibbering mob.

By the time Stefan reached the police blockade, more than half the

frenzied crowd had returned ahead of him.  They were jammed against the

sawhorses and police cars, craning to see into the forbidden block of

O'Bannon Lane.  He pushed in among them, desperate to get to the head of

the mob, so he could speak to the police.  He was pushed, shoved, but he

shoved back, telling them he was a priest, but no one was listening, and

he felt his fedora knocked off his head, but he persisted, and then at

last he was through to the front of the surging multitudes.

The policemen angrily ordered the mob to move back, threatened arrest,

drew batons, lowered the visors on their riot helmets.  Father Wycazik

was prepared to lie, to tell the police anything that might get them to

postpone the imminent attack on the house, tell them that he was not

just a priest but Sharkle's own priest, that he knew what was wrong,

knew how to get Sharkle to surrender.  Of course, he didn't really

know how to obtain Sharkle's surrender, but if he could buy time and

talk to Sharkle, he might think of something.  He caught the attention

of an officer who ordered him to step back.  He identified himself as a

priest.  The cop wasn't listening, so Stefan tore open his topcoat and

pulled off his white scarf to reveal his Roman collar.  "I'm a priest!"

But the crowd surged forward, pushing Stefan against a sawhorse, and the

barrier fell over, and the cop shoved back angrily, in no mood to

listen.

An instant later, two small explosions shook the air, one a split-second

after the other, low and flat but hard.  The hundred voices of the crowd

gasped as one, and everybody froze, for they knew what they had heard:

the SWAT team blowing the steel doors off the cellar.  A third explosion

followed the first two, an immense and devastating blast that shook the

pavement, that hurt the ears, that vibrated in bones and teeth, that

shot slabs and splinters of Sharkle's house into the wintry sky, that

seemed to shatter the day itself and cast it down in a billion broken

pieces.  Again with a single voice, the crowd cried out.  Instead of

pressing toward the blockade this time, they scrambled back in fear,

suddenly realizing that death could be not just an interesting spectator

sport but a participatory activity.

" He had a bomb!" one of the barricade cops said.  "My God, my God,

Sharkle had a bomb in there!" He turned to the emergency medical van in

which two paramedics were waiting, and he shouted, "Go!  Go!"

The red beacons flashed atop the paramedics wagon.  It pulled out of the

barricade, speeding toward the middle of the block.

Shaking with horror, Father Wycazik tried to follow on foot.  But one of

the cops grabbed him and said, "Hey, get the hell back there."

:'I'm a priest.  Someone may need comforting, last rites."

'Father, I wouldn't care if you were the pope himself.  We don't know

for sure that Sharkle's dead."

Numbly, Father Wycazik obeyed, though the tremendous power of the

explosion left no doubt in his mind that Cal Sharkle was dead.  Sharkle

and his sister.  And his brother-inlaw.  And most members of the SWAT

team.  How many altogether?  Maybe five?  Six?  Ten?

Moving aimlessly back through the crowd, absentmindedly tucking his

scarf in place and buttoning his coat, partially in a state of shock,

murmuring a Pater Noster, he saw Roger Hasterwick, the unemployed

bartender with the queerly gleaming eyes.  He put a hand on Hasterwick's

shoulder, and said, "What did he shout to the police this morning?"

Hasterwick blinked.  "Huh?  What?"

"Before we got separated, you told me Calvin Sharkle slid open the metal

shutter on one of the cellar windows and shouted a lot of weird stuff

this morning, and you thought something was going to happen, but then

nothing did.  What exactly did he say?"

Hasterwick's face brightened with the memory.  "Oh, yeah, yeah.  It was

real weird, see, straight-out crazy stuff." He scrunched up his face,

striving to recall the madman's exact words.  When he had them, he

grinned, rolled his mouth as if savoring the revelation, then repeated

Sharkle's ravings for Stefan's enjoyment.

Stefan not only failed to enjoy the performance, but second by dreadful

second, he became increasingly convinced that Calvin Sharkle had not

been insane.  Confused, yes, baffled and afraid because of the

tremendous stress generated by his brainwashing and by the collapse of

his memory blocks, badly confused but not insane.  Roger Hasterwick and

everyone else thought Sharkle's shouted accusations and declarations and

imprecations, flung at the world through the shielded window of a

jerry-built fortress, were obviously the lunatic fantasies of a demented

mind.  But Father Wycazik had an advantage over everyone else: He saw

Sharkle's statements in the context of events at the Tranquility Motel,

in the context of miracle cures and telekinetic phenomena, and he

wondered if there might be some truth in the claims and accusations that

the poor frightened man had shouted through the basement window.  And

wondering, he felt the fine hairs rise on the back of his neck.  He

shivered.

Seeing that reaction, Hasterwick said, "Hey, ain't no point takin' it

serious, for Christ's sake.  You don't think what he said was true?

Hell, the guy was a nut.  He blowed himself up, didn't he?"

Father Wycazik ran north along Scott Avenue to the parish car.

Even before he had arrived in Evanston and discovered the unfolding

tragedy at Calvin Sharkle's house, Stefan Wy cazik had half-expected to

be on a flight to Nevada before the day was through.  The events at the

Mendozas' apartment and at the Halbourgs' place had set a fire of wonder

and curiosity burning in him, and the blaze would not be quenched unless

he plunged into the activities of the troubled group in Elko County.

Now, because of what he had just learned from Hasterwick, the urge to go

to Nevada had become a burning need.  If only half of what Sharkle had

shouted through the basement window was true, Stefan had to go to

Nevada, not only to witness a miracle but to do what he could to protect

those who had gathered at the Tranquility.  All his life, he had been a

rescuer of troubled priests, a shepherd bringing lost souls back into

the fold.  This time, however, he might be called upon to save minds and

lives as well.  The threat of which Calvin Sharkle had spoken was one

that might put body and brain in as much jeopardy as the spirit.

He slipped the car in gear again.  He drove out of Evanston.

He decided not to return to the rectory to pack.  There was no time.  He

would head straight to O'Hare International Airport and take the first

available seat on the first available flight west.

Dear God, he thought, what have You sent us?  Is it the greatest gift

for which we could have asked?  Or a plague to make all Biblical plagues

pale by comparison?

Father Stefan Wycazik put the pedal to the metal and drove south and

then west toward O'Hare like .  .  .  well, like a bat out of Hell.

Ginger and Faye spent the larger part of the morning with Elroy and

Nancy Jamison under the pretense that Ginger, supposedly the daughter of

an old friend of Faye's, was moving west for unspecified health reasons

and was interested in learning about Elko County.  The Jamisons were

local-history buffs, eager to talk about the county, especially about

the beauty of the Lemoille Valley.

Actually, indirectly and directly, Ginger and Faye were seeking

indications that Elroy and Nancy were suffering from the effects of

collapsing memory blocks.  They found none. The Jamisons were happy,

untroubled.  Their brainwashing had been as successful as Faye's; their

false memories were firmly rooted.  Bringing them into the Tranquility

family would put them in jeopardy while serving no great purpose.

In the motel van, as they pulled away from the Jamison house (with Elroy

and Nancy waving from the front porch), Ginger said, "Good people.

Really nice people."

"Yes," Faye said.  "Reliable.  Wish they were standing beside us in this

thing.  On the other hand, I'm happy they're well out of it."

Both women were quiet then, and Ginger figured Faye's thoughts were the

same as her own: They were wondering if the government car was still

parked along the county road, near the entrance to the Jamisons' place,

and if the men in it would still be content merely to follow them. Ernie

and Dom had armed themselves for their expedition into the mountains

around Thunder Hill Depository.  However, considering the unprovocative

nature of Faye's and Ginger's errands, no one had thought that they

might be in special danger, too.  Ginger, like many attractive women

living alone in a city, knew how to use a handgun, and Faye, a good

Marine wife, was something of an expert, but their knowledge and

expertise was of no use when they were not armed.

Having driven only a quarter-mile along the Jamisons' halfmile driveway,

Faye stopped the van in one of the deepest pools of shadows cast by the

overhanging pines.  "I'm probably being melodramatic," she said.  She

slipped open a few buttons on her coat and reached under her sweater.

"And these won't be much good if they point guns at our heads."

Grimacing, she withdrew two steak knives and put them on the seat

between her and Ginger.

Surprised, Ginger said, "Where'd you get these?"

"This is why I insisted on drying the breakfast dishes while Nancy

washed them.  Putting away the silverware, I swiped these.  Didn't want

to ask straight-out for a weapon; that would've meant bringing Nancy and

Elroy into it, which it was clear we weren't going to have to do.  I can

return them later, when this is over." She picked up one of the knives.

"The end's nicely pointed.  The blade's sharp and serrated.  Like I

said, not much help if they've got a gun at your head.  But if they were

to run us off the road and try to force us into their car, you keep the

knife a secret until you get your opening, then stab the bastard."

"Got it," Ginger said.  She grinned and shook her head.

"Someday, I hope you'll get a chance to meet Rita Hannaby."

"Your friend in Boston."

"Yes.  You and Rita are a lot alike, I think."

"Me and a high-society lady?" Faye said doubtfully.  "Can't imagine what

we'd have in common."

"Well, for one thing, you both have such equanimity, such serenity,

regardless of what's happening."

Putting the knife back on the seat, Faye said, "When you're a service

wife, you either learn to go with the flow, or you go crazy."

"And both you and Rita look so feminine, soft and dependent on the

outside-but inside, each of you is, in your own way, tough as nails."

Faye smiled.  "Honey, you got a bit of that yourself."

They drove the last quarter-mile of the pinion-shaded driveway, out of

the shadows and into the midday gloom of the pending storm.

The brown-green, stripped-down government car was still parked along the

county road.  Two men were in it.  They looked impassively at Ginger.

Impulsively, she waved at them. They did not wave back.

Faye drove down toward the floor of the Lemoille Valley. The car

followed.

Miles Bennell slumped in the big chair behind his gray metal desk and

looked bored, and Miles Bennell ambled around his office while answering

questions in a tone of voice that was sometimes indifferent and

sometimes amusedly ironic, but Miles Bennell never fidgeted, groveled,

looked frightened, or became angry, as almost any other man would have

done in the same situation.

Colonel Leland Falkirk hated him.

Sitting at a scarred table in one corner of the room, Leland worked

slowly through a stack of personnel files, one for each of the civilian

scientists who were conducting studies and experiments in the cavern

with the immense wooden doors, where the secret of July 6 was contained.

He was hoping to narrow the field of possible traitors by determining

which men and women could have been in New York City during the time the

two notes and Polaroid snapshots had been mailed to Dominick Corvaisis

in Laguna Beach.  He had told Thunder Hill's military security staff to

do this work on Sunday, and they professed to have completed the

inquiries and to have found nothing to pinpoint the leak.  But in light

of the screwups in their investigation thus far-including two sabotaged

lie detectors-he no longer trusted them any more than he trusted Bennell

or the other scientists, He had to do it himself.

But right away Leland ran into problems.  For one thing, during the past

eighteen months, two damn many civilians had been brought into the

conspiracy.  Thirty-seven men and women, representing a broad spectrum

of scientific disciplines, had possessed both high-security clearances

and specialized knowledge essential to the research program Bennell had

devised.  Thirty-eight civilians, counting Bennell.  It was a miracle

that thirty-eight eggheads, utterly lacking in military discipline,

could have kept any secret so long, let alone this one.

Worse, only Bennell and seven others were engaged in the research

full-time, to the exclusion of all other professional pursuits and to

the extent that they actually lived in Thunder Hill.  The other thirty

had families and university positions they could not leave for long

periods of time, so they came and went as their schedules permitted,

sometimes staying a few days, maybe a few weeks, rarely as long as a few

months. Therefore, it would be a long and arduous job to investigate

each and determine if and when he-or she-had been in New York.

Worse still, of the eight members of the full-time investigatory team,

three had been in New York in December, including Dr.  Miles Bennell

himself.  In short, the list of suspects currently numbered at least

thirty-three among the scientific research staff alone.

Leland was also suspicious of the entire Depository security staff,

though Major Fugata and Lieutenant Helms, the head of security and his

right-hand man, were supposedly the only security personnel who knew

what was happening in the forbidden cavern.  On Sunday, soon after

Fugata began questioning the full-time research staff and those

part-time researchers currently in residence, he discovered that the

polygraph was damaged and could not produce reliable results. Yesterday,

when a new machine was sent up from Shenkfield, it also proved

defective.  Fugata said that the second machine was already damaged when

it arrived from Shenkfield, but that was bullshit.

Someone involved in the project had seen reports that the witnesses'

memory blocks were breaking down.  Deciding to exploit that opportunity,

he egged some of them along with cryptic notes and Polaroids stolen from

the files.  The bastard had nearly gotten away with it, and now that the

heat was coming down on him, he had sabotaged the lie detectors.

Pausing in his perusal of the personnel files, Leland looked at Miles

Bennell, who was standing in the small window. "Doctor, give me the

benefit of your insight into the scientific mind."

Turning away from the window, Bennell said, "Certainly, Colonel."

"Everyone working with you knows about the classified CISG report that

was done seven years ago.  They know the terrible consequences that

might result if we went public with our discoveries.  So why would any

of them be so irresponsible as to undermine project security?"

Dr.  Bennell assumed a tone of earnest helpfulness, but Leland heard the

acid-sharp disdain beneath the surface: "Some disagree with CISG's

conclusions.  Some think going public with these discoveries wouldn't

result in a catastrophe, that the CISG was fundamentally'wrong, too

elitist in its viewpoint."

"Well, I believe the CISG was correct.  And you, Lieutenant Horner?"

Horner was sitting near the door.  "I agree with you, Colonel.  If the

news is broken to the public, they'll have to be prepared slowly, over

maybe ten years.  And even then .  .  ."

Leland nodded.  To Bennell, he said, "I have a low but realistic opinion

of my fellow men, Doctor, and I know how poorly most would cope with the

new world that would follow the release of these discoveries.  Chaos.

Political and social upheaval.  Just like the CISG report said."

Bennell shrugged.  "You're entitled to your view." But his tone said:

Even if your view is ignorant and arrogant and narrow-minded.

Leaning forward in his chair, Leland said, "How about you, Doctor?  Do

you believe the CISG was right?"

Evasively, Bennell said, "I'm not your man, Colonel.  I didn't send

those notes and Polaroids to Corvaisis and the Blocks."

"Okay, Doctor, then will you support my effort to have everyone in the

project interrogated with the assistance of drugs?  Even if we get the

polygraph fixed, the answers we obtain will be less reliable than those

we'd get with sodium pentothal and certain other substances."

Bennell frowned.  "Well, there are some who'd object strenuously.  These

are people of superior intellect, Colonel. Intellectual life is their

primary life, and they won't risk subjecting themselves to drugs that

might, as a side-effect, have even the slightest permanent detrimental

effect on their mental function."

"These drugs don't have that effect.  They're safe."

"They're safe most of the time, maybe.  But some of my people will have

moral objections to using drugs for any reason-even safe drugs, even for

a worthwhile purpose."

"Doctor, I'm going to push for drug-assisted interrogation of everyone

in Thunder Hill, those who know the secret and those who don't.  I'm

going to demand General Alvarado approve." Alvarado was commanding

officer of the Thunder Hill Depository, a pencil-pushing desk-jockey who

had spent his career on his backside.  Leland liked Alvarado no more

than he liked Bennell.  "If the general approves drug-assisted

interrogation, and if any of your people then refuse, I'll come down

hard on them, hard enough to break them.  That includes you, if you

refuse.  You understand me?"

"Oh, perfectly," Bennell said, still unruffled.

Disgusted, the colonel pushed the remaining personnel files aside. "This

is too damn slow.  I need the traitor quickly, not a month from now.

We'd better repair the polygraph." He started to get up, then sat down

as if he'd just thought of what he was about to ask, though it had been

on his mind since he entered the Depository.  "Doctor, what do you think

of this development with Cronin and Corvaisis?  These miraculous cures,

the other bizarre phenomena.  What do you make of it?"

Finally Bennell showed strong, genuine emotion.  He unfolded his hands

from behind his head and leaned forward in his chair.  "I'm sure it

scares the hell out of you, Colonel.  But there could be another, less

cataclysmic explanation than the one on which you've fixated.  Fear is

your only reaction, while I think it might be the greatest moment in the

history of the human race.  But whatever the case-we've absolutely got

to talk with Cronin and Corvaisis.  Tell them everything and seek their

cooperation to discover exactly how they obtained these wonderful

powers.  We can't simply eliminate them or put them through another

memory-wipe without knowing all the answers."

"If we bring everyone at the Tranquility into this, tell them the

secret, and then don't wipe their memories again, the cover-up can't be

maintained."

"Possibly not," Bennell said.  "And if that's the case ...  then the

public will just have to be told.  Damn it, Colonel, because of these

recent developments, studying Cronin and Corvaisis takes precedence over

everything else, including the coverup.  Not only studying them ...  but

letting them have a chance to develop whatever strange talents they may

have.  In fact, when will you take them into custody?"

"This afternoon, at the latest."

"Then we can expect you to bring them to us sometime tonight?"

"Yes." Leland rose from his chair again.  He picked up his coat and

walked to the office door, where Lieutenant Horner was waiting.  He

paused.  "Doctor, how will you know if Cronin and Corvaisis are changed

or not?  You think there's no real chance of .  .  .  possession.  But

if you're wrong, if they're not entirely human any more, and if they

don't want you to know the truth, how would you possibly discover it?

Obviously, they could defeat a lie detector or any truth serums we

have."

"That's a puzzler, all right." Miles Bennell stood up, jammed his hands

into the pockets of his lab coat, and began to pace energetically.  "My

God, it's a real challenge, isn't it?  We've been working on the problem

ever since we learned about their new powers from you on Sunday.  We've

been through ups and downs, despair, but now we think we can deal with

it.  We've devised medical tests, psychological tests, some tricky damn

stuff, and we think that all of it taken together will accurately

determine whether or not they're infected, whether or not they're .  . .

human any more.  I think your fears are utterly unfounded.  We thought

infection .  .  .  possession was a danger at first, but it's been more

than a year since we learned we were wrong.  I think they can be

entirely human and still have these powers.  Are entirely human."

"I don't agree.  My fears are well founded.  And if Corvaisis and Cronin

and the others have changed, and if you believe you can get the truth

out of them, you're kidding yourself. If they've changed, they're so

superior to you that deceiving you would be child's play."

"You haven't even heard what we've-"

"And something else, Doctor.  Something you haven't thought of but which

I must consider.  Maybe this will help you appreciate my position, with

which you've thus far had little sympathy.  Don't you realize I have to

be suspicious and scared of more than just the people at the

Tranquility?  Ever since we've learned of these recent developments,

these paranormal powers, I've been scared of you, as well."

Bennell was thunderstruck.  "Me?"

"You've been working here with it, Doctor.  You're in that cavern nearly

every day, doing lab work every day, probing, testing every damn day for

eighteen months, with only three brief vacations.  If Corvaisis and

Cronin were changed in a few hours of contact, why shouldn't I suspect

you've been changed after eighteen months?"

For a moment Bennell was too shocked to speak.  Then he said, "But this

isn't the same at all.  My studies here were after the fact.  I'm

essentially a .  .  .  well, a fire marshal, a guy who came in after the

blaze to sift through the ashes and figure out what happened.  The

potential for possession or infection-if it ever existed-was at the

beginning, in the first hours, not later."

"How can I be sure of that?" Leland asked, staring at him coldly.

"But under these lab conditions, with safety precautions-"

"We're dealing with the unknown, Doctor.  We can't foresee every problem

that might arise.  That's the very nature of the unknown.  And you can't

take precautions against something you can't foresee."

Bennell shook his head violently in denial of the very possibility. "No,

no, no.  Oh, no."

"If you think I'm exaggerating my concern just to irritate you," Leland

said, "then you might ask yourself why Lieutenant Horner sat in that

chair so alertly during our long conversation.  After all, as you know,

he's an expert in polygraphs, and he could have gone and repaired yours

while you and I talked.  But I didn't want to be in a room with you

alone, Doctor Bennell.  Not alone.  No way."

Blinking, Bennell said, "You mean, because I might've somehow .  .  ."

Leland nodded.  "Because if you have been changed, then you might have

been able to change me, too, by some process I can't even begin to

imagine.  Alone, you might have used the opportunity to attack me,

infect me, arrange for me to be possessed, pour the human spirit out of

me and pour something else in." Leland shuddered.  "Hell, I don't know

how to put it best, but we both know what I mean."

"We even wondered if two of us were enough to insure our safety,"

Lieutenant Horner said, his voice rumbling through the low-ceilinged

room and vibrating vaguely in the metal walls.  "I kept a close eye on

you, Doctor.  You didn't notice my hand was always near my revolver."

Bennell was too astonished to speak.

Leland said, "Doctor, you may think I'm a suspicious bastard who's too

quick on the trigger, an unregenerate xenophobic fascist.  But I've been

put in charge of this not merely to keep the truth from the public but

also to protect them, and it's part of my job to think of the worst and

then to act as if it will inevitably happen."

"Jesus H.  Christ!" Bennell said.  "You're total, off-the-wall

paranoids, both of you!"

"I'd expect you to react that way," Leland told him, "whether or not

you're still a full-fledged member of the human race."

To Horner he said, "Let's go.  You have a polygraph to repair."

Horner went out into The Hub, and Leland started after him.

Bennell said, "Wait, wait.  Please."

Leland looked back at the pale, black-bearded man.

"All right, Colonel.  Okay.  Maybe I can see why you've got to be

suspicious, why it's just part of your job.  It's crazy nonetheless.

There's no chance that I or any of my people could've been .  .  .

inhabited by something else.  No chance. But if you were ready to kill

me if I aroused your suspicion, would you also kill everyone working

under me if you decided they'd all been taken over?"

"Without hesitation," Leland said bluntly. "But if I and my people

could've been changed, if that much was possible-and it isn't

possible-then don't you realize that the entire staff in Thunder Hill

could've been changed, too?  Not just the people who know what's in that

cavern, but everyone, military as well as civilians, all the way up to

and including General Alvarado."

"Well, sure," Leland said.  "I realize that."

"And you'd be willing to kill everyone in the facility?"

"Yes."

"Jesus!"

"If you've decided to split," Leland said, "you can forget about leaving

for the duration.  Eighteen months ago, looking ahead to this

possibility, I secretly had a special program entered into VIGILANT, the

security system.  At my direction, VIGILANT can institute a new policy

that makes it impossible for anyone to leave Thunder Hill without a

special code.  I'm the only one with the code, of course."

Bennell's posture was the essence of indignation and righteous outrage.

"You mean, you'd imprison us out of some misguided .  .  ." He fell

silent as the truth hit him.  Then: "My God, you wouldn't have told me

this if you hadn't already activated VIGILANT'S new program."

"That's right," Leland said.  "When I came in, I identified myself with

my left hand on the ID plate, instead of my right. That was the signal

to VIGILAMT to institute the new order. No one but Lieutenant Horner and

I can get out of Thunder Hill until I decide it's safe."

Leland Falkirk left the office, walked out into The Hub, as pleased

with himself as was possible under these disturbing conditions.  It had

taken eighteen months, but he had at last shattered Miles Bennell's

infuriating composure.

If he had chosen to make one more revelation, he could have brought the

scientist all the way to his knees.  But there was one secret the

colonel had to keep to himself.  He had already devised a plan to kill

everyone and everything in Thunder Hill in the event that he decided

they were infected and only masquerading as human.  He had the means to

reduce the installation to molten slag and stop the plague right here.

The hitch was that he would have to kill himself along with everyone

else.  But he was prepared for that sacrifice.

After sleeping only five and a half hours, Jorja showered, dressed, and

went to the Blocks' apartment, where she found Marcie sitting at the

kitchen table with Jack Twist.  She stopped at the end of the living

room, just outside the kitchen doorway, and watched them for a moment,

while they remained unaware they were being observed.

Last night, at four-forty a m., after Jorja and Jack and Brendan had

rendezvoused at the Mini-Mart with the second team of outriders and had

returned from Elko, Jack had slept on the floor in the Blocks' living

room, so Marcie would not be alone in the morning after Faye and Ernie

had gone off on their respective tasks.  Jorja had wanted to move the

girl to their own room, but Jack had insisted that he did not mind doing

a little babysitting after Marcie woke.  "Look," he said, "she's

sleeping with Faye and Ernie in their bed.  If we try to move her now,

we'll wake all of them, and everyone needs whatever sleep he can get

tonight." Jorja said, "But Marcie's been sleeping for hours, so she'll

be up and around before you are in the morning.  She'll wake you." And

he said, "Better me than you.  Really, I don't need much sleep.  Never

have." And she said, "You're a nice guy, Jack Twist." He said

self-mockingly, "Oh, I'm a saint!" And she said with great seriousness,

"You may be the nicest guy I've ever met."

She had firmly settled on that opinion during the hours they had cruised

through the night-clad streets of Elko in his Cherokee.  He was smart,

witty, perceptive, gentle, and the best listener she'd ever encountered.

At one-thirty in the morning, Brendan pleaded exhaustion and curled up

in the back of the Cherokee, instantly falling asleep.  Jorja, dismayed

that the priest had come with them, had not really understood her dismay

until Father Cronin went to sleep; then she realized that her feelings

had nothing to do with the priest, but resulted from her desire to have

Jack Twist to herself.  With Brendan out of the way, she got what she

unconsciously wanted, and she fell entirely under Jack's spell, telling

him more about herself than she had told anyone since her all-time

closest friend had moved away when they were both sixteen.  In almost

seven years of marriage, she had never had a conversation with Alan that

was half as profound as that she had with Jack Twist, a man she'd known

less than twelve hours.

Now, as she stood just outside the kitchen doorway in the Blocks'

apartment and watched Jack with Marcie, Jorja saw another good side of

him.  He could talk comfortably with a child, without the slightest note

of condescension or boredom, something few adults could manage.  He

joked with Marcie, questioned her about her favorite songs, foods, and

movies, helped her color one of the last untinted moons in her album.

But Marcie was in a deeper and even more frightening trance than she had

been yesterday. She did not answer Jack; she rewarded his attention with

nothing more than an occasional blank or puzzled look, but he was not

discouraged.  Jorja realized that he had spent eight years talking to a

comatose wife who had never responded, so he would not lose patience

with Marcie anytime soon.  Jorja stood in the shadows just beyond the

doorway for several minutes, unannounced, torn between the pleasure of

watching Jack be Jack and the agony of watching her daughter descend

even farther into a state increasingly similar to some of the behavior

of an autistic child.

"Good morning!" Jack said, looking up from the book of red moons,

spotting Jorja.  "Sleep well?  How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," she said, entering the kitchen.

"Marcie, say good morning to your mother," Jack told the girl.

But Marcie did not look up from the moon that she was coloring.

Jorja met Jack's eyes and saw sympathy and concern in them.  She said,

"Well, it's not really morning any more. Almost noon."

She went to Marcie, put a hand under her chin, lifted her head.  The

child's gaze focused on her mother's eyes, but only for a moment, then

turned inward.  It was a terrible and empty look.  When Jorja let go,

Marcie turned immediately to the image of the moon before her and began

to scrub hard at the paper with her last red crayon.

Jack pushed his chair back, got up, and went to the refrigerator.

"Hungry, Jorja?  I'm starved.  Marcie ate earlier, but I've been waiting

breakfast on you." He pulled open the refrigerator door.  "Eggs and

bacon and toast?  Or I could whip up an omelet with some cheese, herbs,

just a touch of onion, a few slivers of green peppers."

:'You cook, too," Jorja said.

'I'll never win any prizes," he said.  "But it's usually edible, and at

least half the time you can even tell what it is when I put it on your

plate." He pulled open the freezer door.  "They have frozen waffles.  I

could toast a few of those to go along with the omelet."

"Whatever you're having." She was unable to look away from Marcie, and

as she watched her stricken daughter, her appetite faded.

Jack loaded his arms with a carton of milk, another of eggs, a package

of cheese, a green pepper, and a small onion, and carried the fixings to

the cutting board beside the sink.

When Jack began cracking eggs into a bowl, Jorja joined him at the

counter.  Although she did not think Marcie would hear her even if she

shouted, she spoke sotto voce to Jack: "Did she really eat breakfast?"

He whispered too: "Sure.  Some cereal.  A piece of toast with jelly and

peanut butter.  I had to help her a little, that's all."

Jorja tried not to think about what Dom had told her of Zebediah Lomack,

or about how Lomack tied in with what had happened to Alan.  But if two

grown men had been unable to cope with the sick obsessions that had

evolved from what they'd seen on July 6 and from the subsequent

brainwashing, what chance did Marcie have of coping, living?

"Hey, hey," Jack said softly, "don't cry, Jorja.  Crying won't help

anything." He took her in his arms.  "She'll be all right. I promise

you.  Listen, just this morning, the others were saying they had a

terrific night last night, no dreams for a change, and Dom didn't

sleepwalk, and Ernie wasn't half as afraid of the dark as usual.  Know

why?  Because just being here, pulling together like a family-it's

already making the memory blocks crumble, relieving the pressure.  All

right, yes, Marcie's a bit worse this morning, but that doesn't mean

it's all downhill for her.  She'll improve.  I know she will."

Jorja was not expecting the embrace, but she welcomed it. God, how she

welcomed it!  She leaned against him and allowed herself to be held, and

instead of feeling weak and foolish, she felt a new strength flowing

into her.  She was tall for a woman, and he was not tall for a man, so

they were almost the same height, yet she had the atavistic feeling of

being protected, guarded.  She was reminded of what she'd been thinking

yesterday, on the flight north from Las Vegas: Human beings were not

meant for solitude, lonely struggles; the very essence of the species

was its need to give and receive friendship, affection, love.  Right

now, she needed to receive, and Jack needed to give, and the confluence

of their needs gave new purpose and determination to both of them.

"An omelet with cheese, herbs, a little bit of chopped onion, and

slivers of green pepper," he said softly, his lips against her ear, as

if sensing that she had regained her footing and was ready to go on.

"Does that sound all right?"

"Sounds delicious," she said, reluctantly letting go of him.

"And one other ingredient," he said.  "I warned you I wouldn't win any

cooking prizes.  I always get one little chip of eggshell in every

omelet, no matter how careful I am."

"Oh, that's the secret of a good omelet," she said.  "One bit of

eggshell for texture.  The finest restaurants make omelets that way."

"Yeah?  Do they also leave one bone in every fish?"

"And a bit of hoof in every order of beef Bourguignon," she said.

"one antler in every chocolate mousse?"

"And one shoemaker's nail in every apple cobbler."

"One old maid in every apple pandowdy?"

"Oh, God, I hate puns."

"Me too," he said.  "Truce?"

"Truce.  I'll grate the cheddar for the omelet."

Together they made breakfast.

At the kitchen table, Marcie colored moons.  And colored moons.  And

murmured that one word in monotonous, mesmeric, rhythmic chains.

In Monterey, California, Parker Faine had almost fallen into the lair of

a trap-door spider.  He counted himself fortunate to have gotten out

alive.  A trap-door spider-that was how he thought of the Salcoes'

neighbor, a woman named Essie Craw.  The trap-door spider constructed a

tubular nest in the ground and fixed a cleverly concealed hinged lid at

the top. When other hapless insects, innocent and unsuspecting, crossed

the perfectly camouflaged lid, it opened and dropped them down to the

rapacious arachnoid beast below.  Essie Craw's tubular nest was a lovely

large Spanish home far more suited to the California coast than the

Salcoes' Southern Colonial manse, with graceful arches and leaded-glass

windows and flowers blooming in large terra cotta pots on the portico.

One look at the place, and Parker was prepared to encounter charming and

exquisitely gracious people, but when Essie Craw answered the door he

knew he was in deep trouble. When she discovered that he was seeking

information about the Salcoes, she virtually seized him by his sleeve

and dragged him inside and slammed the lid of her tubular nest behind

him, for those who sought information often had information to give in

return, and Essie Craw fed on gossip as surely as the trap-door spider

fed on careless beetles, centipedes, and pillbugs.

Essie did not look like a spider but rather like a bird.  Not a scrawny,

thirmecked, meager-breasted sparrow.  More like a well-fed sea gull. She

had a quick birdlike walk, and she held her head slightly to the side in

the manner of a bird, and she had beady little avian eyes.

After leading him to a seat in the living room, she offered coffee, but

he declined, and she insisted, but he protested that he did not want to

be a bother.  She brought coffee anyway, plus butter cookies, which she

produced with such alacrity that he suspected she was as perpetually

prepared for drop-in guests as was the trap-door spider.

Essie was disappointed to hear that Parker knew nothing about the Salcoe

family and had no gossip.  But since he was not their friend, either, he

offered a fresh pair of ears for her observations, tales, slanders, and

mean-spirited suppositions. He did not even have to ask questions in

order to learn more than he wanted to know.  Donna Salcoe, Gerald's

wife, was (Essie said) a brassy sort, too blond, too flashy,

phony-sweet. Donna was so thin she was surely a problem drinker who

survived on a liquid diet-or maybe she was anorexic.  Gerald was Donna's

second husband, and although they had been married eighteen years, Essie

did not think it would last.  Essie made the sixteen-year-old twin girls

sound so wild, so unrestrained, so nubile and licentious, that Parker

pictured packs of young men sniffing around the Salcoe house like dogs

seeking bitches in heat.  Gerald Salcoe owned three thriving shops-an

antiques store, two art galleries-in nearby Carmel, though Essie could

not understand how any of these enterprises showed a profit when Salcoe

was a hard-drinking libertine and a thick-headed boob with no business

sense.

Parker drank only two sips of his coffee and didn't even nibble at the

butter cookies, because Essie Craw's enthusiasm for malicious gossip

went beyond the limits of ordinary behavior into a realm of weirdness

that made him uncomfortable and unwilling to turn his back on her-or

consume much of what she provided.

But he learned a few useful things, as well.  The Salcoes had taken an

impromptu vacation-one week in the wine country, Napa and Sonoma-and had

been so desperate to escape the pressures of their various enterprises

that they had not wanted to reveal the name of the- hotel where they

could be reached, lest it get back to the very business associates from

whom they needed a rest.

"He called me Sunday to tell me they were off and wouldn't be back until

Monday, the twentieth," Essie said.  "Asked me to keep a watch over the

place, as usual.  They're terrible gadabouts, and it's such a bother to

be expected to look out for burglars and God knows what.  I have my own

life to live, which of course concerns them not at all."

"You didn't speak with any of them face to face?"

"I guess they were in a hurry to be off."

"Did you see them leave?"

"No, though I .  .  .  well .  .  .  I looked out a couple of times, but

I must've missed them."

"The twins went with them?" Parker asked.  "Isn't school in?"

"It's a progressive school-too progressive, I say-and travel is thought

to be as broadening as classroom work.  Did you ever hear such-"

"How did Mr.  Salcoe sound when you spoke with him on the phone?"

Impatiently, Essie said, "Well .  .  .  he sounded .  .  .  like he

always sounds.  What do you mean?"

"Not at all strained?  Nervous?"

She pursed her tight little mouth, cocked her head, and her bird-bright

eyes glittered at the prospect of potential scandal.  "Well, now that

you mention it, he was a bit odd.  Stumbled over his words a few times,

but until now I didn't realize he'd probably been drinking.  Do you

think ...  oh, that he's had to go off to some clinic to dry out or-"

Parker had heard enough.  He rose to leave, but Essie got between him

and the doorway, trying to delay him by making him feel guilty that he

had not finished his coffee or even tasted a cookie.  She suggested tea

instead of coffee, some strudel, or "perhaps an almond croissant." By

dint of the same indomitable will that had made him a great painter, he

managed to get to the front door, through it, and onto the portico.

She followed him all the way to the rental car in her driveway.  The

little vomit-green Tempo looked, for that one moment, as beautiful as a

Rolls-Royce, for it offered escape from Essie Craw.  As he sped away, he

quoted Coleridge aloud, an apt passage.

Like one that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

He drove around for half an hour, working up the courage to do what must

be done.  Finally, upon his return to the Salcoe house, he parked boldly

at the head of the circular driveway, in the shadows of the massive

pines.  He went to the front door again, insistently pressed the bell

for three minutes.  If anyone was home and merely unwilling to see

visitors, he would have answered that unrelenting ring out of sheer

desperation.  But no one responded.

Parker walked along the veranda, studying the front windows, being

nonchalant, acting as if he belonged there, though the property was so

shrouded by trees and lush landscaping that he could not be spotted

easily from the street-or from Essie Craw's windows.  The drapes were

shut, preventing a glimpse of the interior.  He expected to see the

telltale electricity-conducting tape of an alarm system on the glass.

But there was no tape and no other indication of electronic security.

He stepped off the end of the veranda and went around the western side

of the house, where the morning sun had not shrunk the long, deep

shadows of the pines.  He tried two windows there.  They were locked.

In back of the house were more shrubs, flowers, and a large brick patio

with a lattice cover, outdoor wet-bar, expensive lawn furniture.

He used his coat-protected elbow to smash in a small pane on one of the

French doors.  He unlocked the door and went inside, pushing through the

drapes into a tile-floored family room.

He stood very still, listening.  The house was silent.

It would have been uncomfortably dark if the family room had not opened

onto a breakfast area and the breakfast area onto the kitchen, where

light entered through the glass in that uncurtained door to the patio.

Parker moved past a fireplace, billiards table-and froze when he spotted

the motion-detection alarm unit on the wall.  He recognized it from when

he had investigated security systems for his Laguna house.  He was about

to flee when he recalled that a small red light should have been visible

on the unit if it was in operation.  The bulb was there-but dark.

Apparently the system had not been activated when the Salcoes had left.

The kitchen was roomy, with the best appliances.  Beyond that was a

serving pantry, then the dining room.  The light from the kitchen did

not reach that far, so he decided to risk turning on lights as he went.

In the living room, he stood very still again, listening.

Nothing.  The silence was deep and heavy, as in a tomb.

When Brendan Cronin entered the Blocks'kitchen after rising late and

taking a long hot shower, he found little Marcie coloring moons and

murmuring eerily to herself.  He thought of how he had mended Emmeline

Halbourg with his hands, and he wondered if he could cure Marcie's

psychological obsession by the application of that same psychic power.

But he dared not try.  Not until he learned to control his wild talent,

for he might do irreparable harm to the girl's mind.

Jack and Jorja were finishing omelets and toast, and they greeted him

warmly.  Jorja wanted to make breakfast for Brendan, too, but he

declined.  He only wanted a cup of coffee, black and strong.

As Jack ate, he examined four handguns that were lying on the table

beside his plate.  Two of them were Ernie's.  Jack had brought the other

two with him from the East.  Neither Brendan nor anyone else referred to

the firearms, for they knew their enemy might be listening right now. No

point revealing the size of their arsenal.

The guns made Brendan nervous.  Maybe because he had a prescient feeling

that the weapons would be used repeatedly before day's end.

His characteristic optimism had left him, largely because he had not

dreamed last night.  He'd had his first uninterrupted sleep in weeks,

but for him that was no improvement. Unlike the others, Brendan had been

having a good dream every night, and it had given him hope.  Now the

dream was gone, and the loss made him edgy.

"I thought it would be snowing by now," he said as he sat down at the

table with a cup of coffee.

"Soon," Jack said.

The sky looked like a great slab of dark-gray granite.

Ned and Sandy Sarver, serving as the second team of outriders, had

driven into Elko to rendezvous with Jack, Jorja, and Brendan at the Arco

Mini-Mart at four in the morning, then had cruised around town until

seven-thirty, by which time some of those back at the Tranquility would

have set out on their tasks for the day.  They returned to the motel at

eight o'clock, ate a quick breakfast, and went back to bed to get a few

more hours of rest in order to cope with the busy day ahead.

Ned woke after little more than two hours, but he did not get out of

bed.  He lay in the dimness of the motel room for a while, watching

Sandy sleep.  The love he felt for her was deep and smooth and flowing

like a great river that could bear them both away to better places and

times beyond all the worries of the world.

Ned wished he was as good a talker as he was a fixer. Sometimes he

worried that he had never been able to tell her exactly how he felt

about her.  But when he tried to put his sentiments into words, he

either became tongue-tied or heard himself expressing his emotions in

hopelessly inarticulate sentences and leaden images.  It was good to be

a fixer, with the talent to repair everything from broken toasters to

broken cars to broken people.  Yet sometimes, Ned would have traded all

his mending skills for the ability to compose and speak one perfect

sentence which would convey his deepest feelings for her.

Now, watching her, he realized that she was no longer sleeping. "Playing

possum?" he asked.

She opened her eyes and smiled.  "I was scared, the way you were

watching me, that I was going to get eaten alive, so I played possum."

"You look good enough to eat; that's for sure."

She threw aside the covers and, naked, opened her arms to him.  They

fell at once into the familiar silken rhythms of love-making at which

they had become so sensuously adept during the past year of her sexual

awakening.

In the afterglow, as they lay side by side, holding hands, Sandy said,

"Oh, Ned, I'must be the happiest woman on earth.  Since I met you down

in Arizona all those years ago, since you took me under your wing,

you've made me very happy, Ned.  In fact, I'm so crazy-happy now that if

God struck me dead this minute, I wouldn't complain."

"Don't say that," he told her sharply.  Rising up on one elbow, leaning

over her, looking down at her, he said, "I don't like you saying-that.

It makes me ...  superstitious.  All this trouble we're in-it's possible

some of us will die.  So I don't want you tempting fate.  I don't want

you saying things like that."

"Ned, you're about the least superstitious man I know."

"Yeah, well, I feel different about this.  I don't want you saying

you're so happy you wouldn't mind dying, nothing like that.  Understand?

I don't want you even thinking it."

He slipped his arms around her again, pulling her very tightly against

him, needing to feel the throb of life within her.  He held her so close

that after a while he could no longer detect the strong and regular

stroking of her heart, which was only because it had become synchronized

with-and lost inhis own beat.

In the Salcoe family's Monterey house, Parker Faine was looking

primarily for two things, either of which would fulfill his obligation

to Dom.  First, he hoped to find something to prove they had actually

gone to Napa-Sonoma: If he found a brochure for a hotel, he could call

and confirm that the Salcoes had checked in safely; or if they went to

the wine country regularly, perhaps an address book would contain the

telephone number of the place where they stayed.  But he half-expected

to find the other thing instead: overturned

furniture, bloodstains, or other evidence that the Salcoes had been

taken against their will.

Of course, Dom had only asked him to come talk with these people.  He

would be appalled to know that Parker had gone to these illegal lengths

when the Salcoes had been unlocatable.  But Parker never did anything by

halves, and he was enjoying himself even though his heart had begun to

pound and his throat had clutched up a bit.

Beyond the living room was a library.  Beyond that, a small music room

contained a piano, music stands, chairs, two clarinet cases, and a

ballet exercise bar.  Evidently, the twins liked music and dance.

Parker found nothing amiss on the first floor, so he slowly climbed the

stairs, staying in the runner of plush carpet between oak inlays.  The

light from the first floor reached just to the top step.  Above, the

second-floor hallway was dark.

He stopped on the landing.

Stillness.

His hands were clammy.

He did not understand why he was clutching up.  Maybe instinct.  It

might be wise to pay attention to his more primitive senses.  But if

anyone had wanted to ambush him, there had been plenty of places on the

first floor ideal for the purpose, yet the rooms had been deserted.

He continued upward, and when he reached the secondfloor hallway, he

finally heard something.  It was a cross between a beep-sound and a

blip-sound, and it came from rooms on both ends of the hall.  For a

moment he thought the alarm system was about to go off, after all, but

an alarm would have been a thousand times louder than these beep-blips.

The sounds came in counterpointed, rhythmic patterns.

He found a switch at the head of the stairs and snapped on the overhead

lights in the hall.  Standing motionless once more, he listened for

noises other than the curious beep-blips. He heard none.  There was

something familiar about the sound, but it eluded him.

His curiosity was greater than his fear.  He had always been compelled

by a chronic curiosity, with frequent acute attacks of same, and if he

had not allowed it to drive him in the past, he'd never have become a

successful painter.  Curiosity was the heart of creativity.  Therefore,

he looked both ways along the hall, then turned right and walked

cautiously toward one source of the beep-blips.

At the end of the hallway, there were two distinct sets of beeping

sounds, each with a slightly different rhythm, both coming from a dark

room where the door was three-quarters shut.  Poised to flee, he pushed

the door all the way open. Nothing leaped at him out of the darkness.

The beeping became louder, but only because the door was out of the way

now.  He saw that the room was not entirely dark.  On the far wall, thin

ribbons of pale gray light outlined drapes that were drawn across a very

large window or perhaps a pair of balcony doors; the Salcoes' Southern

Colonial had lots of balconies. In addition, around the corner from the

doorway, out of sight, were two sources of eerie soft green light that

did little to dispel the gloom.

Parker eased forward, clicked the light switch, entered the room, saw

the Salcoe twins, and thought for an instant that they were dead.  They

were lying on their backs in a queensized bed, covers drawn up to their

shoulders, unmoving, eyes open.  Then Parker realized that the beeping

and the green light came from EEG and EKG monitors to which both girls

were connected, and he saw the IV racks trailing lines to spikes

inserted in their arms, so he knew they were not dead but merely in the

process of being brainwashed.  The chamber had none of the quality of a

teenaged girl's room; from the lack of personal mementos or any stamp of

individuality, he assumed it was a guest room and that the girls had

been put here in a single bed simply to make it easier to monitor them.

But where were their captors and tormentors?  Were the mind-control

experts so certain of the effectiveness of their drugs and other devices

that they could leave the family alone and dash out for a Big Mac and

fries at McDonald's?  Was there no risk at all that one of the Salcoes,

in a moment of lucidity, might tear out his IV line, rise up, and flee?

Parker went to the nearest girl, looked into her blank eyes. For a few

seconds she peered up unblinking, then suddenly blinked furiously-ten,

twenty, thirty times-then stared unblinking again.  She did not see

Parker.  He waved a hand across her eyes and got no reaction.

He saw that she was wearing a pair of earphones connected to a tape

recorder that lay on the pillow beside her head.  He leaned close to

her, lifted one earphone an inch, and listened to a soft, melodic, and

very soothing voice, a woman's voice: "On Monday morning, I slept in

late.  It's a wonderful hotel "We're sleeping late because the staff is

so quiet, so respectful.  It's actually a country club as well as a

hotel, so it's not like other places, where maids make a racket in the

halls as soon as the sun rises.  Oh, don't you just love the wine

country!  I'd like to live there someday.  Anyway, after we finally got

up, Chrissie and I took a long walk around the grounds, sort of hoping

we'd run into some neat boys, but we couldn'tfind any.  .  .."

The hypnotic rhythms of the woman's voice spooked Parker. He put the

earphones back in place.

Evidently, one or more of the Salcoes had remembered what they had

experienced at the Tranquility Motel the summer before last.  So those

memories had again been repressed. Now to cover the time span of this

current brainwashing session, new false memories were being implanted, a

process that included the repeated playing of a tape recording that

undoubtedly had subliminal as well as audible messages to impart.

Dom had explained some of it to Parker on the telephone, Saturday and

Sunday nights.  But Parker had not fully appreciated the hideousness of

the conspiracy until he heard that insidious whisper in the Salcoe

girl's ear.

He moved to the foot of the bed and studied the other twin, whose eyes

also alternated between blihkless stares and abrupt, machine-gun bursts

of blinks.  He wondered if he would do any physical or mental harm to

them if he pulled out their IV lines, disconnected them from the

machines, and moved them out of the house before their captors returned.

Better to find a phone, call the police How long they were watching him

he did not know, but suddenly he was aware that he and the twins were

not alone. He jumped and whirled toward the door, where two men had

entered the room.  They were wearing dark slacks, white shirts with the

sleeves rolled up and the collars unbuttoned, neckties loosened and

askew.  At the doorway behind them was another man, bespectacled and in

a suit with his tie in place. They had to be government agents, for no

one else would bother to wear business clothes while engaged upon

activities of such a dubious nature.

One of them said, "And who the fuck are you?"

Parker did not attempt to jive them, did not foolishly claim his rights

as a U S.  citizen, did not bother to say anything at all.  He just took

three running steps toward the drawn drapes, praying that a big window

or sliding-glass balcony door lay beyond them, that it would shatter on

impact, that the drapes would protect him from serious cuts, and that he

would be outside and gone before they knew what happened.  If the drapes

were a lot wider than the window, covering more blank wall than glass,

he was in big trouble.  Behind him, the men shouted in surprise ' just

as he hit the drapes, for they'd obviously believed they'd trapped him.

He went through the material with the unstoppable power of a locomotive.

The impact was tremendous, sending a devastating shock across his

shoulder and through his chest, but something gave way with a crack and

a screech and a crash of glass, and he was through into daylight,

vaguely aware that the doors had been French rather than sliding panels

and that he had been lucky the lock was flimsy.

He found himself on a second-floor balcony with a pair of redwood lounge

chairs and a glass-topped table, over which he fell.  Even as he was

going down on top of chairs, banging knees and barking shins, he was

already coming up again, up and over the balcony rail, leaping out into

space, praying he would not land in a particularly woody shrub and be

castrated by a sharp, sturdy branch.  He fell only twelve feet onto bare

lawn, jarring his other shoulder and his back but breaking no bones.  He

rolled, scrambled to his feet, and ran.

Suddenly, in front of his eyes, foliage snapped-flutteredshredded, and

he didn't know what was happening, and then as he continued to run,

pieces of bark exploded off a tree, and he realized they were shooting

at him.  He heard no gunfire.  Silencer-equipped weapons.  He zigzagged

toward the perimeter of the property, fell in an azalea bed, scrambled

up, ran on, reached a hedge, threw himself over it, and kept on running.

They had been ready to kill him to stop him from spreading the news of

what he had seen in the Salcoe house.  Right now, they were probably

hastily moving-or killing-the Salcoes. If he found a phone and called

the police, and if the killers were agents of the U S.  government,

whose side would the police be on?  And who would they believe?  One

eccentric and rather curiously dressed artist with a woolly beard and

flyaway hair?  Or three neatly attired FBI men claiming they were in the

Salcoe house on a legitimate stakeout of some kind, and that Parker

Faine was, in fact, the felon they had attempted to arrest.  If they

demanded custody of him, would the police cooperate?

Jesus.

He ran.  Abandoning the Tempo, he sprinted down the sloped wall of a

shallow glen, along the rocky course of a narrow brook, between trees,

through underbrush, up another wall of the same glen, into someone's

back yard, across that lawn and into another yard, alongside a house,

out into a street, from that street to another.  He slowed to a fast

walk to avoid drawing attention to himself, but he continued to follow a

twisty route away from the Salcoe house.

He knew what he had to do.  The horror he had just seen had made the

extremity of Dom's plight clearer than ever. Parker had known his friend

was in danger, deep in a conspiracy of monumental proportions, but

knowing it in his mind was not the same as knowing it in his guts. There

was nothing for him to do but go to Elko County.  Dom Corvaisis was his

friend, perhaps his best friend, and this was what friends did for each

other: shared their trouble, fought back the darkness together.  He

could walk away, go back to Laguna Beach to continue work on the

painting that he had begun yesterday.  But if he chose that course, he

would never like himself very much again-which would be an intolerable

circumstance, for he had always liked himself immensely!

He had to find a ride back to the Monterey Airport, catch a flight to

San Francisco International, and head east from there toward Nevada.  He

was not concerned that the men in the Salcoes' house would be looking

for him at the airport. The only words any of them had spoken in his

presence were: "And who the fuck are you?" If they did not know who he

was, they would most likely figure he was a local.  The keys to the

Tempo had a rental-company tag on them, but they were in his pocket.  In

an hour or two, of course, the bad guys would trace the car to the

airport, but by then he should have taken off for San Francisco.

He kept walking.  On a quiet residential street he saw a young man,

about nineteen or twenty, in the driveway of a more modest house than

the Salcoes', carefully scrubbing the whitewalls on the tires of a

meticulously restored, banana yellow, 1958 Plymouth Fury, one of those

long jobs with a plenitude of grille and big sharity fins.  The kid had

a slickedback ducktail haircut to match the era of his vehicle.  Parker

went up to him and said, "Listen, my car broke down, and I've got to get

to the airport.  I'm in a big hurry, so would you drive me out there for

fifty bucks?"

The kid knew how to hurry.  If he had not been a superb driver, he would

have fishtailed out of control and spun them off the road into trees or

ditches on a half-dozen tight turns, for he got all possible speed out

of the big Fury.  After they came through the third sharp turn alive,

Parker knew he was in good hands, and he finally relaxed a bit.

At the airport, he bought a ticket for one of two remaining seats on a

West Air flight leaving for San Francisco in ten minutes.  He boarded

the plane, half-expecting it to be halted by federal agents before it

could take off.  But soon they were airborne, and he could worry about

something else: getting another flight from San Francisco to Reno before

they tracked him that far.

Jack Twist went through the Blocks' apartment from northto west- to

south- to east-facing windows, surveying the vast landscape for signs of

the enemy's observation post or posts. At least one surveillance team

would be watching the motel and diner, and no matter how well concealed

they were, he had a device that would pinpoint their location.

He'd brought it from New York with the other gear-an instrument the

armed forces called the HS101 Heat Analyzer. It was shaped like a sleek

futuristic raygun from the movies, with a single two-inch-diameter lens

instead of a barrel.  You held it by the butt and looked through the

eyepiece as if peering into a telescope.  Moving the viewfinder across

the landscape, you saw two things: an ordinary magnified image of the

terrain, and an overlaid representation of heat sources within that

terrain.  Plants, animals, and sun-baked rocks radiated heat, but thanks

to microchip technology, the HS's computer could differentiate among

types of thermal radiation and screen out most natural background

sources.  The device would show only heat from living sources larger

than fifty pounds: animals bigger than house-dogs and human beings. Even

if they were out there in insulated ski suits that trapped a lot of body

heat, enough would escape their garments to give him a fix on them.

Jack spent a considerable length of time studying the land north of the

motel, through which he had approached the place last night, but finally

he decided no one was watching from that direction, and he moved to the

west-facing windows in other rooms.  The west also looked clear, so he

went next to the windows on the south side of the apartment.

Marcie had colored the last moon in her album, and when Jack set out

with the HS101 to look for surveillance teams, she came with him,

staying close by his side.  Maybe she had taken a liking to him because

he'd spent hours talking to her in spite of her failure to respond.  Or

maybe she was scared of something and felt safer in his presence.  Or

another reason too strange to imagine.  He could do nothing for her

except keep talking softly to her as she accompanied him.

Jorja followed along as well, and though she did not interrupt with

questions, she was considerably more distracting than her daughter.  She

was a strikingly beautiful woman, but more importantly he liked her a

lot.  He thought she liked him, too, although he didn't suppose she was

attracted to him, not in the man-woman sense.  After all, what would a

woman like her see in a guy like him?  He was an admitted criminal, and

he had a face like an old battered shoe, not to mention one cast eye.

But they could be friends, at least, and that was nice.

At the living room windows, he finally spotted what he was seeking:

points of body heat out there in the cold barrens. Across the top of the

image that filled the lens-Nevada plains and overlaid heat patterns-came

a digital readout of data that told him there were two sources of heat,

that they were due south of his position, and that they were

approximately four-tenths of a mile away.  That information was followed

by numerals that represented an estimation of the size of each source's

radiant surface, which told him he had found two men.  He switched off

the HS's heat-analysis function and turned up the magnification, using

the device as a simple telescope, zeroing in on the area in which the

heat had been detected.  He had to search for a couple of minutes, for

they were wearing camouflage suits.

"Bingo," he said at last.

Jorja did not ask what he saw, for she had learned well the lesson he

had taught them last night: Everything spoken in the apartment was

sucked directly into the enemy's electronic ears.

Out there on the barrens, the two observers were prone on the cold

ground.  Jack saw that one man had a pair of binoculars.  But the guy

was not using the glasses at the moment, so he was not aware of Jack

watching him from the window.

He moved to the east windows and surveyed that landscape, as well, but

it was uninhabited.  They were being watched only from the south, which

the enemy figured was sufficient because the front of the motel and the

only road leading to it could be seen from that single post.

They were underestimating Jack.  They knew his background, knew that he

was good, but they didn't realize how good.

At one-forty, the first snowflakes fell.  For a while they came down

only as scattered flurries, with no particular force.

At two o'clock, when Dom and Ernie returned from their scouting trip

around the perimeter of the Thunder Hill Depository, Jack said, "You

know, Ernie, when the storm really hits later, there might be some

people on the interstate who'll see our wheels out front and pull in

here, looking for shelter, even if we leave the sign and other lights

off.  Better move my Cherokee, the Servers' truck, and the cars around

back. We don't want a lot of people rapping at your door wanting to know

why you're giving rooms to some people and not to them."

Actually, certain that the enemy was even now listening to them, Jack

was using the specter of weary snow-bound motorists as a plausible

excuse to move the pickup truck and the Cherokee, the two

four-wheel-drive vehicles, out of sight of the observers south of I-80.

Later, when heavier snow and the early darkness of the storm settled in,

the entire Tranquility family would surreptitiously leave the motel from

the rear, heading overland in the truck and the Cherokee.

Ernie sensed Jack's real purpose; equally aware of eavesdroppers, he

played along.  He and Dom went outside again to move all the vehicles

around back.

In the kitchen, Ned and Sandy had nearly finished preparing and

packaging the sandwiches that everyone would be issued for dinner.

Now they had only to wait for Faye and Ginger.

The snow flurries intermittently surrendered to furious but short-lived

squalls.  The day dimmed.  By two-forty, the squalls turned to steady

snow that, in spite of a complete cessation of wind, reduced visibility

to a few hundred feet.  Out on the barrens, the camouflaged observers

were probably picking up their gear and moving closer to the motel.

Jack checked his watch more frequently.  He knew time was running out.

But he had no way of knowing how fast it might be running out.

While Lieutenant Horner repaired the sabotaged polygraph in the security

office, Falkirk lectured the Depository's chief of security and his

assistant-Major Fugata and Lieutenant Helms-letting them know they were

on his list of possible traitors.  He made two enemies, but that didn't

matter.  He did not want them to like him-only to respect and fear him.

He had not yet finished chewing out Fugata and Helms when General

Alvarado arrived.  The general was a lardass with a pot gut, fingers

like sausages, and jowls.  He stormed into the security office in a

red-faced outrage, having just heard the bad news from Dr.  Miles

Bennell: "Is it true, Colonel Falkirk?  By God, is it true?  Have you

actually taken control Of VIGILANT and made prisoners of us all?"

Sternly but in a tone that could not be construed as disrespectful,

Leland informed Alvarado that he had the authority to include the secret

program in the security computer and to activate it at his discretion.

Alvarado demanded to know whose authority, and Leland said, "General

Maxwell D.  Riddenhour, Chief of Staff of the Army and Chairman of the

Joint Chiefs." Alvarado said he knew perfectly well who Riddenhour was,

but he did not believe that the colonel's mentor in this matter was the

Chief of Staff himself.  "Sir, why don't you call him and ask?" Leland

suggested.  He took a card out of his wallet and gave it to Alvarado.

"That's General Riddenhour's number."

"I have the Staff HQ number," Alvarado said scornfully.

"Sir, that's not Staff HQ.  That's General Riddenhour's unlisted home

line.  If he's not in his office, he'd want you to contact him on the

unlisted phone.  After all, this is a deadly serious matter, sir."

Burning a brighter red, Alvarado stalked out, the card pinched between

thumb and forefinger and held away from his side as if it were an

offensive object.  He was back in fifteen minutes, no longer flushed but

pale.  "All right, Colonel, you have the authority you claim.  So .  . .

I guess you're in command of Thunder Hill for the time being."

"Not at all, sir," Leland said.  "You're still the CO."

"But if I'm a prisoner-"

Leland interrupted.  "Sir, your orders take precedence as long as they

don't directly conflict with my authority to guarantee that no dangerous

persons-no dangerous creaturesescape from Thunder Hill."

Alvarado shook his head in amazement.  "According to Miles Bennell, you

have this crazy idea that we're all ...  some kind of monsters." The

general had used the most melodramatic word he could think of, with the

intent of belittling Leland's position.

"Sir, as you know, one or more people in this facility attempted, by

indirection, to bring some of the witnesses back to the Tranquility,

evidently with the hope that the witnesses will remember what they've

been made to forget and will create a media circus that'll force us to

reveal what we've hidden.  Now, these traitors are probably just

well-intentioned men, most likely members of Bennell's staff, who simply

believe the public should be informed.  But the possibility also exists

that they've got other and darker motives."

"Monsters," Alvarado repeated sourly.

When the polygraph was repaired, Leland charged Major Fugata and

Lieutenant Helms with interrogating everyone in Thunder Hill who had

knowledge of the special secret harbored there for more than eighteen

months.  "If you screw up again," Leland warned them, "I'll have your

heads." If they failed again to find the man who'd sent the Polaroids to

the witnesses, he would view their failure as one more bit of evidence

that rot had spread widely through the Thunder Hill staff, and that it

was not ordinary human corruption but the result of an extraordinary and

terrifying infection.  Their failure would cost them their lives.

At one-forty-five, Leland and Lieutenant Horner returned to Shenkfield,

leaving the Depository's entire staff locked deep in the bosom of the

earth.  Upon his return to his windowless office in that other

underground facility, the colonel received several doses of bad news,

all courtesy of Foster Polnichey, the head of the Chicago office of the

FBI.

First, Sharkle was dead out in Evanston, Illinois, which should have

been good news, but he had taken his sister, brother-in-law, and an

entire SWAT team with him.  The siege of Sharkle's house had become

national news due to the extreme violence of its conclusion.  The

blood-hungry media would be focused on O'Bannon Lane until endless

rehashing of the story drained it of thrills.  Worse, among Sharkle's

mad ravings, there had been enough truth to lead a perceptive and

aggressive reporter to Nevada, to the Tranquility, and perhaps all the

way to Thunder Hill.

Worst of all, Foster Polnichey reported that "something almost .  .  .

well .  .  .  supernatural is happening here." A stabbing and shooting

in an Uptown apartment, involving a family named Mendoza, had caused

such a sensation within the city's police department that newspaper

reporters and television crews had virtually set siege to the tenement

house hours ago.  Evidently, Winton Tolk, the officer whose life had

been saved by Brendan Cronin, had brought a stabbed child back from

near-death.

Incredibly, Brendan Cronin had passed his own amazing talents to Tolk.

But what else had he passed on to the black policeman?  There might be

only a wondrous new power in Winton Tolk .  .  .  or something dark and

dangerous, alive and inhuman, living within the cop.

The worst possible scenario was, after all, unfolding.  Leland was

half-sick with apprehension as he listened to Polnichey.

According to the FBI agent, Tolk was giving no interviews to the press

and was, in fact, now in seclusion in his own house, where another mob

of reporters had gathered.  Sooner or later, however, Tolk would agree

to speak with the press, and he would mention Brendan Cronin, and from

there they would eventually find the link to the Halbourg girl.

The Halbourg girl.  That was another nightmare.  Upon receiving this

morning's news of Tolk's unexpected healing powers, Polnichey had gone

to the Halbourgs' home to determine if Emmy had acquired unusual powers

subsequent to her own miraculous recovery.  What he found there beggared

description, and he immediately isolated the entire Halbourg family from

the press and public before their secret was discovered.

Now all five Halbourgs were in an FBI safe-house, under the watchful

eyes of six agents who'd been informed only that the family was as much

to be feared as protected and that no agent was to be alone with any

member of the family at any time.  If the Halbourgs made threatening or

unusual moves, they would all be killed instantly.

"But I think it's all pointless now," Polnichey said on the phone from

Chicago.  "I think we've lost control of it.  ' It's spread, and we've

no hope of containing it again.  So we might as well call an end to the

cover-up, go public."

"Are you mad?" Leland demanded.

"If it's come to the point where we have to kill people, lots of people,

like the Halbourgs and the Tolks and all the witnesses there in Nevada,

in order just to keep the story contained, then the cost of containment

has gotten too damn high."

Leland Falkirk was furious.  "You've lost sight of what's at stake here.

My God, man, we're no longer merely trying to keep the news from the

public.  That's almost immaterial now. Now, we're trying to protect our

entire species from obliteration.  If we go public, and if then we

decide to use violence to contain the infection, every goddamn

politician and bleeding-heart will be second-guessing us, interfering,

and before you know it, we'll have lost the war!"

"But I think what's being proven here is that the danger isn't that

great," Polnichey said.  "Sure, I've told the men guarding the Halbourgs

to regard them as a threat, but I don't really believe they're a danger

to us.  That little Emmy ...  she's a darling, not a monster.  I don't

know how the power got in Cronin or how he conveyed it to the girl, but

I'm almost willing to bet my life that the power is the only thing

inside the child.  The only thing inside any of them.  If you could meet

Emmy and watch her, Colonel!  She's a delight.  All evidence points to

the fact that we should regard what's happening as the greatest event in

the history of mankind."

"Of course," Leland said coldly, "that's what an enemy like this would

want us to believe.  If we can be convinced that accommodation and

surrender are a great blessing, we'll be conquered without a fight."

"But Colonel, if Cronin and Corvaisis and Tolk and Emmy have been

infected, if they're no longer human, or at least no longer like you and

me, they wouldn't advertise by performing miraculous cures and feats of

telekinesis.  They'd keep their amazing abilities secret in order to

spread their infection to more people without detection."

Leland was unmoved by that argument.  "We don't know exactly how this

thing works.  Maybe a person, once infected, surrenders control to the

parasite, becomes a slave.  Or to answer the point you've just made,

maybe the relationship between the host and parasite is benign, mutually

supportive-and maybe the host doesn't even know the parasite is inside

him, which would explain why the Halbourg girl and the others don't know

where their power comes from.  But in either case, that person is no

longer strictly human.  And in my estimation, Polnichey, that person can

no longer be trusted.  Not an inch.  Now, for God's sake, you've got to

take the entire Tolk family into custody, too.  Isolate them at once."

"As I told you, Colonel, journalists surround the Tolk house. If I go in

there with agents and take the Tolks into custody in front of a score of

reporters, our cover-up is blown.  And although I no longer believe in

the cover-up, I'm not going to sabotage it.  I know my duty."

"You've at least got agents watching the house?"

"Yes."

"What about the Mendozas?  If Tolk infected the boy the way Cronin

apparently infected him .  .  ."

"We're watching the Mendozas," Polnichey said.  "Again, we can't make a

bold move because of the reporters."

The other problem was Father Stefan Wycazik.  The priest had been to the

Mendozas' apartment and then to the Halbourg house before Foster

Polnichey had known what was going on at either location.  Later, an FBI

agent had seen Wycazik at barricades near the Sharkle house in Evanston,

at the very moment when Sharkle had detonated his bomb. But no one knew

where he had gone; no one had seen him in almost six hours.  "Obviously

he's putting it together, piece by piece.  One more reason to call off

the cover-up and go public, before we're all caught in the act anyway."

Leland Falkirk suddenly felt that everything was flying apart, out of

control, and he had trouble breathing, for he had dedicated his life to

the philosophy and principles of control, unremitting iron control in

all things.  Control was what mattered more than anything else.  First

came self-control.  You had to learn to exert unfaltering control over

your desires

and ignoble impulses, or otherwise you risked destruction by one vice or

another: alcohol, drugs, sex.  He had learned that much from his

ultra-religious parents, who had begun drumming the lesson into him

before he was even old enough to understand what they were saying.  And

you also had to control your intellectual processes; you had to force

yourself to rely always on logic and reason, for it was human nature to

drift into superstition, into patterns of behavior based on irrational

assumptions.  That was a lesson he had learned in spite of his parents,

from attending Pentecostal services with them and watching in shock and

fear as they fell to the floor of the church or revival tent, where they

screamed and thrashed in wild abandon, transported by what they claimed

was the spirit of God-though it was actually just hysterical Holy

Rollerism.  You had to control your fear, too, or you could not hold on

to sanity for long.  He had taught himself to conquer his fear of his

parents, who had routinely beat and punished him while claiming it was

for his own good because the devil was in him and must be driven out.

One way of learning to control fear was by subjecting yourself to pain

and thereby increasing your tolerance for it, because you couldn't be

afraid of anything if you were sure you could bear the pain it might

cause you.  Control.  Leland Falkirk controlled himself, his life, his

men, and any assignment that he was given, but now he felt control of

this situation slipping quickly out of his grasp, and he was closer to

panic than he had been in more than forty years.

"Polnichey," he said, "I'm going to hang up, but you stand by your

phone.  My man will set up a scrambled conference call between me, you,

your director, Riddenhour in Washington, and our White House contact.

We're going to agree on a tough policy and the best way of implementing

it.  Damned if I'll let you gutless wonders fall apart on this.  We'll

keep control.  We're going to eradicate the infected people if that's

necessary, even if some of them are cute little girls and priests, and

we're going to save our asses.  By God, I'm going to make sure we do!"

When Faye and Ginger returned from Elko at two-forty-five in the motel

van, the green-brown car followed them down the exit ramp from I-80.

Ginger was half-convinced it would swing into the motel lot and park

beside them, but it stopped along the county road, a hundred feet short

of the Tranquility, and waited in the slanting snowfall.

Faye parked in front of the motel office door, and Dom and Ernie came

out to help them unload the purchases they had made in Elko: ski suits,

ski masks, boots, and insulated gloves for those who didn't already have

them, based on sizes everyone had provided last night; two new

semiautomatic .20gauge shotguns; ammunition for those weapons and the

others; backpacks, flashlights, two compasses, a small acetylene torch

with two bottles of gas, and a number of other items;

Ernie embraced Faye, and Dom embraced Ginger.  Simultaneously, both men

said, "I was worried about you."

And Ginger heard herself saying, "I was worried about you, too," even as

Faye said it.  Ernie and Faye kissed.  With snowflakes frosting his

eyebrows and melting into jeweled beads of water on his lashes, Dom

lowered his face to Ginger's, and they kissed, too-a sweet, warm,

lingering kiss.  Somehow, it was as right for her and Dom to greet each

other in such a fashion as it was for Faye and Ernie, husband and wife.

That rightness was part of everything Ginger had felt for him since

arriving in Elko two days ago.

When everything had been unloaded from the van and stashed in the

Blocks' apartment, all ten members of the Tranquility family adjourned

to the diner.  Jack, Ernie, Dom, Ned, and Faye brought guns.

As she pulled some chairs up to the table where Brendan and Dom had

tested their powers last night, Ginger noticed that the priest regarded

the weapons with a mixture of displeasure and fear, that he seemed far

less optimistic than yesterday, when his discovery of his amazing gift

had sent his spirit soaring.  "No dream last night," he explained when

she asked the reason for his grim mood.  "No golden light, no voice

calling to me.  You know, Ginger, I told myself all along that I didn't

believe I was being called here by God.  But deep down that is what I

believed.  Father Wycazik was right: There was always a core of faith in

me.  Recently, I've been edging back to an acceptance of God.  Not only

acceptance: I need Him again.  But now .  .  .  no dream, no golden

light ...  as if God's abandoned me."

"No, you're wrong," Ginger said, taking his hand as if she could absorb

his distress by osmosis and leave him feeling

better.  "If you believe in God, He never abandons you.  Right?

You can abandon God, but never the other way around.  He always

forgives, always loves.  Isn't that what you tell a parishioner?"

Brendan smiled wanly.  "Sounds like you went to seminary."

She said, "The dream was probably just a memory surging against the

block that's holding it down in your subconscious. But if it was really

God summoning you here ...  well, the reason you no longer have the

dream is because you've arrived.  You've come as He wanted, so there's

no need for Him to send you the dream any more.  See?"

The priest's face brightened a little.

They took up seats around the table.

With dismay, Ginger saw that Marcie's condition had worsened since last

night.  The girl sat with her head bent, face half-hidden by her thick

black hair staring at her tiny hands, which lay limply in her lap.  She

mumbled: "Moon, moon, the moon, moon.........  She was in all-out

pursuit of those memories of July 6, which remained teasingly on the

edge of her awareness and which, by their tantalizing inaccessibility,

had drawn her into obsessive contemplation of their halfglimpsed forms.

"She'll come out of it," Ginger told Jorja, knowing how empty and

foolish the statement was, yet unable to think of anything else to say.

"Yes," Jorja said, apparently not finding it empty or foolish but

reassuring.  "She has to come out of it.  She has to."

Jack and Ned stood the plywood panel against the door and braced it with

a table again, assuring freedom from eavesdroppers.

Quickly, Faye and Ginger told of their visit to the Jamisons' ranch and

of being followed by the two men in the Plymouth. Ernie and Dom had been

followed, too.

This news made Jack edgy.  "If they're coming out in the open to keep

tabs on us, that means they're almost ready to grab us again."

Ned Sarver said, "Maybe I'd just better stand watch, make sure nobody's

moving in on us already." Jack agreed, and Ned went to the door and put

one eye against the narrow crack between the plywood and the door frame,

looking out at the snow-swept parking lot.

At Jack's request, Dom and Ernie explained what they had found on their

tour of the Thunder Hill Depository's perimeter fence.

Jack listened carefully, asking a number of questions for which Ginger

could not always discern the purpose.  Were any thin bare wires woven

through the chainlink fence?  What were the fenceposts like?  Finally,

he asked, "No guard dogs or men on patrol?"

Dom said, "No.  There'd have been prints in the snow along the fence.

Must be heavy electronic security.  I'd hoped we'd be able to get on the

grounds-but not after I got a close-up view of the place."

"Oh, we'll get on the grounds all right," Jack said.  "The tricky part

will be getting inside the Depository itself."

Dom and Ernie looked at him with such astonishment that Ginger knew

Thunder Hill must have looked formidable, indeed.

"Get inside?" Dom said.

"No can do," Ernie said.

"If they rely on multiple electronic systems for the perimeter

security," Jack said, "they'll very likely also rely on electronics at

the main entrance.  That's the way it is these days. Everyone's dazzled

by high-tech.  Oh, sure, Thunder Hill will have a guard at the front

gate, but he'll be so used to depending on computers, video cameras, and

other gadgets that he'll be lax.  So we might be able to surprise him,

get by him. Once inside, though, I don't know how far we can go or what

we might be able to get a peek at before we're nailed."

Ginger said, "But how can you be so sure-"

"For eight years," Jack reminded her, "getting into and back out of

difficult places was my line of work.  And it was the government that

originally trained me, so I know their routines and tricks." He winked

his misaligned eye.  "I have some tricks of my own."

Jorja spoke up, obviously more than a little distressed: "But you've as

much as said you'll be caught in there."

"Oh, yes," Jack said.

"But then what's the point of going in?" Jorja asked.

He had it all planned out, and Ginger listened at first in utter

bafflement and then with growing admiration for his sense of strategy.

Jack laid out the details of his plan as if it were a foregone

conclusion that the other nine members of the group would agree to do

precisely what he told them, regardless of the risks involved.  He

employed every trick of coercion and leadership that he knew, not

because he was unwilling to consider alternatives to his strategy or

modifications of it, but because there simply was no time to explore

other courses of action. His intellect and his instinct had the same

message for him: Time is running out.  So he explained to the rest of

the Tranquility family that:

Within the next hour, everyone-except Dom, Ned, and Jack himself-would

pile in the Cherokee, leave overland from the rear of the motel, and

drive into Elko by a roundabout route, thereby slipping the waiting

tails.  In Elko the group would split up.  Ernie, Faye, and Ginger would

drive the Cherokee north to Twin Falls, Idaho, then to Pocatello. From

there they would arrange to fly to Boston, where they would stay with

Ginger's friends, the Hannabys.  They should get to Boston late Thursday

or early Friday.  Immediately upon their arrival, they would tell the

Hannabys every detail of what they had discovered.  Then, within an hour

or two, Ginger would call together as many of her colleagues at Boston

Memorial as possible, and she and the Blocks would tell those physicians

what had been done to a lot of innocent people in Nevada two summers

ago.  Meanwhile, George and Rita Hannaby would contact influential

friends and arrange meetings at which Ginger and the Blocks could spread

their tale.  Only then would Ginger, Faye, and Ernie go to the press.

And only after they had gone to the press would they go to the police

with a statement contesting the heretofore accepted wisdom that Pablo

Jackson had been murdered by an ordinary burglar eight days ago.

"The trick," Jack said, "is to get your story into wide circulation

among some important people, so if you have an 'accident' before you've

convinced the press to take up your cause, there will be a whole lot of

powerful folks demanding to know who killed you and why.  That's the

special value you have for us now, Ginger-your associations with a

spectrum of important people in one of the country's most influential

cities.  If you can electrify those people with your story, you'll be

creating an imposing group of advocates.  Just remember, when you get

back there, you're going to have to move fast, before the conspirators

discover you've gone home and decide to grab you or blow you away."

Outside, the wind suddenly rose, keening at the plywoodcovered windows.

Good.  If the storm worsened, cutting visibility farther, they would

have a better chance of slipping away from the motel unobserved.

"After Ginger, Faye, and Ernie leave Elko in the Cherokee, heading up

toward Pocatello," Jack said, using a tone of voice that implied these

steps were not suggestions but immutable necessities, "you other

four-Brendan, Sandy, Jorja, and Marcie-will go to the local Jeep

dealership and buy another four-wheel-drive vehicle with cash that I'll

give you before you leave the Tranquility.  Immediately after signing

the papers, you'll head out of Elko in a different direction from Ginger

and the Blocks-east toward Salt Lake City, Utah.  The snow will slow you

down, of course, but you should be able to reach Salt Lake, get a flight

out as soon as the storm subsides, and be in Chicago by Thursday

afternoon or evening." He turned to the priest.  "Brendan, when you

touch down at O'Hare, you'll contact your rector, this Father Wycazik

you've told us about.  He must use his pull to arrange an immediate,

emergency meeting with whoever's head of the Chicago Archdiocese."

"Richard Cardinal O'Callahan," Brendan said.  "But I don't know if even

Father Wycazik could arrange an immediate meeting with him."

"He has to," Jack said firmly.  "Brendan, you've got to move fast, just

as Ginger will be moving fast in Boston.  We've got to assume our

enemies will be quick about spotting you when you turn up in Chicago.

Anyway, at the meeting with Cardinal O'Callahan, you and Jorja and Sandy

will explain what's happened in Elko County-and Brendan, you'll give a

demonstration of your newly discovered telekinetic ability. Pull out all

the stops, okay?  Do cardinals wear pants under their robes?"

Brendan blinked in surprise.  "What?  Of course, they wear pants."

"Then I want you to scare the pants off your Cardinal O'Callahan.  Give

him a show that'll let him know he's part of the biggest story since

they found the stone rolled away from the mouth of that tomb two

thousand years ago.  And I don't mean to be blasphemous, Brendan.  I

really think it is the biggest story since."

"So do I," Brendan said.  Though he had been glum all morning, he seemed

to take heart from Jack's tone of authority and quiet excitement.

Now, the wild wind was vibrating the sheets of plywood at the windows,

filling the restaurant with a low and ominous thrumming.

Ernie Block cocked his gray-bristled head, listening, and said, "With

winds like this already, so soon after the snow hits, it's going to be a

roof-raiser later on."

Jack didn't want the weather to deteriorate too rapidly, for if the

enemy was going to strike within the next few hours, as he anticipated,

they might accelerate their schedule to avoid the messy complications of

conducting the round-up in a full-scale blizzard.

"Okay, Brendan," Jack said, "convince Cardinal O'Callahan and get him to

arrange quick meetings with the mayor, city councilmen, social and

financial leaders.  You might have as much as twenty-four hours to

spread your story before your life is in danger.  The farther you spread

it, the less danger you're in.  But in any case, you shouldn't risk

spending more than twelve hours putting together a network of powerful

advocates before you ask them to arrange a press conference. Just

picture it: the city's most prominent citizens forming a backdrop for

you, reporters wondering what the hell is about to happen-and then you

display your telekinetic ability by levitating a chair and sending it on

a nice slow trip around the room!"

Brendan grinned broadly.  "That'll put an end to their coverup for sure.

No way they can continue it after that."

"Let's hope so," Jack said.  "Because while the rest of you are off on

your various missions, Dom and Ned and I will be inside Thunder Hill,

perhaps under military arrest, and our only chance of getting out in the

same condition we went in is if you blow this wide open."

Jorja said, "I don't like that part of it-the three of you going into

the mountain.  Why's it necessary?  I asked you that same question

fifteen minutes ago, and you still haven't answered me, Jack.  If we can

slip out of here, back to Boston and Chicago, use Ginger's and Brendan's

connections to blast

this story wide open, then there's no need to go poking around in the

Depository.  Once we've set the wheels of the press in motion, the Army

and whatever government agencies are involved will eventually have to

come clean.  They'll have to tell us what happened that summer and what

they've been doing in Thunder Hill."

Jack took a deep breath, for this was the part at which they might

balk-especially Ned and Dom.  "Sorry, Jorja.  But that's naive.  If we

all split and tell our stories, there'll be enormous pressure on the

military and government to reveal the truth, yes, but they'll delay.

They'll drag their feet and spread contradictory stories for weeks,

months.  That'll give them time to devise a convincing lie to explain

everything, yet reveal nothing.  Our only hope of exposing the truth is

to make them open up fast.  And to speed things along, the rest of you

have to be able to tell the world that three of your friends-Dom, Ned,

and me-are being held against our will inside the mountain.  Hostages.

The element of a hostage drama, with agencies of our own government in

the role of terrorists, will be the final ingredient that might make it

impossible for the Army to stonewall more than a day or two."

He could see that this revelation startled everyone.  Ernie and Faye

regarded him with a mixture of shock and sadness, as if he were already

dead-or mind-wiped.

Fear had risen like a dark moon in Jorja's face.  She said, "But you

can't.  No, no.  You simply can't sacrifice yourselves-"

"If the rest of you do your jobs properly," Jack said quickly, "we won't

be sacrificing ourselves.  You'll pry us out of Thunder Hill with the

lever of public protest that you create.  That's why it's so important

we all do exactly what we're supposed to."

"But," Jorja said, "what if, by some chance, you get inside the mountain

and manage to see something that explains what happened to us that July.

And what if you could snap a few pictures of it and get back out alive.

Surely, in that case, you'd try to escape.  You're not saying that the

hostage drama has to be a part of it-are you?"

Jack said, "No, of course not."

He was lying.  Though there was at least a small chance of getting deep

into the Depository, Jack knew there was little hope of getting all the

way back out again undetected.  As for finding something in there that

would immediately explain what they had seen the summer before

last-there was no hope whatsoever.  For one thing, they had no idea what

they were looking for.  It was possible-even probable-that they would

pass right by the thing they were after without knowing what they had

seen.  Furthermore, if dangerous experiments had been taking place in

Thunder Hill, and if one of those experiments had gotten out of hand

that July night, the answer to the mystery was likely to lie in paper or

microfilm files or in lab reports; even if they could gain access to the

labs, he and Dom and Ned would not have time to pore leisurely through

tons of paperwork looking for the few pertinent ounces that would shed

light upon their experience. He did not say any of this to Jorja or the

others.  He could not permit the meeting to degenerate into debate about

potential risks and other options.

Outside, the wind howled.

Jorja said, "And if you absolutely insist on going in there, why

couldn't the rest of us stay as near to you as possible?  I mean, the

seven of us could just go into Elko, to the offices of the Sentinel, and

Brendan could demonstrate his power to the local press.  We could start

exposing the conspiracy here instead of in Chicago and Boston."

"No." Jack was moved but also frustrated by her concern for him.  (The

hands on his wristwatch seemed to be spinning, for God's sake.)  "The

national media wouldn't pay quick enough attention to a small-town

newspaper's report that it had turned up a man with psychic powers and a

major government conspiracy.  It would be viewed as just another

jerkwater story in the same league as reports of abominable snowmen and

UFOS.  Our enemies would find you and squash you-squash any local

reporters you spoke with-long before the national media would bother

sending anyone to check it out.  You've got to go, Jorja.  The way I've

outlined it-that's our best hope."

She slumped in her chair with a defeated look.

"Dom," Jack said, "are you with me?"

"Yeah, I guess I am," the writer said, as Jack had known he would.

Corvaisis was one of those stand-up types you could rely on, though he

probably didn't see himself that way.  He smiled ironically and said,

"But, Jack, mind telling me why the honor fell on my shoulders?"

"Sure.  Ernie's still not entirely over his nyctophobia, so it's hard

enough on him just to ride all night to Pocatello.  He isn't up to

making a- night-assault on the Depository.  Which leaves you and Ned.

And frankly, Dom, it won't hurt our case if one of the hostages in

Thunder Hill is a novelist, a celebrity of sorts.  That adds one more

bit of the kind of sensationalism the press thrives on."

Ginger Weiss had been frowning as Jack outlined his plan. Now she spoke:

"You're a great strategist, Jack, but you're also chauvinistic.  You're

only considering men for the expedition into Thunder Hill.  I think the

three who go should be you, Dom, and me."

"But-"

"Hear me out," she said, getting up, moving around to the far end of the

table, drawing everyone's attention from Jack to her.  Jack was aware of

how she focused her intellect, will, and beauty upon him, for her

techniques were similar to his own methods of compelling everyone to

accept his plans without argument.  "Ned and Sandy could go to Chicago,

which would still give Brendan two adults to back up his story.  Jorja

and Marcie could go with Faye and Ernie to the Hannabys in Boston, with

a note from me.  George and Rita will take them seriously, get them an

audience.  My note alone will assure they're welcome and listened to.

But their reception is doubly assured because in ten minutes Rita will

recognize herself in Faye, and they'll be like sisters, and Rita will go

to the mat for her.  My presence is not essential there.  I'm needed

more here.  For one thing, the infiltration of the Depository will be a

dangerous undertaking.  Either of you-Dom, Jack-might be hurt and need

emergency medical attention. We don't know for sure that Dom has the

same healing power as Brendan, and even if he has it, he might not be

able to control it.  So a doctor might come in handy, huh?  Second, if

it'll help having a famous author-all right, Dom, moderately famous-as a

hostage, then we'll get even more press attention if a woman's held in

Thunder Hill.  God damn it, you really need me, Jack!"

"You're right," he said, startling her by his quick agreement.  But what

she said made sense, and there was no point wasting time debating it.

"Ned, you'll go with Sandy and Brendan to Chicago."

"I don't mind going to the Depository with you, if that's what you

think's best," Ned told him.

"I know," Jack said.  "I did think it was best, but now I don't.  Jorja,

you and Marcie will go to Boston with Ernie and Faye.  Now, if we don't

get the hell out of here soon, the whole question of who goes where

won't matter anyway, because we'll be back in the hands of the people

who had us drugged senseless the summer before last."

Ned pulled the table away from the door.  Ernie removed the panel of

plywood standing there, and beyond the glass the world was a whirling

white wall of wind and snow.

"Terrific," Jack said.  "Good cover."

As they stepped out into the driving snow, they could see only as far as

the place where the green-brown, government Plymouth had been parked out

by the county road.  It was gone.  That made Jack uneasy.  He preferred

the watchers out in the open-where he could also watch them.

The conference call did not progress as Colonel Leland Falkirk had

foreseen.  He intended to seek agreement that the witnesses at the motel

must be rounded up at once and conveyed to the Thunder Hill Depository.

He expected that he and General Riddenhour would be able to convince the

others that the threat of a spreading infection was both real and acute,

and that he should be permitted to destroy everyone in the Tranquility

group as well as the entire staff of Thunder Hill the moment he put his

hands on proof that those individuals were no longer human, proof he

fully expected to obtain.  But from the moment he picked up the phone,

nothing went his way.  The situation deteriorated.

Emil Foxworth, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, had

news of yet another disastrous development. The team making new memory

modifications in the Salcoe family in Monterey, California, had been

visited by a persistent intruder.  They had thought they'd cornered

him-a burly, bearded man-but he had made a spectacular escape. The four

Salcoes were quickly transferred to a medical van and moved to a

safe-house for continuation of memory modifications.  A registration

check on the bearded intruder's abandoned car identified it as a rental

from the local airport agency, and the lessee was not merely a burglar

but Parker

Faine, Corvaisis' friend.  "Subsequently," the Director said, "we traced

Faine on a flight out of Monterey to San Francisco, but there we've lost

him.  We have no idea where he's been or what he's been up to since his

West Air flight landed at SFX."

Foster Polnichey, in the FBI's Chicago office, was already of the view

that maintaining the cover-up was impossible, and news of Faine's escape

confirmed that opinion.  The two political appointees-Foxworth of the

FBI, and James Herton, National Security Adviser to the President-were

in agreement with him.

Furthermore, with oily skill, Foster Polnichey argued that every

development-the miraculous cures effected by Cronin and Tolk; the

wondrous telekinetic powers of Corvaisis and Emmy Halbourg-indicated

that the ultimate effects of the events of July 6 were going to be

beneficial to mankind, not detrimental.  "And we know that Doctor

Bennell and most of the people working with him are of the opinion that

there is no threat whatsoever and never was.  They've been convinced of

it for many months now.  Their arguments are quite persuasive."

Leland tried to make them see that Bennell and his people might be

infected and unreliable.  No one inside Thunder Hill could be trusted

any more.  But he was a military leader, not a debater, and in a contest

with Foster Polnichey, Leland knew he sounded like a raving paranoid.

Leland did not even get much support from the one source on which he had

counted most: General Maxwell Riddenhour.  The Chairman of the Joint

Chiefs was noncommittal at first, listening carefully to every point of

view, playing the role of mediator, for his position put him somewhere

between a political appointee and a career soldier.  But it soon became

clear that he agreed more with Polnichey, Foxworth, and Herton than he

did with Leland Falkirk.

"I understand your instincts in this situation, Colonel, and I admire

them," General Riddenhour said.  "But I believe the matter has gone

beyond the scope of our authority.  It requires the input not just of

soldiers but of neuropathologists, biologists, philosophers, and others

before precipitous action can be taken.  Upon disclosure of any evidence

of an imminent threat, I will of course change my mind; I'll favor the

roundup of the witnesses at the motel, order the quarantine on Thunder

Hill continued indefinitely, and take most of the other strong measures

you now favor.  But for the moment, in the absence of a grave and

obvious threat, I believe we should move a bit more cautiously and leave

open the possibility that the cover-up will have to be undone."

"With all due respect," Leland said, barely able to control his fury,

"the threat seems both grave and obvious to me.  I don't believe there's

time for neuropathologists or philosophers.  And certainly not for the

spineless equivocating of a bunch of gutless politicians."

That honest appraisal brought a stormy reaction from Foxworth and

Herton, the mealy spawn of politicians.  When they shouted at Leland, he

lost his usual reserve and shouted back at them.  In an instant the

conference call degenerated into a noisy verbal brawl that ended only

when Riddenhour exerted control.  He forced a quick agreement that no

moves would be made against the witnesses or any steps taken to further

cement the cover-up, while at the same time no steps would be taken to

weaken the cover-up, either.  "I'll seek an emergency meeting with the

President the instant I end this call," Riddenhour said.  "In

twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the latest, we'll try to have a plan

that satisfies everyone from the Commander-in-Chief to Bennell and his

boys out there in Thunder Hill."

That, Leland thought sourly, is impossible.

When Leland hung up, the ill-fated conference call having concluded in

unanticipated humiliation, he stood for at least a minute at his desk in

the windowless room at Shenkfield, seething with such pure anger that he

did not trust himself to summon Lieutenant Horner.  He did not want

Horner to know that the tide had gone against him, did not want Horner

to have any reason to suspect that the operation he was about to launch

was in absolute contradiction of General Riddenhour's orders.

His duty was clear.  Grim, terrible-but clear.

He would order the closure of I-80 under the pretense of a toxic spill,

in order to isolate the Tranquility Motel.  He would then take the

witnesses into custody and transport them directly to the Thunder Hill

Depository.  When they were all underground with Dr.  Miles Bennell and

the other suspect workers staffing the Depository, trapped behind

massive blast doors, Leland would take them-and himself-out with a pair

of the five-megaton backpack nukes that were stored among the munitions

in the subterranean facility.  A couple of five-megatoners would

incinerate everyone and everything inside the mountain, reduce them all

to ash and bone fragments.  That would eliminate the primary source of

this hideous contamination, the home nest of the enemy.  Of course,

other potential sources of contamination would remain: the Tolk family,

the Halbourg family, all remaining witnesses whose brainwashing had not

developed holes and who had not returned to Nevada, others.  . . .  But

Leland was confident that, once he had taken the courageous action

required to eliminate the largest and primary source of contamination,

Riddenhour would be shamed by his example of self-sacrifice and would

find the backbone to do what was necessary to finish the work and scrub

every trace of contagion from the face of the earth.

Leland Falkirk was trembling.  Not with fear.  It was pride that made

him tremble.  He was enormously proud to have been chosen to fight and

win the greatest battle of all time, thus saving not just one nation but

all the world from a menace with no equal in history.  He knew he was

capable of the sacrifice required.  He had no fear.  As he wondered what

he would feel in the split-second it took him to die in a nuclear blast,

a thrill coursed through him at the prospect of pitting himself against

the most intense pain of which the human mind could conceive. Oh, it

would be cruelly intense and yet so short in duration that there was no

doubt he'd prove capable of enduring it as stout-heartedly as he had

endured all other pain to which he had subjected himself.

He was calm now.  Perfectly calm.  Serene.

Leland savored the sweet anticipation of the blistering pain to come.

That brief atomic agony would be of such exquisite purity that the

endurance of it would ensure the reward of heaven, which his Pentecostal

parents, seeing the devil in every aspect of him, had always sworn he

would not attain.

Stepping out of the Tranquility Grille behind Ginger, Dom Corvaisis

looked up into the maelstrom of driving-whirlingspinning snow, and for

an instant he saw and heard and felt what was not there:

Behind him rang out the atonal musical clatter of demolished glass

stillfallingfrom the explosion of the windows, and ahead lay the glow of

the parking-lot lights and the hot summer darkness beyond, and all

around the thunder-roar and earthquakeshudder of mysterious source; his

heart pounding; his breath like taffy that had stuck in his throat,- and

as he ran out of the Grille he looked around and then up....

"What's wrong?" Ginger asked.

Dom realized that he had staggered across the snowy pavement, skidding

not on that surface but on the slippery recollection that had escaped

his memory block.  He looked around at the others, all of whom had come

out of the diner.  "I saw ...  like I was there again ...  that July

night......  Two nights ago, in the diner, when he'd come close to

remembering, he had unconsciously re-created the thunder and shaking of

July 6.  This time, there was no such manifestation, maybe because the

memory was no longer repressed and was breaking through and needed no

help.  Now, unable to adequately convey the intensity of the memory, he

turned away from the others and peered up into the falling snow, andThe

roar was so loud that it hurt his ears, and the vibrations so strong

that he felt them in his bones and in his teeth the way thunder

sometimes reverberated in window glass, and he stumbled out across the

macadam, looking up into the night sky and-there!-an aircraft flying

only a few hundred feet above the earth, red and white running

lightsflashing across darkness, so low that the glow from within the

cockpit was visible, a jet judging by the speed with which it rocketed

past, a fighter jet judging by the powerful scream of its engines,

and-there!another one, sweeping past and wheeling up across the field of

stars that filled the clear black sky in a panoramic specklesplash; but

the roar and the shaking that had shattered the diner's windows and had

set small objects adance on the tables now grew worse instead of better,

even though he would have expected it to subside once the jets were

past, so he turned, sensing the source behind him' and he cried out in

terror when a third jet shot over the Grille at an altitude of no more

than forty feet, so low that he could see the markings-serial numbers

and an American flag-on the bottom of one wing, illuminated by the

parking-lot light bouncing up from the macadam; Jesus, it was so low

that he fell flat on the ground in panic, certain that the jet was

crashing, that debris would be raining over him in a second, perhaps

even a shower of burning jet fuel....

"Dom!"

He found himself lying face-down in the snow, clutching the ground in a

reenactment of the terror he had felt on the night of July 6, when he'd

thought the jet was crashing on top of him.

"Dom, what's wrong?" Sandy Sarver asked.  She was kneeling beside him, a

hand on his shoulder.

Ginger was kneeling at his other side.  "Dom, are you all right?"

With their support, he got up from the snow.  "The memory block is

going, crumbling." He turned his face up toward the sky again, hoping

that the white snowy day would flash away, as before, and be replaced by

a dark summer night, hoping that the recollections would continue to

pour forth.  Nothing. Wind gusted.  Snow lashed his face.  The others

were watching him.  He said, "I remembered jets, military fighter

craft...  two at first, swooping by a couple of hundred feet above.....

and then a third one so low that it almost took the roof off the diner."

"Jets!" Marcie said.

Everyone looked at her in surprise, even Dom, for it was the first word-

other than "moon"-that she had spoken since dinner the previous night.

She was in her mother's arms, bundled against the weather.  She had

turned her small face to the sky.  In response to what Dom had said, she

seemed to be searching the stormy heavens for some sign of the

longdeparted jets of a summer lost.

"Jets," Ernie said, looking up as well.  "I don't .  .  .  recall.

"Jets!  Jets!" Marcie reached up with one hand toward the heavens.

Dom realized that he was doing the same thing, although with both hands,

as if he could reach up beyond the blinding snow of time-present, into

the hot clear night of time-past, and pull the memory down into view.

But he could not bring it back, no matter how hard he strained.

The others were not able to recall what he described, and in a moment

their tremulous expectation turned to frustration again.

Marcie lowered her face.  She put a thumb in her mouth and sucked

earnestly on it.  Her gaze had turned inward again.

"Come on," Jack said.  "We've got to get the hell out of here."

They hurried toward the motel, to dress and arm themselves for the

journeys and battles ahead of them.  Reluctantly, with the smell of July

heat still in his nose, with the roar of jet engines still echoing in

his bones, Dom Corvaisis followed.

Night on Thunder Hill

Courage, love, friendship, compassion, and empathy lift us above the

simple beasts and define humanity.

-THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS

By foreign hands thy humble grave

adorned; By strangers honored, and by strangers mourned.

-ALEXANDER POPE

Tuesday Night, January 14

1.

Strife

Father Stefan Wycazik flew Delta from Chicago to Salt Lake City, then

caught a feeder flight into the Elko County Airport. He landed after

snow had begun to fall but before the rapidly dropping visibility and

the oncoming false dusk of the storm had curtailed air traffic.

In the small terminal, he went to a public phone, looked up the number

of the Tranquility Motel, and dialed it.  He got nothing, not even a

ring.  The line hissed emptily.  He tried again with no success.

When he sought help from an operator, she was also unable to ring the

number.  "I'm sorry, sir, there seems to be trouble with the line."

Taking that as very bad news, Father Wycazik said, "Trouble?  What

trouble?  What's wrong?"

"Well, sir, I suppose the storm.  We're getting really gusty wind."

But Stefan was not as certain as she was.  The storm had hardly begun.

He could not believe telephone lines had already succumbed to the first

tentative gusts, which he had experienced on his way into the terminal.

The isolation of the Tranquility was an ominous development, more likely

to be the handiwork of men than of the impending blizzard.

He placed a call to St.  Bette's rectory in Chicago, and Father Gerrano

answered on the second ring.  "Michael, I've arrived safely in Elko. But

I haven't gotten Brendan.  Their phone isn't working."

"Yes," Michael Gerrano said, "I know."

"You know?  How could you possibly know?"

"Just minutes ago," Michael said, "I received a call from a man who

refused to identify himself but who said he was a friend of this Ginger

Weiss, one of those people out there with Brendan.  He said she called

him this morning and asked him to dig up some information for her.  He

found what she wanted, but he couldn't get through to the Tranquility.

She'd apparently foreseen that problem, so she'd given him our number

and the number of friends of hers in Boston, told him to tell us what

he'd found, and she'd call us at her convenience."

"Refused to give his name?" Father Wycazik said, puzzled.

And you say she asked him to dig up information?"

" Yes," Michael said.  "About two things.  First, this place called the

Thunder Hill Depository.  He says to tell her that, as far as he could

determine, the Depository is what it's always been: an elaborate

blastproof storage depot, one of eight virtually identical underground

facilities situated across the country, and not the largest one.  She

also asked him to get her some background on an army officer, Colonel

Leland Falkirk, who's with something called the Domestic Emergency

Response Organization.........

As he stared at one glimmering and bejeweled moment of the storm framed

in the terminal window, Father Wycazik listened to Michael rattle off a

service biography of the colonel.  Just as Stefan was beginning to sweat

with the strain of remembering all the details, his curate told him none

of that was important.  Michael said, "Mr.  X seemed to feel that only

one part of Colonel Falkirk's background might have a bearing on what's

happened to the people at the Tranquility Motel."

"Mr.  X?" Father Wycazik said.

"Since he wouldn't give me his name, X will have to do."

"Go on," Father Wycazik said.

"Well, Mr.  X believes the key fact here is that Colonel Falkirk was the

military's representative to a government committee, the CISG, that

undertook some important thinktank-type research starting about nine

years ago.  The reason Mr.  X thinks the key is CISG is because, while

poking around, he discovered two odd things.  First, many of the same

scientists who served on that committee are now-or have recently been-on

long and unusual vacations, leaves of absence, or unexplained furloughs.

Second, a new level of security restrictions was put on the CISG files

on July eighth, two

summers ago, exactly two days after Brendan and the others had trouble

out there in Nevada."

"What does CISG stand for?  What was that committee studying?"

Michael Gerrano told him.

Father Wycazik said, "My God, I thought that might be it!"

"You did?  Father, you're hard to surprise.  But this!  Surely you can't

have foreseen this was what lay behind Brendan's problems.  And ...  you

mean ...  that's really ...  really what might've happened out there?"

"Coxild still be happening, but I must admit I can't claim to have

deduced it sheerly by the application of my gigantic intellect.  This is

part of what Calvin Sharkle was shouting at the police just this

morning, before he blew himself to smithereens."

Michael said, "Dear God."

Father Wycazik said, "We may be teetering on the brink of a whole new

world, Michael.  Are you ready for it?"

"I .  I don't know," Michael said.  "Are you ready, Father?"

"Oh, yes!" Stefan said.  "Oh, yes, very ready.  But the way to it might

be filled with danger."

Ginger was aware of Jack Twist's growing agitation as the minutes

passed.  He was operating on a hunch that told him the last few grains

of sand were dribbling through the neck of the hourglass.  As Jack

assisted with the tasks required for their departure, he kept glancing

at windows and doors, as if he expected to see hostile faces.

They needed almost half an hour to suit up for the bitter winter night

ahead, load all the guns and spare ammunition clips, and transfer the

gear to the Servers' pickup and to Jack's Cherokee behind the motel.

They did not work in silence, for that might have given warning of their

imminent departure to the eavesdroppers.  Instead, they chatted about

inconsequential things as they hurried through their preparations.

Finally, at four-ten, turning on a radio very loud, hoping to cover

their absence for a while, they left by the rear door of the maintenance

room.  They milled around in the wind and snow, hugging one another and

saying, "goodbye," and

"take care of yourself," and "I'll pray for you," and ,it's going to be

all right," and "we'll beat the bastards." Ginger noticed that Jack and

Jorja spent an especially long time together, embracing, and when he

kissed Marcie and hugged her goodbye, it was as if she were his own

child.  It was worse than the end of a family reunion, for in spite of

protestations to the contrary, the members of this family were more than

half-convinced that some of them would not survive to attend another

gathering.

Squeezing back her tears, Ginger said, "All right, enough already, let's

get the hell out of here."

With Ned driving, the seven who would go to Chicago and Boston left

first, crammed in the Cherokee.  The fine snow was falling so fast and

heavy that the Cherokee was half-lost to sight within a hundred feet and

became only a ghostly form within a hundred and fifty.  Nevertheless, it

did not head straight up the hills, for fear of being spotted by the

observers Jack had located with his heat-reading device.  Instead, the

Cherokee entered the sloping folds of land by way of a narrow glen.  Ned

would stay in glens, vails, and gulleys as long as he could.  The sound

of the engine was swallowed up in the greater howl of the wind even

before the Jeep began to vanish in the snow.

Ginger, Dom, and Jack climbed into the cab of the Servers' pickup and

followed in the tracks of the Cherokee.  But with its headstart, the

Jeep soon disappeared into the white turmoil that claimed the land.  As

they thumped, jolted, tilted, and rocked upward through the glen, Ginger

sat between Jack and Dom, looking through the windshield and past the

beating wipers, wondering if she would ever see those in the Jeep again.

In a few days, Ginger had come to love them all.  She was afraid for

them.

We care.  That is what differentiates us from the beasts of the field.

That's what Jacob had always said.  Intellect, courage, love,

friendship, compassion, and empathy-each of those qualities was as

important to the human species as all the others, Jacob had said.  Some

people thought only intellect counted: knowing how to solve problems,

knowing how to get by, knowing how to identify an advantage and seize

it. All were important factors that had contributed to the ascendancy

and supremacy of humankind, yes, but the many functions of intellect

were insufficient without courage, love,

friendship, compassion, and empathy.  We care.  It is our curse. It is

our blessing.

At first Parker Faine was afraid that the pilot of the ten-seat feeder

flight would not descend through the storm front and attempt a landing

but would instead divert to another airfield farther south in Nevada.

When, after all, the plane descended through the leading edge of the

storm, Parker almost wished they had diverted.  The buffeting wind and

blinding snow seemed too hazardous even for a veteran pilot accustomed

to instrument landings.  Then they were safely on the ground, one of the

last planes in before the Elko County Airport shut down.

The small airport provided no covered ramp for debarkation.  Parker

hurried across the snow-patched macadam toward the door of the small

terminal, wincing as his bare face was stung by wind-driven snow like

thousands of tiny cold needles.

After his Air West flight from Monterey had landed in San Francisco

earlier today, he bought scissors and an electric razor at an airport

gift shop and hastily shaved off his beard in the men's room.  He had

not seen his own unadorned visage in a decade.  It was much prettier

than he had expected.  He trimmed his hair, too.  When he was in the

midst of this transformation, another guy in the men's room, washing his

hands at the next sink, said jokingly, "On the run from the cops, huh?"

And Parker said, "No, from my wife." And the guy said, "Yeah, me, too,"

as if he meant it.

To avoid leaving a credit-card trail, he paid cash for a ticket on an

Air Cal jet to Reno.  After a forty-five-minute trip over the Sierra

Nevada to the Biggest Little City in the World, he had the good fortune

to find a feeder line with a single empty seat on a flight departing for

Elko in twelve minutes.  He paid cash again, leaving only twenty-one

dollars in his wallet.  For two hours and fifteen minutes, he endured a

frequently turbulent journey east across the Great Basin, toward the

higher country of northeastern Nevada, where he sensed his friend was in

desperate trouble.

By the time he pushed through the doors into the humble but clean little

building that served as the Elko County Airport's offices and public

terminal, Parker should have felt wrung-out both because of the horrible

experience in Monterey and because of his hectic travels.  Strangely,

however, he felt vital, energetic, brimming with purpose and overflowing

with determination.  He saw himself as a bull, storming into a field to

deal with a fox that had been frightening the herd.

He found the two public telephones, only one of which was in use.  He

looked up the number of the Tranquility, tried to call Dom, but the

motel's phones were out of service.  He supposed the storm might have

something to do with it, but he was suspicious and worried.  He had to

get out there where he was needed, and fast.

In two minutes flat, he discovered there were no rental cars and that

the town's taxi company, equipped with only three vehicles, was so busy

because of the storm that he would have to wait ninety minutes to get a

cab.  So he looked around the terminal at a couple of stragglers from

his own flight and at a few others who evidently had landed in private

craft just as the airport was closing down, and he accosted them one by

one, seeking a ride without success.  Turning from one of them, Parker

literally collided with a distinguished gray-haired man.  The guy looked

as frantic as Parker felt.  He had pulled his coat open to reveal a

Roman collar.  To Parker, he said, "Excuse me, please, I'm a priest with

urgent business, a matter of life or death, and I'm desperately in need

of a ride to the Tranquility Motel.  Do you have a car?"

Dom Corvaisis sat tensely in the Servers' pickup truck, with the

passenger-side door on his right and Ginger Weiss on his left, squinting

ahead into a snowfall so heavy that it seemed as if they were driving

through countless barriers of gauzy white curtains.  He peered forward

as though an incredible revelation lay just beyond the next curtain. But

when each parted without resistance, it revealed only an infinite array

of additional curtains blowing-rippling-fluttering beyond.

After a while he realized what he was so tensely anticipating: a

recurrence of the memory-flash that had stricken him when he had walked

out of the Tranquility Grille.  Jets ...

What had happened after the third jet swooped over, driving him to the

pavement in terror?

Although the streaming snowflakes made the winter day appear to be a

tapestry of millions of randomly arranged white threads, they did not

help illuminate the glen.  The false twilight of the storm brought a

deep-gray gloom to the land three-quarters of an hour ahead of the real

twilight.  Gnarled, toothy rock formations and an occasional cottonwood

loomed suddenly out of the murkiness like prehistoric beasts out of a

primeval mist, never failing to startle.  However, Dom knew that Jack

dared not risk turning on the headlights yet.  Though the truck itself

was hidden by the snow and by the steep walls of the hollow in which

they were sheltered, the lights would reflect up through the falling

mega-trillion bits of ice crystals, and the glow would certainly be

visible to the observers below.

They came to a place where the fading tire tracks of the Cherokee, like

the trails of huge twin serpents, turned east into a branching glen that

led off the main hollow.  Jack did not follow Ned Sarver and the others,

for the plan required them to head in a different direction.  Instead,

he pressed the pickup steadily north, relying on Dom's reading of a

compass for guidance.

In another hundred yards, they reached the head of the glen, where it

narrowed to-and finally terminated in-a steep upward slope.  Dom thought

they would have to turn back and follow Ned, after all, but Jack shifted

gears, accelerated, and the four-wheel-drive pickup started to climb.

The slope was rocky and rutted.  The pickup progressed with many a

jounce and sway and lurch that repeatedly threw Ginger Weiss against Dom

in a series of collisions that were not without a pleasant aspect.

In the dreary gray storm light of the waning day, and in the dull and

well-worn interior of the pickup, Ginger looked, by contrast, more

beautiful than ever.  Compared to her lustrous silver-blond hair, the

white snow appeared soiled.

With a leap and a crash that bumped Dom's head against the roof, the

truck crested the long hill.  They drove down a brief incline, then

across a level strip of land.  As they started up another slope, Jack

suddenly slammed on the brakes and cried, "Jets!"

Dom gasped, looked up into the seething snowstorm, expecting to see an

aircraft plummeting at them, then realized that Jack was speaking of

jets from the past.  He had remembered the same thing that had come back

to Dom less than an hour ago.  Judging by Jack's sure-handed control of

the pickup, however, he had not seen the memory as vividly as Dom had

seen it, but had merely recalled it.

"Jets," Jack said again, keeping one foot on the brake and one on the

clutch, gripping the steering wheel hard with both hands, staring out at

the snow but trying to look back into time.  "One, two, roaring high up,

the way you said, Dom. And then another, low over the diner, and right

after that one .  .  .  a fourth.........

"didn't remember a fourth," Dom said excitedly.

Hunching over the wheel, Jack said, "The fourth jet came just as I

rushed out of the motel.  I wasn't over there in the diner with you.

There was this tremendous shaking and roaring, and I rushed out of my

room in time to see the third fighter-an F-16, I think.  It virtually

exploded out of nowhere, out of the darkness, over the roof of the

diner.  You're right: Its altitude couldn't have been more than forty or

fifty feet.  And while I was still taking that in, a fourth came

straight over the motel, from behind the place, and it was even lower.

Maybe ten feet lower than the other one, and the window behind me burst

when it passed.  .  .  ."

"And then?" Ginger asked in a whisper, as if a louder tone would shake

the emerging memory back down into Jack's subconscious.

Jack said, "The third and fourth fighters, the low ones, roared down

toward the interstate, about twenty feet above the goddamn power lines,

you could see right into the redhot intakes of their engines, and they

went screaming out over the plains beyond I-80, one of them peeling up

and out to the east, the other to the west, both swinging around and

coming back ...  and I started running toward you ...  toward the group

of you who'd come out of the diner over there .  .  .  "cause I thought

maybe you'd know what was going on........  I

Snow tapped on the windshield.

The wind whispered susurrant secrets at the tightly shut windows.  At

last Jack Twist said, "That's all.  I can't remember any more."

"You will," Dom said.  "We all will.  The blocks are crumbling."

Jack slipped the pickup into gear again and started up the next slope,

continuing their roundabout trek to Thunder Hill.

Colonel Leland Falkirk and Lieutenant Horner, accompanied by two heavily

armed DERO corporals, took one of Shenkfield's Jeep Wagoneers to the

roadblock at the western end of the quarantine zone.  Two large Army

transports had been parked across the wide eastbound lanes of I-80,

effectively blocking them.  (The westbound lanes were blocked on the

other side of the Tranquility, ten miles from this point.)  Emergency

beacons mounted on sawhorses flashed in profusion. Half a dozen DERO men

were in sight, dressed in Artic issue.  Three of them were leaning down

to the open windows of halted automobiles, talking to motorists,

courteously explaining the situation.

Telling Horner and the two corporals to wait in the car, Leland got out

and walked to the center of the blockade, to have a brief word with

Sergeant Vince Bidakian, who was in charge of this aspect of the

operation.  "How's it going so far?" Leland asked.

"Good, sir," Bidakian said, raising his voice slightly to compete with

the wind.  "Not too many people on the road. The storm hit to the west

of here earlier, so most motorists with any common sense at all stopped

earlier at Battle Mountain or even back at Winnemucca, until things

clear.  And it looks like virtually all the truckers decided to hole up

rather than try to make it through to Elko.  It'll take us an hour, I

bet, before we've got even two hundred vehicles in line."

They were not turning the motorists back to Battle Mountain.  They were

telling everyone that the closure was expected to last only an hour and

that the wait would not be insufferable.

A longer closure would have meant a massive backup even with the

reduction in traffic brought by the storm.  To deal with that larger

number of inconvenienced travelers and to enforce a longer quarantine,

Leland would have had to alert the Nevada State Police and the county

sheriff by now.  But he did not want to bring the police into it until

that was unavoidable, for they would quickly seek confirmation of his

authority from higher Army officials-and would soon learn that he had

gone rogue.  If the cops could be kept in the dark about the closure for

just half an hour, and if they could be stalled for another few minutes

once they did find out about it, no one would discover Leland's perfidy

until it was too late.  He needed only an hour to scoop up the witnesses

at the motel and convey them into the deep vaults of Thunder Hill.

To Bidakian, Leland said, "Sergeant, make sure all the motorists have

sufficient gasoline, and if any of them are running on low tanks, pump

them ten gallons from that emergency supply you've brought."

"Yes, sir.  That was my understanding, sir."

"No sign of any cops or snow plows?"

"Not yet, sir," Bidakian said, glancing beyond the short line of cars,

where two new pairs of headlights appeared in the distant snow-swaddled

dusk.  "But we'll see one or the other within ten minutes."

"You know the story to give them?"

"Yes, sir.  Truck bound for Shenkfield sprung a small leak. It's

carrying harmless and toxic fluids, so we don't-"

"Colonel!" Lieutenant Horner was hurrying from the Wagoneer.  He was

wearing so many bulky clothes he looked half-again as large as usual.

"Message from Sergeant Fiw at Shenkfield, sir.  Something's wrong at the

motel.  He hasn't heard a voice in fifteen minutes.  Just a radio,

playing real loud.  He doesn't think anyone's there."

"They go back into the damn diner?"

"No, sir.  Fiw thinks they're just-gone, sir."

"Gone?  Gone where?" Leland demanded, neither expecting an answer nor

waiting for one.  Heart pounding, he ran back to the Wagoneer.

Her name was Talia Ervy, and she looked like Marie Dressler, who'd

played Tugboat Annie in those wonderful old movies with Wallace Beery.

Talia was even larger than Dressler, who'd been far from petite: big

bones, broad face, wide mouth, strong chin.  But she was the prettiest

woman Parker Faine had seen in days, for she not only offered him and

Father Wycazik a ride from the airport to the Tranquility, but refused

to take any money for it.  "Hell, I don't mind," she said, sounding a

little like Marie Dressler, too.  "I wasn't going anywheres much special

anyway.  Just home to cook dinner for myself.  I'm a flat-out horrible

cook, so this'll just put off the punishment for a bit.  Fact is, when I

think of my meatloaf, I figure maybe you're doing me a big favor."

Talia had a ten-year-old Cadillac, a big boat of a car, with

winter-tread tires and snow chains.  She claimed it would take her

anywhere she wanted to go, regardless of the weather, and she called it

"Old Paint." Parker sat up front with her, and Father Wycazik sat in

back.

They had gone less than a mile when they heard the emergency radio

bulletin about the purported toxic spill and the closure of I-80 west of

Elko.  "Those muddle-headed, fumblefingered damn goofballs!" Talia said,

turning the volume louder but raising her voice to talk over it.

"Dangerous stuff like that, you'd think they'd treat it like a load of

babies in glass cradles, but this here's twice in two years."

Neither Parker nor Father Wycazik was capable of commenting.  They both

knew that their worst fears for their friends were now coming true.

Talia Ervy said, "Well, gentlemen, what do we do now?"

Parker said, "Is there anyplace that rents cars?  Four-wheeldrive is

what we'll need.  A Jeep, something like that."

:"There's a Jeep dealer," Talia said.

'Can you take us there?" Parker asked.

" Me and Old Paint can take you anywheres, even if it starts putting

down snowflakes big as dogs."

The salesman at the Jeep dealership, Felix Schellenhof, was far less

colorful than Talia Ervy.  Schellenhof wore a gray suit, gray tie, and

pale-gray shirt, and spoke in a gray voice. No, he told Parker, they

didn't rent vehicles by the day.  Yes, they had many for sale.  No, they

couldn't complete a deal in just twenty minutes.  The salesman said if

Parker intended to finance, that would take until tomorrow.  Even a

check would not clinch the deal quickly because Parker was from out of

state.  "No checks," Parker said.  Schellenhof raised gray eyebrows at

the prospect of cash.  Parker said, "I'll put it on my American Express

Gold Card," and Schelienhof looked grayly amused.  They took American

Express, he said, but in payment for accessories, repairs; no one had

ever bought an entire vehicle with plastic.  Parker said, "There's no

purchase limit on the card.  Listen, I was in Paris, saw a gorgeous Dali

oil in a gallery, thirty thousand bucks, and they took my American

Express!" With deliberate, plodding diplomacy, Schellenhof began to turn

them away.

"For the love of God, man, move your tired butt!" Father Wycazik roared,

slamming one fist into the top of Schellenhof's desk.  He was flushed

from his hairline to his backwards collar.  "This is a matter of life or

death for us.  Call American Express." He raised his hand high, and the

salesman's shocked gray eyes followed its swift upward are.  "Find out

if they'll authorize the purchase.  For the love of God, hurry!" the

priest shouted, slamming his fist down again.

The sight of such fury in a clergyman put some speed into the salesman

at last.  He took Parker's card and nearly sprinted out of his small

office, across the showroom to the manager's glass-walled domain.

"Good grief, Father," Parker said, "if you were a Protestant, you'd be a

famous fire-and-brimstone evangelist by now."

"Oh, Catholic or not, I've made a few sinners quake in my time."

"I don't doubt it," Parker assured him.

American Express approved the purchase.  With hasty repentance,

Schellenhof produced a sheaf of forms and showed Parker where to sign.

"Quite a week!" the salesman said, though he was still drab and gray in

spite of his new enthusiasm.  "Late Monday a fella walks in, buys a new

Cherokee with cash-bundles of twenty-dollar bills.  Must've hit it big

in a casino.  Now this.  And the week's hardly started.  Something, eh?"

"Fascinating," Parker said.

Using the telephone on Schellenhof's desk, Father Wycazik placed a

collect call to Michael Gerrano in Chicago and told him about Parker and

about the closing of I-80.  Then, when Schellenhof popped out of the

room again, Wycazik said something that startled Parker: "Michael, maybe

something'll happen to us, so you call Simon Zoderman at the Tribune the

minute I hang up.  Tell him everything.  Blow it wide open. Tell Simon

how Brendan ties in with Winton Tolk, the Halbourg girl, Calvin Sharkle,

all of it.  Tell him what happened out here in Nevada two summers ago,

what they saw.  If he finds it hard to believe, you tell him I believe

it.  He knows what a hard-headed customer I am."

When Father Wycazik hung up, Parker said, "Did I understand you right?

My God, you know what happened to them on that July night?"

"I'm almost certain I do, yes," Father Wycazik said.

Before the priest could say more, Schellenhof returned in a gray blur of

polyester.  Now that his commission seemed real to him, he was obviously

determined not to exceed Parker's time limit.

"You've got to tell me," Parker said to the priest.

"As soon as we're on our way," Father Wycazik promised.

Ned drove Jack's Cherokee eastward across the snowswept slopes, moving

at a crawl.  Sandy and Faye rode up front with him, leaning forward,

peering anxiously through the windshield, helping Ned spot the obstacles

in the chaotic whiteness ahead of them.

Riding in back-crowded in with Brendan and Jorja, with Marcie on her

mother's lap-Ernie tried to convince himself that he would not succumb

to panic when the last light of the storm-dimmed dusk gave way to

darkness.  Last night, when he'd snuggled under the covers in bed,

staring at the shadows beyond the reach of the lamp's glow, his anxiety

had been only a fraction of what he'd come to expect.  He was improving.

Ernie also took hope from Dom's resurrected memory of jets buzzing the

diner.  If Dom could remember, so could Ernie.  And when the memory

block crumbled away, when at last he recalled what he'd seen that July

night, he would stop being afraid of darkness.

"County road," Faye said as the Jeep came to a stop.

They had indeed reached the first county road, the same one that ran

past the Tranquility and under I-80.  The motel lay about two miles

south, and Thunder Hill lay eight miles north along that ribbon of

blacktop.  It had been plowed already, and recently, because the federal

government paid the county to keep the approach to the Depository open

at all times.

"Quickly," Sandy urged Ned.

Ernie knew what she was thinking: Someone going from or to Thunder Hill

might appear and accidentally discover them.

Gunning the engine, Ned drove hurriedly across the empty road, into the

foothills on the other side, traversing a series of ruts with such haste

that Brendan and Jorja were thrown repeatedly against Ernie, who sat

between them.  Once more, they took cover in the snow which fell like a

storm of ashes from a coldly burning sky.  Another north-south county

artery-Vista Valley Road-lay six miles east, and that was where they

were headed.  Once there, they would turn south and go to a third county

road that paralleled I-80 and that would carry them into Elko.

Ernie suddenly realized twilight was falling to the shadow armies of the

night.  Darkness had nearly stolen up on them. It was standing just a

little way off, not in distance but in time, only a few minutes away,

but he could see it watching them from billions of peepholes between

billions of whirling snowflakes, creeping closer each time he blinked,

soon to leap through the curtains of snow and seize him.  .  .  .

No.  There were too many other things worth fearing to waste energy on a

nonsensical phobia.  Even with a compass, they could get lost at night

in this shrieking maelstrom.  With visibility reduced to a few yards,

they might drive off the edge of a ridge crest or into a rocky chasm,

unaware of the hole until it swallowed them.  Driving blindly to their

own destruction was such a real threat that Ned could make no speed but

could only nurse the Cherokee forward at a cautious crawl.

I fear what's worth fearing, Ernie told himself adamantly. I don't fear

you, Darkness.

Faye looked over her shoulder from the front seat.  He smiled and made

an OK sign-only slightly shaky-with thumb and forefinger.

Faye started to give him an OK sign of her own, and that was when little

Marcie screamed.

In his office along the wall of The Hub, deep inside Thunder Hill, Dr.

Miles Bennell sat in darkness, thinking, worrying. The only light was

the wan glow at two windows that faced into the central cavern of the

Depository's second level, illumination insufficient to reveal any

details of the room.

On the desk in front of him lay six sheets of paper.  He'd read them

twenty or thirty times during the past fifteen months; he did not need

to read them again tonight to recall, word for word, what was typed on

them.  It was an illegally obtained printout of Leland Falkirk's

psychological profile, stolen from the computer-stored personnel records

of the elite Domestic Emergency Response Organization.

Miles Bennell-Ph D.  in biology and chemistry, dabbler in physics and

anthropology, musician proficient on the guitar and piano, author of

books as diverse as a text on neurohistology and a scholarly study of

the works of John D. MacDonald, connoisseur of fine wine, aficionado of

Clint Eastwood movies, the nearest thing to a late-twentieth-century

Renaissance man-was among other things a computer hacker of formidable

skill.  He had begun adventuring through the complex worldwide network

of electronic information systems when he had been a college student.

Eighteen months ago, when his work on the Thunder Hill project threw him

into frequent contact with Leland Falkirk, Miles Bennell had decided

that the colonel was a psychologically disturbed individual who would

have been declared unfit for military service even as a private-but for

one thing: He was apparently one of those rare paranoids who had learned

how to use his special brand of insanity to mold himself into a smoothly

functioning machine-man who looked and acted normal enough.  Miles had

wanted to know more.  What made Falkirk tick?  What stimulus might make

him explode unexpectedly?

The answers were to be found only at DERO headquarters. So sixteen

months ago, Miles began using his personal terminal and modern to seek a

route into DERO files in Washington.

The first time he'd read the profile, Miles had been frightened, though

he had developed a thousand rationalizations for staying on the job even

if it meant working with a dangerous and violent man like the colonel.

There was less chance of trouble if Miles treated Falkirk with the

coolness and grudging respect that a controlled paranoid would

understand.  You dared not be buddy-buddy with such a man-or flatter

him-for he would assume you were hiding something. Polite disdain was

the best attitude.

But now Miles was totally in Falkirk's power, sealed beneath the earth,

to be judged and sentenced according to the colonel's warped view of

guilt and innocence.  He was scared sick.

The Army psychologist who'd written the profile was neither very well

educated as psychologists went nor too perceptive.  Nevertheless, though

he had proclaimed the colonel more than fit enough for the elite DERO

companies, he had noted peculiarities of the man's personality that made

his report disturbing reading for Miles, who could read not only what

was on the paper but what lay hidden between the lines.

First: Leland Falkirk feared and despised all religion.  Because love of

God and country were prized in career military men, Falkirk tried to

conceal his antireligious sentiments. Evidently, these attitudes sprang

from a difficult childhood in a family of fanatics.

Miles Bennell decided that this fault in Falkirk was especially

troublesome because the current undertaking, in which he and the colonel

were involved, had a multiplicity of mystical connotations.  Aspects of

it had undeniable religious overtones and associations that were certain

to trigger intense negative reactions in the colonel.

Second: Leland Falkirk was obsessed with control.  He needed to dominate

every aspect of his environment and everyone he encountered.  This

urgent need to control the external world was a reflection of his

constant internal struggle to control his own rages and paranoid fears.

Miles Bennell shuddered when he thought of the terrible strain this

current assignment had put on the colonel, for the thing being hidden

here in Thunder Hill could not be controlled forever.  Which was a

realization that might lead Falkirk to a harmless breakdown-or to an

explosion of psychotic anger.

Third: Leland Falkirk suffered a mild but persistent claustrophobia that

was strongest in subterranean places.  This fear might have arisen in

his childhood as a result of his parents' unrelenting assertion that he

would one day wind up in Hell.

Falkirk, uncomfortable when underground, would be automatically

suspicious of everyone in a place like Thunder Hill.  In retrospect, it

was frighteningly obvious that the colonel's growing paranoid suspicion

of everyone on the project had been inevitable from the first day.

Fourth and worst: Leland Falkirk was a controlled masochist.  He

subjected himself to tests of physical stamina and resistance to pain,

pretending these ordeals were necessary to maintain the high level of

fitness and superb reflexes required of a DERO officer.  His dirty

little secret, hidden even from himself, was that he enjoyed the

suffering.

Miles Bennell was more disturbed by that aspect of Fal kirk's character

than by anything else in the profile.  Because the colonel liked pain,

he would not mind suffering along with everyone in Thunder Hill if he

decided their suffering was necessary to cleanse the world.  He might

actually enjoy the prospect of death.

Miles Bennell sat in darkness, troubled and bleak.

But it was not even his death or the deaths of his colleagues that most

frightened him.  What made his gut clench was the fear that, while

destroying everyone on the project, Falkirk would also destroy the

project itself.  If he did, he would be denying mankind the greatest

news in history.  And he'd also be denying the species its best-perhaps

only-chance for peace, immortality, endless plenty, and transcendence.

Leland Falkirk stood in the Blocks' kitchen, looking down at the album

that lay on the table.  When he opened it, he saw photographs and

drawings of the moon, all colored red.

Outside, searching the property end to end, a dozen DERO troops shouted

to one another, voices garbled and muffled by the raging wind.

Doing deep breathing exercises that were supposed to expel a little of

his tension with each exhalation, Leland turned a page of the album and

saw more scarlet moons: the child's weird collection.

The sound of engines rose to the kitchen window from behind the motel as

the men drove at least two vehicles around from the front.  Leland

recognized the souped-up, all-terrain pickup's distinctive snarl.

The colonel continued to page through the album, remaining calm, totally

in control in spite of the series of setbacks that continued to plague

him.  He was proud of his control.  Nothing could faze him.

Lieutenant Horner's quick heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs leading

up from the office.  A moment later he thumped across the living room,

into the kitchen.  "Sir, we've checked all the motel rooms.  No one's

there.  They left by the back, overland.  Two very vague sets of tire

tracks in the snow.  Can't have gone far.  Not in this weather, not

already."

"Have you sent the men to follow them?"

"No, sir.  But I had them pull the pickup and a Wagoneer around back.

They're ready to go."

"Move them out," Leland said in a soft, measured tone.

"Don't worry, sir, we'll get our hands on them."

"I'm sure we will," Leland said, totally in control of himself, showing

a firm and steady sense of command to his lieutenant.  Horner turned and

started to leave, and Leland said, "As soon as you've sent the men off,

meet me downstairs with a county map.  They'll intend to connect with a

county or state road somewhere.  We'll anticipate their next move and be

waiting for them."

"Yes, sir," Horner said.

Alone, Leland calmly turned a page of the album.  Red moons.

Horner's crashing footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs; then the

front door slammed shut behind him, reverberating through the walls.

Calmly, so calmly, Leland turned a page in the album, and another.

Outside, Horner was shouting orders to the men.

Leland turned a page, another, another.  Red moons.

Outside, engines reved.  Eight men, in two parties of four, moved out on

the trail of the escaped witnesses.

Leland calmly turned two, three, six pages, saw red moons and more red

moons, and calmly picked up the album and threw it across the room.  The

book slammed into cupboards, bounced off the refrigerator, fell.  A

score of scarlet moons flew free and fluttered briefly.  On a counter,

Leland saw a ceramic jar: a smiling bear sitting with forepaws clasped

over his tummy.  He scooped it up, threw it to the floor, where it

exploded in a hundred fragments.  Broken chocolate-chip cookies landed

atop the album and crumbled across the scattered red moons.  He swept a

radio off the counter, onto the floor.  A canister of sugar.  Flour.  He

pitched a breadbox against the wall and threw a Mr.  Coffee machine at

the oven.

He stood for a moment, breathing -deeply, evenly.  Then he turned and

walked calmly out of the kitchen, went calmly down the stairs to the

office, to calmly study the county map and calmly assess the situation

with his lieutenant.

"The moon!" Marcie cried, then screamed shrilly again. "Mommy, look,

look, the moon!  Why, Mommy, why?  Look, the moon!"

The girl suddenly tried to pull loose of her mother, wrenched and

flailed.  Jorja strove to hold on to her but was unsuccessful.

Startled by the screams, Ned had halted the Jeep.

Screaming again, Marcie tore loose of her mother, scrambled across

Ernie, with no particular destination as far as Ernie could determine,

with no intention but to escape from whatever she had seen in memory.

She was apparently not aware that she was in the Cherokee but believed

herself to be in another place altogether, a scary place.

Ernie grabbed her before she could scrabble and kick her way into

Brendan's lap.  He held the small child tightly in his big arms, held

her against his chest, and as she continued to scream, he cooed

soothingly to her.

Gradually, Marcie's terror subsided.  She stopped struggling and went

limp in his arms.  She stopped screaming, too, and merely chanted

softly: "Moon, the moon, moon.  .  .  ." And quietly, but with terrible

dread: "Don't let it get me, don't let it, don't let it."

"Be still, honey," Ernie said, patting her, stroking her hair, "be

still, you're safe, I won't let it get you."

"She remembered something," Brendan said as Ned drove forward again.  "A

crack opened for just a moment."

"What did you see, baby?" Jor ' ja asked her daughter.

The girl had slipped back into her deep catatonic glaze, unhearing,

unheeding .  .  .  except that, after a while, Ernie felt her arms

tighten around him in a hug.  He hugged her in return.  She said

nothing.  She was still not really with them, adrift on a dark inner

sea.  Evidently, however, she felt safe in Ernie's bearish embrace, and

she held fast to him as the Cherokee rocked and lurched through the

snowy night.

After months of living in fear of every shadow, after regarding each

oncoming twilight with despair and horror, Ernie felt indescribably

good, delighted that someone needed his strength.  It was profoundly

satisfying.  And as he held her and murmured to her and stroked her

thick black hair, he was oblivious of the fact that night now surrounded

the Cherokee and pressed its face to the windows.

Eventually, Jack turned the pickup east and finally connected with the

county road to Thunder at a point approximately one mile north of the

place where Ned should have already crossed the same lane in the

Cherokee.  He turned right and headed up toward the Depository, the

route that Dom and Ernie had covered this morning.

He had never seen a storm this bad back East.  The higher he went into

the mountains, the harder and faster the snow came down.  It was as

dense as a heavy rainfall.

"The entrance to the Depository is about a mile ahead," Dom said.

Jack cut the headlights and proceeded at a slower pace. Until his eyes

adjusted to the loss of light, the world seemed composed only of

whirling white specks and darkness.

He could not always tell if he was in his own lane.  He expected another

vehicle to hurtle out of the night and ram him head-on.

Evidently Ginger had the same thought, for she shrank down in her seat

as if for protection in a crash.  She nervously bit her lower lip.

" Those lights ahead," Dom said.  "The entrance to the Depository."

Two mercury_vapor lamps blazed on poles flanking the electric gate.  A

warmer amber glow shone in the two narrow windows of the guardhouse.

Even with those lights, Jack could see only a vague outline of the small

building on the far side of the fence, for the falling snow masked all

details.  He felt confident that, with no headlights, the pickup would

be invisible to any guard who might happen to look out a window as the

truck drifted past on the county lane.  Their engine noise would be

swallowed by the wind.

They rolled slowly up the steep slope, deeper into the night and

mountains.  The windshield wipers were doing a poorer job by the moment,

for snow had clogged the blades and turned to ice.

When they had gone a mile past the entrance to Thunder Hill, Ginger

said, "Maybe we could turn the lights on now."

Hunching over the wheel, squinting into the gloom ahead, Jack said, "No.

We'll go in darkness all the way."

In the motel office, Leland Falkirk and Lieutenant Horner unfolded the

county map on the check-in counter.  They were still studying it when

the men who had gone after the escaping witnesses returned in defeat,

only minutes after departing. The search party had followed the tire

tracks a couple of hundred yards through a glen running north into the

hills, at which point the snow and wind erased the trail.  However,

there was some evidence that at least one vehicle had turned into

another hollow leading east, and since there seemed no reason for the

witnesses to split up, it was assumed both the Servers' pickup and the

Cherokee were now headed in that general direction.

Returning his attention to the map, Leland said, "It makes sense.  They

wouldn't go west.  Nothing's out there until Battle Mountain, forty

miles away, then Winnemucca over fifty miles farther.  Neither town's

big enough to hide in for long.  And neither's exactly a transportation

hub; aren't many ways out. So they'll go east, into Elko."

Lieutenant Horner put a cigar-sized finger on the map. "Here's the road

that runs past the motel and up to Thunder Hill.  They'll have crossed

that by now and still be heading east."

"What's the next southbound road they'll come to?"

Lieutenant Horner bent down to read the small print on the map.  "Vista

Valley.  Looks to be about six miles east of the road to Thunder Hill."

A knock sounded, and Miles Bennell said, "Come in."

General Robert Alvarado, CO of Thunder Hill, opened the door and entered

the dark office in a swath of silvery light that came with him from The

Hub and coated a portion of the room in an imitation of frost.  He said,

"Sitting alone in the dark, huh?  Just imagine how suspicious that would

seem to Colonel Falkirk."

"He's a madman, Bob."

"Not long ago," Bob Alvarado said, "I'd have argued that he was a fairly

good officer, though a bit too by-the-book and much too gung-ho.  But

tonight, I have to agree with you. The man's only got one oar in the

water.  Maybe no oars.  I just got a request from him a few minutes ago,

by telephone. Supposed to be a request, but it was phrased like an

order. He wants the entire staff, all military men and all civilians, to

report to their quarters and stay there until further notice.

You'll hear my order on the public address system in a couple minutes."

"But why's he want that?" Miles asked.

Alvarado sat in a chair near the open door, the frosty swath of light

falling across his feet and up to the middle of his chest, leaving his

face in darkness.  "Falkirk's bringing in the witnesses and doesn't want

them to be seen by any of our people who don't already know about them.

Or that's what he claims is behind the request."

Astonished, Miles said, "But if the time's come to put them through

another memory-scrub, it's better to keep them at the motel.  Though as

far as I know, he's not called in the damn brain-fuckers."

"He hasn't," Bob Alvarado confirmed.  "He says the coverup might not be

continued.  He wants you to study the witnesses, especially Cronin and

Corvaisis.  He says maybe he's right, maybe they're not human any more.

But he says he's been thinking over his conversation with you, wondering

if maybe you could be right and maybe he's too paranoid about this.  He

says if you decide they're fully human, if you determine that their

gifts are not evidence of an inhuman presence within them, he'll accept

your word; he'll spare them.  Then, so he says, he might decide against

another brainwashing session and even recommend to his superiors that

the whole story be revealed to the public."

Miles was silent a moment.  Then he shifted in his chair, more uneasy

than ever.  "It sounds as if he's finally got some common sense.  Why do

I find that so hard to believe?  Do you think it's true?"

Alvarado reached out from his chair, pushed the door shut, plunging the

room into darkness.  Sensing Miles reaching for the lamp switch, he

said, "Let's keep it this way, huh?  Maybe it's a little easier to be

frank with each other when we can't see faces." Miles settled back in

his chair, leaving the lamp unlit, and Alvarado said, "Tell me, Miles,

was it you who sent the photographs to Corvaisis and the Blocks?"

Miles said nothing.

"We're friends, you and I," Alvarado said.  "At least I've felt we are.

I never met another guy I could enjoy playing both chess and poker with.

So I'll tell you .  .  .  I'm the one who got Jack Twist back here."

Startled, Miles said, "How?  Why?"

"Well, like you, I knew some of the witnesses were slowly shedding their

memory blocks and having psychological problems in the process.  So

before anyone could decide to wipe them again one by one, I figured to

do something to focus their attention on the motel.  I hoped to stir up

enough trouble to make it impossible to continue the cover-up.

"Why?" Miles repeated.

"Because I'd finally decided the cover-up was wrong."

"But why sabotage it by such a back-door approach?" Miles asked.

"Because if I'd gone public, I'd have been disobeying orders.  I'd have

been throwing my career away, maybe my pension.  And besides ...  I

thought Falkirk might kill me."

Miles had worried about the same thing.

Alvarado said, "I started with Twist because I thought his Ranger

background and his inclination to challenge authority would make him a

good candidate for organizing the other witnesses.  From the information

turned up during his memory-wipe session that summer, I knew about his

safe-deposit boxes.  So I searched the file on him, got the names of the

banks, the passwords.  The file also contained copies of all the keys to

his boxes; Falkirk had them made in case it was ever necessary to turn

up criminal evidence against Twist to use as blackmail or to put him out

of the way in prison.  I made copies of the copies.  Then, when I was on

leave for ten days in late December, I went to New York with a bunch of

postcards of the Tranquility Motel, and I put one in each of his boxes.

He didn't go to those banks often, just a few times a year, and they've

all got thousands of safe-deposit customers, so nobody remembered what

Twist looked like or suspected that I wasn't him.  It was easy."

"And ingenious," Miles said, staring with admiration and fondness at the

bulky, shadowy form of his friend.  "Finding those cards would've

electrified Twist.  And if Falkirk had gotten wind of it, he'd have no

way of knowing who'd done it."

"Especially since I always handled the postcards with gloves," Alvarado

said.  "Didn't even leave a fingerprint.  I planned to come back here,

give Twist time to find them.  Then I was going to go into Elko and,

from a pay phone, make a couple of anonymous calls to other witnesses,

give them Twist's unlisted number, tell them he had answers to their

various mental problems.  That would've set the ball rolling pretty

well.  But before it got that far, someone else had sent notes and

Polaroids to Corvaisis, more Polaroids to the Blocks, and a new crisis

was already underway. Like Falkirk, I know whoever sent those pictures

has to be here in Thunder Hill.  You going to fess up, or am I the only

one in a confessional mood?"

Miles hesitated.  His glance fell upon the vague grayness of the report

on his desk: Falkirk's psychological profile.  He shuddered and said,

"Yeah, Bob, I sent the pictures.  Great minds think alike, huh?"

From his own pocket of darkness, Alvarado said, "I told you why I picked

Twist.  And I can figure why you'd want to stir up the Blocks, since

they're local and sort of at the center of everything.  But why'd you

pick Corvaisis instead of one of the others?"

"He's a writer, which means a vivid imagination.  Anonymous notes and

odd pictures in the mail would probably grab his interest a little

faster and tighter than anyone else's.  And his first novel has had

tremendous prepublication publicity, so if he dug up some of the truth,

reporters might be more likely to listen to him than to the others."

"We're a clever pair."

"Too clever for our own good," Miles said.  "Looks like sabotaging the

cover-up was too slow.  We should've just violated our secrecy oaths and

gone public with the news, even if it meant risking Falkirk's anger and

government prosecution."

They were silent a moment, and then Alvarado said, "Why do you think

I've come here and opened up to you like this, Miles?"

"You need an ally against the colonel.  Because you don't think he meant

a word of what he told you on the phone. You don't think he's suddenly

gotten reasonable.  You don't think he's bringing the witnesses back

here to let us study them."

"He's going to kill them, I think," Alvarado said.  "And us, too.  All

of us."

"Because he thinks we've all been taken over.  The damn fool."

The public address system crackled, whistled.  A speaker was set in the

wall of Miles's office, as in every room within the Depository.  The

announcement followed the whistle: All personnel, military and civilian,

were to report first to the armory to be issued handguns, then to their

quarters to await further instructions.

Getting up from his chair, Alvarado said, "When they're all in their

quarters, I'll tell them it was Falkirk's idea to put them there but my

idea to arm them.  I'll warn them that, for reasons that'll be clear to

some and a mystery to others, we're all in danger from Falkirk and his

DEROS.  Later, if the colonel sends some of his men to round up the

staff and shoot them all, my people will be able to shoot back.  I hope

we can stop him before it goes that far."

"Do I get a handgun, too?"

Alvarado moved to the door but did not open it.  Standing in the dark,

he said, "You especially.  Wear a lab coat with the gun under it, so

Falkirk won't see you're armed.  I intend to wear my uniform coat

unbuttoned, with a small pistol tucked into the back of my waistband, so

he won't ' realize I'm armed, either.  If it seems he's about to order

our destruction, I'll pull the gun and kill him.  But I'll alert you

first, with a code word, so you can turn on Horner and kill him, too.

It's no good unless we get both, because if Horner has a chance, he'll

kill me when I open fire.  on Falkirk.  And it's imperative I survive,

not just because I'm inordinately fond of my own hide, which I am, but

because I'm a general, and I ought to be able to make Falkirk's men obey

me once their CO's dead.  Can you do that?  Can you kill a man, Miles?"

"Yes.  I'll be able to pull the trigger if it means stopping Horner.  I

consider you a good friend, too, Bob.  Not just because of the poker and

chess, either.  There's also the fact that you've actually read all of

T.  S.  Eliot."

" 'I think we are in rats' alley, Where the dead men lost their bones,'

" Bob Alvarado quoted.  Laughing softly, he pulled the door open and

stood revealed in the argentine glow of the cavern lights.  "How ironic.

Ages ago, my daddy used to worry that my interest in poetry was a sign

I'd grow up to be a skirt-wearing sissy.  Instead, I became a one-star

general, and in the hour of my greatest need, it's poetry that persuades

you to kill for me and save my ass.  Coming to the armory, Dr. Bennell?"

Miles rose from his chair and joined the general in the spill of frosty

light in the doorway.  He said, "You realize that Falkirk is, in

essence, acting in the name of the Army Chief of Staff himself and even

higher authorities.  So after you've killed him, you'll have General

Riddenhour and maybe even the President coming down hard on your neck."

"Fuck Riddenhour," Bob Alvarado said, clapping a hand on Miles's

shoulder.  "Fuck all the politicians and their toadying generals like

Riddenhour.  Even though Falkirk will take the security computer's new

codes with him when we kill him, we'll get out of here in a few days,

even if we have to dismantle the damn exit.  And then ...  do you

realize, when we take the news to the world, we're going to be two of

the most famous men on this sorry planet?  Maybe two of the most famous

men in history.  Fact is, I can't think of anyone in history who had

quite such important news to spread ...

except Mary Magdalene on Easter Morning."

Father Stefan Wycazik drove the Cherokee because he had experience with

four-wheel-drive vehicles from his service with Father Bill Nader in

Vietnam.  Of course, those adventures had been laid in swamp and jungle,

not in a blizzard. But he discovered the Jeep handled about the same in

either condition.  And though his daredevil experiences were long ago in

time, they seemed recent in his heart and mind, and he controlled the

wheel with the same reckless disregard for danger and sure-handed

expertise that he'd shown in his younger days, under fire.  As he and

Parker Faine headed away from the lights of Elko into the snow-blasted

night, Father Wycazik knew that God had called him to the priesthood

precisely because, at times, the Church required a man who carried a

thick splinter of an adventurer's soul lodged in his own.

Because I-80 was closed, they went north on State Route 51.  They

switched to a series of westward-leading county roads-macadam, gravel,

dirt, all under a mantle of snow. The roads were marked by

cat's-eye-yellow reflectors on widely spaced posts along the berm, and

the luster of those periodic guideposts, casting back the headlight

beams, was frequently the only thing that kept Stefan from going astray.

Sometimes, he had to drive overland to get from one lane to another.

Fortunately, they had bought a dash-mounted compass and a county map.

Although their route was winding and rough,

they made steady progress in the general direction of the Tranquility

Motel.

On the way, Stefan told Parker about the CISG, about which he had

learned from Michael Gerrano, after Michael had gotten the news from Mr.

X, Ginger Weiss's friend. "Colonel Falkirk was the only military member.

The CISG looks like a typical waste of tax dollars: a study group funded

to do a think-tank-type assessment of a social problem that would most

likely never arise.  The committee consisted of biologists, physicists,

cultural anthropologists, medical doctors, sociologists, psychologists.

The acronym CISG stands for Contact Impact Study Group, which means they

tried to determine the positive and negative impact on human society of

first contact with an intelligent species not of this world."

Keeping his eyes on the snowy road, Stefan paused to let his meaning

sink in, smiled slightly when he heard the artist take a sudden sharp

breath.  Parker said, "You don't mean .  .  .  you couldn't mean "Yes,"

Stefan said.

"Something came .  .  .  you mean that .  .  .  something .

For the first time in Stefan Wycazik's acquaintance, Parker Faine was

speechless.

"Yes," Stefan said.  Although this amazing development was no longer

news to him, he still shivered at the thought of it, and he appreciated

what Parker was feeling.  "Something came down that night.  Something

came down from the sky on July sixth."

"Jesus!" Parker exclaimed.  "Uh, sorry, Father.  Didn't mean to be

blasphemous.  Came down.  Holy shit.  Sorry.  Really. But .  .  .

Jesus!"

Following cat's-eye reflectors along an especially twisty gravel road

that hugged the lower contours of folded and refolded hills, Father

Wycazik said, "Under the circumstances, I don't think God's grading you

on verbal restraint.  The CISG's primary purpose was to arrive at a

consensus of how human cultures-and human beings themselves-would be

affected by face-to-face contact with extraterrestrials."

"But that's an easy question to answer.  What a joyous, wondrous thing

to discover we're not alone!" Parker said. "You and I know how people

would react.  Look how they've been fascinated by movies about other

worlds and aliens for decades now!"

"Yes," Stefan said, "but there's a difference how they react to

fictional contact and how they might react to the reality. At least

that's the opinion of many scientists, especially in the soft sciences

like sociology and psychology.  And anthropologists tell us that when an

advanced culture interacts with one less advanced, the less advanced

culture suffers a loss of confidence in-and often a complete collapse

of-its traditions, institutions.  The primitive culture loses respect

for its religions and systems of government.  Its sexual practices,

social values, and family structures deteriorate.  Look what happened to

the Eskimos following their encounter with Western civilization: soaring

alcoholism, family-destroying generational conflict, a high rate of

suicide.  .  .  .  It's not that Western culture is dangerous or evil.

It isn't.  But our culture was far more sophisticated and richly

textured than the Eskimo culture, and contact led to a serious loss of

self-esteem among the Eskimos that they've never regained and never

will."

Stefan had to pause in his elaboration of the issue, for they came to

the end of the gravel track on which they had been traveling.

Parker studied the map in the dim glow of the glove-compartment light.

Then he checked the dash-mounted compass. "That way," he said, pointing

left.  "We go three miles due west, all of it overland.  Then we'll come

to a north-south county route called .  .  .  Vista Valley Road.  We

cross Vista Valley, and from there it looks about eight or nine miles,

overland again, until we might come up behind the Tranquility."

"You keep checking the compass, make sure I stay pointed west." Stefan

drove the Cherokee into the snow-shrouded nightscape ahead.

Parker said, "This stuff about the Eskimos, all this detail about what

the CISG's point of view is like-Mr.  X didn't pass all these fine

points along to Father Gerrano in one telephone call."

"Some of it; not all of it."

"So I gather you've thought about the subject before."

"Not about extraterrestrial contact, no," Father Wycazik said.  "But

part of Jesuit education involves a hard look at both the good and bad

results of the Church's efforts to spread the faith to backward cultures

throughout history.  The general feeling is we did a disturbing amount

of damage even as we brought enlightenment.  Anyway, we study a lot of

anthropology, so I can understand the concern of the CISG."

"You're drifting north.  Angle left as soon as the land will let you,"

Parker said, checking the compass.  "Listen, I'm still not sure I

understand the CISG's concern."

"Consider the American Indian.  Ultimately, the white man's guns didn't

destroy them; the clash of cultures did them in; the influx of new ideas

forced the Indians to view their comparatively primitive societies from

a different perspective, resulting in a loss of esteem, a loss of

cultural validity and direction.  According to what Mr.  X told Father

Gerrano, the CISG believed contact between mankind and very advanced

extraterrestrials could have those same effects on us: the destruction

of religious faith, a loss of faith in all governments and other secular

belief-systems, a rising feeling of inferiority, suicide."

Parker Faine made a harsh scoffing sound in the back of his throat.

"Father, would your faith collapse because of this?"

"No.  Just the opposite," Stefan said excitedly.  "If this enormous

universe didn't contain any other life, if the trillions of stars and

billions of planets were all barren of life-that might make me think

there was no God, that our species' evolution was just happenstance.

Because if there's a God, He loves life, cherishes life and all the

creatures He created, and He'd never leave the universe so empty."

"A lot of people-most people-would feel the same," Parker said.

"And even if the species we encounter is frighteningly different from us

in physical appearance, that wouldn't shake me.  When God told us He

created us in His image, He didn't mean our physical appearance was like

His.  He meant our souls, minds, our capacity for reason and compassion,

love, friendship: Those are the aspects of humanity that are in His

image.  Which is the message I'm taking to Brendan.  I believe Brendan's

crisis of faith was related to a memory of an encounter with a race

vastly different from us-and so shatteringly superior to us-that he

subconsciously believed it put the lie to what the Church teaches us

about mankind being in God's image.  I want to tell him that it's not

what they look like that matters or whether they're far more advanced

than us.  What indicates the divine hand in them is their capacity to

love, to care-and to use their God-given intelligence to triumph over

the challenges of the universe that He gave them."

"Which they've had to do in order to come so far," Parker said.

"Exactly!" Father Wycazik said.  "I'm sure when the brainwashing loses

its hold on Brendan, when he remembers what happened and has time to

think about it, he'll come to the same conclusion.  But just in case, I

want to be there beside him, to help him, guide him."

"You love him very much," Parker said.

For several seconds, Father Wycazik squinted into the tumultuous white

world ahead, progressing more slowly and cautiously than when he'd been

following the reflectors along a known road.  At last he said, in a soft

voice: "Sometimes I've regretted entering the priesthood.  God help me,

it's true. Because sometimes I think about the family I might have had:

a wife whose life I could share, who'd share mine, and children to watch

grow.  .  .  .  The family that might have beenthat's what I miss.

Nothing else.  The thing about Brendan is .  .  .  well, he's the son I

never had and never will.  I love him more than I can say."

After a while, Parker sighed and said, "Personally, I think the CISG was

full of crap.  First contact wouldn't destroy us."

"I agree," Stefan said.  "Their fallacy lies in comparing this situation

to our contact with primitive cultures.  The difference is that we

aren't primitive.  This will be the contact between one very advanced

culture and another super-advanced culture.  The CISG believed if there

ever was contact it'd have to be concealed, if at all possible, and that

news of it would have to be broken to the public over ten or even twenty

years. But that's wrong, dead wrong, Parker.  We can handle the shock.

Because we're ready for them to come.  Oh, dear God, but we are so

desperately and longingly ready for them!"

"So ready," Parker agreed in a whisper.

For perhaps another minute they bumped and rocked along in silence,

unable to speak, unable to put in words exactly what it felt like to

know that mankind did not stand alone in creation.

Finally, Parker cleared his throat, checked the compass, and said,

"You're right on course, Stefan.  Ought to be less than a mile to Vista

Valley Road.  This man in Chicago that you mentioned a while ago ... Cal

Sharkle.  What was it he yelled to the cops this morning?"

"He insisted he'd seen aliens land and that they were hostile.  He was

afraid they were taking us over, that most of his neighbors had been

possessed.  He said the aliens tried to take control of him by strapping

him in a bed and dripping themselves into his veins.  Initially, I was

afraid maybe he was right, that what had come down here in Nevada was a

threat.  But on the trip from Chicago, I had time to think about it.  He

was confusing his incarceration and brainwashing with the landing of the

starship he'd seen.  He thought it was aliens in pressurized space suits

who'd kept him captive and stuck him full of needles.  He witnessed the

descent of a starship, and then these government men in decontamination

suits came, and by the time they'd rammed all that stuff into his

subconscious and weighted it down with a memory block, he was completely

mixed up.  No aliens apprehended him.  It was his fellow men who

mistreated him."

"You're saying government agents would've worn decontamination suits

until it was clear whether or not the alien contact carried a risk of

bacteriological contamination."

"Exactly," Stefan said.  "Some guests at the Tranquility must've

approached the ship openly, so they had to be considered contaminated

until evidence to the contrary was turned up.  And we know some at the

motel have distinctly remembered men inside decontamination suits: a few

soldiers, brainwashing specialists.  So poor Calvin was driven insane by

a misconception arising from his inability to remember clearly."

"Must be less than half a mile to Vista Valley Road," Parker said,

studying the map in the light from the open glovecompartment door.

Snow drove relentlessly through the yellow cones of the headlights.  Now

and then, when the wind faltered or briefly changed the angle of its

assault, short-lived forms of snow capered in arabesque dances, this way

and that, but always dispersing and vanishing like ghostly performers

the moment that the wind recovered its momentum and purpose.

As they started up a steep slope, Parker said softly, "Something came

down.  .  .  .  And if the government knew enough to close I-80 ahead of

the event, they must've been tracking the craft a long time.  But I

still don't see how they could

know where it would come down.  I mean, the crew of the ship might've

changed its course at any time."

"Unless it was crashing," Father Wycazik said.  "Maybe it was picked up

by satellite observation far out in space, monitored for days or weeks.

If it approached on an undeviating course that would indicate it wasn't

traveling under control, there'd have been time to calculate its point

of impact."

"Oh, no.  No.  I don't want to think it crashed," Parker said.

"Nor do I."

"I want to think they got here alive .  .  .  all that way."

When the Jeep Cherokee was halfway up the slope, the tires spun on an

especially icy patch of ground, then caught hold and propelled them

forward again with a jolt.

Parker said, "I want to believe Dom and the others didn't just see a

ship .  .  .  but encountered whoever came in it.  Imagine. Just

imagine.  .  ."

Father Wycazik said, "Whatever happened to them that night in July was

very strange indeed, a whole lot stranger than just seeing a ship from

another world."

"You mean .  .  .  because of Brendan's and Dom's powers?"

"Yes.  Something more happened, more than just contact."

They topped the crest of the hill and started down the other side.  Even

through shifting curtains of the storm, Stefan saw the headlights of

four vehicles on Vista Valley Road below. All four were stopped and

angled every which way, and their blazing beams crisscrossed like

gleaming sabers in the snowbleeding darkness.

As he drove down toward the gathering, he quickly realized that he was

heading into trouble.

"Machine guns!" Parker said.

Stefan saw that two of the men below were holding submachine guns on a

group of seven people-six adults and one child-who were lined up against

the side of a Cherokee that was different only in color from the one

Parker had just bought.  Eight or ten other men were standing around, a

substantial force, obviously military because they were all dressed in

the same Arctic-issue uniforms.  Stefan had no doubt that these were

some of the same forces involved in the closure of I-80 both tonight and

eighteen months ago.

They had turned toward him and were staring uphill, surprised at being

interrupted.

He wanted to swing the Jeep around, gun the engine, and flee, but

although he slowed down, he knew there was no point in running.  They

would come after him.

Abruptly, he recognized a familiar Irish face among those lined up

against the Cherokee.  "That's him, Parker!  That's Brendan on the end

of the lineup."

"The others must be from the motel," Parker said, leaning forward to

peer anxiously through the windshield.  "But I don't see Dom."

Now that he had spotted Brendan, Father Wycazik could not have turned

back even if God had opened the mountains for him and provided a highway

clear to Canada, as He had parted the Red Sea for Moses.  On the other

hand, Stefan was unarmed.  And as a priest, he would have had little use

for a gun even if he had possessed one.  Having neither the means nor

desire to attack, yet unable to run, he let the Cherokee roll slowly

down the hill as he frantically wracked his mind for some course of

action that would turn the tables on the soldiers below.

The same concern had gripped Parker, for he said, "What in the devil are

we going to do?"

Their dilemma was resolved by the soldiers below.  To Stefan's

astonishment, one of the men with a machine gun opened fire on them.

Dom watched as Jack Twist directed the flashlight beam over the

chainlink fence, then up to the barbed-wire overhang that thrust out

above their heads.  They were at that long length of Thunder Hill's

perimeter that ran through an open meadow, down toward the floor of the

valley.  Windblown snow had stuck to large sections of the thick,

interlocking steel loops of the fence, but other areas were bare, and

those uncrusted links were what Jack studied most closely.

"The fence itself isn't electrified," Jack said above the shrieking

wind.  "There aren't conducting wires woven through it, and the current

can't be carried by the links.  No way. There'd be just too damn much

resistance because they're too thick and because the ends of some of

them don't make tight contact with each other."

Ginger said, "Then why the warning signs?"

"Partly to spook away amateurs," Jack said.  He put the beam of the

flash on the overhang again.  "However, there are conducting wires

strung carefully through the center of that barbed-wire roll, so you'd

get fried if you went over the top.  We'll cut through the bottom."

Ginger held the flashlight while Dom dug into one of the canvas

rucksacks, found the acetylene torch, and passed it to Jack.

After he had slipped on a pair of tinted ski goggles, Jack lit the torch

and began to cut an entrance through the chainlink barrier.  The fierce

hissing of the burning gas was audible even above the keening, moaning

wind.  The intense bluewhite acetylene flame cast an eerie light that

struck a thousand jewel-bright glints in the snow.

They were not at a position where they risked being seen from the main

entrance of the Depository, which lay over the brow of a hill that

sloped up from the other side of the fence.  However, Dom was sure the

weird acetylene light reached high enough into the night to be spotted

from the other side of that rise.  If seen, it would draw guards this

way. But if Jack was right, if the Depository's security was largely

electronic, there would not be guards prowling the grounds tonight; and

in this weather, surveillance by video cameras was pretty much ruled

out, too, for their lenses would be iced-over or packed with snow.

Of course, though they wanted to get inside the Depository and have a

quick look around, it Would not be a tragedy if they were apprehended

here.  After all, being taken into custody was part of Jack's plan for

focusing attention on Thunder Hill.

Dom, Ginger, and Jack were not armed.  All the weapons had been for the

others, in the Cherokee, because their escape was essential.  If they

were stopped, all was lost.  Dom hoped they wouldn't need their guns,

and that they were already safely in Elko.

As Jack cut a crawl-through opening in the fence, the eldritch light of

the acetylene torch increasingly captivated Dom and, suddenly, made a

connection with the past, hurtling him back once more in memory:

The third jet roared over the roof of the diner, so low that he threw

himself flat on the parking lot, certain the airplane was crashing on

top of him, but it swooped past, leaving shattered air and a blast of

engine heat in its wake; he started to get up, and a fourth jet boomed

over the roof of the motel, a huge half-glimpsed shadowy shape, its

running lights carving white and red wounds through the night as it

thundered south and angled east, out across the barrens beyond I-80,

where the thirdjet had gone, and now the first two craft, which

hadpassed over at a greater altitude, were far out there, swinging back,

one to the east and one to the west;, yet still the earth shook and the

night was filled with a great rumble like an ongoing and never-ending

explosion, and he thought there must be more jets coming, even though

the queer electronic oscillation that had throbbed under the roar was

now getting louder and shriller and stranger and was unlike anything

jets would produce; he shoved up onto his feet and turned, and there was

Ginger Weiss and Jorja and Marcie, and there was Jack running over from

the motel, and Ernie and Faye coming out from the office, and others,

all the others, Ned and Sandy; the rumble was now like the crash of

Niagara Falls combined with the base-throb pounding of a thousand

timpani; the ululant electronic whistle made him feel as if the top of

his head was going to be sliced off by a bandsaw; there was frost-silver

light of a peculiar kind; he looked up, away from the jets that had gone

past, over the roof of the diner, looked up toward the light,- he

pointed and said, "The moon!  The moon!" Others looked where he pointed;

he was filled with a sudden terror, and he cried, "The moon!  The moon!"

and staggered back several steps in surprise and fear; someone

screamed..  .  .

"The moon!" he gasped.

He was down in the snow, driven to his knees by the shock of the

memory-flash, and Ginger was kneeling in front of him, holding him by

the shoulders.  "Dom?  Dom, are you okay?"

"Remembered," he said numbly as the wind rushed between their faces and

tore their smoking breath out of their mouths.  "Something .  .  .  the

moon .  .  .  but I didn't quite get enough."

Beyond them, having cut a crawl-through in the chainlink fence, Jack

switched off the acetylene torch.  The darkness folded around them again

like the wings of a great bat.

"Come on," Jack said, turning to Dom and Ginger.  "Let's go in.  Quickly

now."

"Can you make it?" Ginger asked Dom.

"Yeah," he said, though there was an icy cramping in his guts and a

tightness in his chest.  "But all of a sudden ...  I'm scared."

"We're all scared," she said.

"I don't mean scared of getting caught.  No.  It's something else.

Something I almost remembered just then.  And I'm .  .  .

shaking like a leaf, for God's sake."

Brendan gasped in disbelief when Colonel Falkirk ordered one of his men

to open fire on the Jeep that was approaching Vista Valley Road from the

hillside above.  The madman didn't know who was in the vehicle.  The

soldier given the order also thought it was out of line, for he did not

immediately raise his weapon.  But Falkirk took a menacing step toward

him and shouted: "I told you to open fire, Corporal!  This is an urgent

national security matter.  Whoever's in that vehicle is no friend of

yours, mine, or our country.  You think any innocent civilians would be

driving overland, sneaking around the roadblock, in a goddamn blizzard

like this?  Fire!  Waste them!"

This time, the corporal obeyed.  The clatter of automatic gunfire

hammered the night, briefly overpowering the voice of the raging wind.

Up on the hillside, the headlights of the oncoming Jeep blew out.  The

two hundred hard cracks of two hundred bullets erupting in a murderous

stream from the muzzle of the machine gun were augmented by the sound of

slugs tearing through sheet metal and smacking onto more solid barriers.

The windshield imploded under raining lead, and the Jeep, which had

braked immediately after topping the crest of the hill and had been

descending slowly, abruptly gained speed and rushed down at them, then

angled left when its wheels jolted over a lateral hump that extended

across most of the slope.  Obviously no longer under anyone's control,

it started to slow again, hit another bump, slid sideways, almost tipped

over, almost rolled, but finally came to rest just forty feet away in

the already drifting snow.

Five minutes ago, when Ned had driven over the hill on the other side of

Vista Valley Road and had turned south, only to encounter the colonel

and his men waiting less than a half-mile south, it had been instantly

clear that all the shot guns and handguns-and even the Uzi that Jack had

provided-would be of no help.  Considering that their lives depended on

their escape from Elko County, they would have made a stand against a

smaller force.  But Falkirk was accompanied by too many men, all heavily

armed.  Resistance would have been purest folly.

And Brendan had been filled with frustration because he had not dared

use his special power to ensure their freedom. He felt he ought to be

able to apply his telekinetic talent to the situation.  If he

concentrated hard enough, perhaps he could cause the guns to fly out of

the soldiers' hands.  He sensed he had that much-and more-power in him,

but he did not know how to bring it to bear effectively.  He could not

forget how the experiment in the diner had gotten entirely out of hand

last night; they had been fortunate that none of them had been hurt by

the careening salt and pepper shakers, and the violently levitating

chairs.  If he used his power to wrench the weapons from the soldiers,

he might not be able to disarm all of them simultaneously, in which case

the ones still in possession of their weapons might open fire in

selfdefense.  Or at his instigation, the guns might tear free of the

soldiers' hands and go whirling through the air, out of control-firing

until their magazines had emptied, pumping bullets into everything and

everyone in sight.  Sure, he might be able to heal the wounded.  But

what if he was shot?  Could he heal himself?  Probably.  But if he was

shot dead?  He would not be able to bring himself back to life.  And if

anyone else was shot dead, he was not sure he would be able to bring

them back, either.  It was no good being gifted with the power of a god

if no clear instructions came with the blessing.

Now, watching scores of bullets slam into the Jeep, watching it rush

like a crazed and blinded beast down the hillside, seeing it come to a

shuddering stop in the headlight beams of one of the vehicles on Vista

Valley Road, Brendan felt his frustration ballooning beyond containment.

The occupants of the Jeep had been hit.  He could help them.  He knew he

could help them, and it was his duty to do so, not merely the duty of a

priest but the minimal duty of a human being.  He did not understand his

healing power, either, but there was no greater danger in trying to use

it than there was in attempting to employ telekinesis.  So he thrust

away from the Cherokee against which he had been standing, dashed

through the group of soldiers whose attention had been distracted by the

drama on the hillside, and ran toward the blasted Jeep even as it came

to a stop.

There were shouts behind him.  He distinctly heard Falkirk warning him

that he would be shot.

Brendan ran anyway, slipping on the snowy pavement.  He stepped into a

ditch, fell, scrambled up, ran on to the bulletriddled Jeep.

No one fired, but he sensed people sprinting after him.

The passenger's side of the Jeep was nearest, bathed in a beam of light

from one of the military vehicles, so he pulled open that door first.  A

stocky man of about fifty, wearing a navy peacoat, was slumped against

the door and fell out into Brendan's arms.  Brendan saw blood, but not a

lot.  The stranger was conscious, though on the precarious edge of a

faint; his eyes were unfocused.  Brendan pulled him all the way out of

the Jeep and lowered him gently onto his back on the snowcovered ground.

A pursuing soldier put a hand on Brendan's shoulder, and Brendan whirled

on him, screamed in his face: "Get away from me, you rotten-crazy son of

a bitch!  I'll heal him!  I'll heal him!" Then he vented an oath of such

a vicious, ferocious, and filthy nature that he was astounded to hear it

pass his lips.  He hadn't known he could use such obscene language. The

soldier, thrown into an instantaneous fury, swung his machine gun high,

intending to slam the butt into Brendan's face.

"Wait!" Falkirk shouted, stepping in and grabbing his man's arm to halt

the blow.  The colonel turned to Brendan and regarded him with eyes like

polished flint.  "Go ahead.  I want to see this.  I want to see you

incriminate yourself right in front of me."

"Incriminate?" Brendan said.  "What're you talking about?"

"Go ahead," the colonel said.

Brendan waited for no more encouragement but knelt at once beside the

wounded man and threw the flaps of his peacoat wide open.  Blood was

soaking through the sweater in two places: just below the left shoulder;

and low on the right side, a couple of inches above the beltline.  He

rolled up the victim's sweater, tore open the shirt beneath.  Brendan

put his hands on the abdominal wound first, for that appeared the worse

of the two.  He didn't know what to do next.  He could not recall what

he'd thought or felt when he had healed Emmy and Winton.  What triggered

the healing power?  He knelt in the snow, feeling the stranger's blood

oozing between his fingers, acutely sensitive to the life throbbing out

of the man, yet unable to concentrate the miraculous power he knew was

in him.  Frustration filled him again, turned to anger, and the anger

turned to rage at his own impotence and stupidity, at the injustice of

death, this death specifically and all death in generalA tingle.  In

each palm.

He knew the red circles had appeared again, but he did not lift his

hands from the victim to look at those stigmata.

Please, he thought desperately, please let it happen, let the healing

happen, please.

Amazingly, for the first time Brendan actually felt the mysterious

energy flowing from him into the wounded man.  It took shape in him and

raveled out of him as if he were a spinning wheel and as if the wondrous

power were the thread that he created.  He whirled it into existence in

the same manner by which the formless mass on the distaff was drawn into

a strong filament of thread by the action of a spinning wheel, and the

wounded man was the spindle onto which this power wound itself.  But

Brendan was not merely a single machine producing one meager thread; he

felt, within himself, a thousand-million wheels flashing round and round

so fast they whistled and hissed as they spewed out a thousandmillion

insubstantial and invisible-yet binding, strongly binding-filaments.

He was a loom, as well, for somehow he used the countless threads of

godlike power to weave a cloth of health.  Unlike his experiences with

Emmy Halbourg and Winton Tolk, during which he had been unaware of the

cures he was performing, Brendan was acutely aware of knitting up the

rent tissues of this gunshot stranger.  He could almost hear the clatter

of the pumping treadles, the thumping of the batten beating the threads

into place, the reeds forcing the wet to the web, the heddles guiding

the warp, the shuttle working, working, working.

Not only had he begun to acquire a conscious appreciation of his power,

but he sensed that the magical force he harbored was increasing, that he

was ten times the healer he had been when he saved Winton-and would be

twice as good tomorrow.  Indeed, beneath him, the stranger's eyes swam

into focus within seconds, blinked.  And when Brendan lifted his hands

from the wound, he was rewarded with a sight that took his breath away

and gladdened his heart: The bleeding had already stopped.  He was even

more amazed to see the bullet rise out of the man's body as if being

expelled by some inner pressure; it squeezed backwards from the entrance

wound and popped free of the flesh with a sucking sound.  Even as the

spent slug, wet and dully gleaming, rolled out onto the victim's belly,

the ragged hole began to close as if Brendan were not watching the

healing of a real wound but a timelapse film of the healing.

He quickly touched the lesser wound in the man's shoulder. At once he

felt the second bullet, not as deeply buried as the first, nudging out

of the torn flesh.  It pushed and squirmed against his palm.

A thrill of triumph raced through Brendan.  He had an urge to throw his

head back and laugh into the chaotic fury of the storm, into the night,

for the ultimate chaos and darkness of death had been defeated.

The victim's eyes cleared entirely, and he looked up at Brendan with

bewilderment at first, then with recognition, then with horror.

"Stefan," he said.  "Father Wycazik."

That familiar and beloved name, coming from the lips of this complete

stranger, startled Brendan and filled him with inexplicable fear for his

rector and mentor.  "What?  What about Father Wycazik?"

"He must need your help more than I do.  Quickly!"

For an instant, Brendan did not understand what the man was telling him.

Then with sudden dread he realized that the driver of the machine-gunned

Jeep must be his rector.  But that wasn't possible.  How had he gotten

here?  When?  Why?

For what possible purpose would he have come?

"Quickly," the stranger repeated.

Brendan leaped up, whirled toward the onlooking soldier and Colonel

Falkirk, pushed between them, slipped in the snow, stumbled against the

front bumper of the Jeep.  Holding on to the vehicle with one hand, he

clambered as fast as he could around the front to the driver's door on

the other side. It wouldn't open.  Seemed to be locked.  Or damaged by

gunfire.  He wrenched in panic, but it would not budge.  He pulled

harder.  Still nothing.  Then he willed it open, and it came

with a grinding and squealing of broken bits of metal, fell wide on

twisted hinges.  A body, slumped against the steering wheel, began to

tip slowly out through the open door.

Brendan grabbed Father Wycazik, dragged him out of the driver's seat,

and laid him on the cold blanket of snow.  This side of the Jeep was

touched by less light than the other.  In spite of the darkness, he saw

his rector's eyes, and as if his tortured voice were coming from a great

distance, Brendan heard himself say, "Dear God, no.  Oh, no." The

shepherd of St.  Bette's had flat, sightless, unmoving eyes that gazed

at nothing in this world but at something far beyond the veil. "Please,

no." Brendan saw, too, the furrow of a bullet that had dug its way along

the skull, from the corner of the right eye to a spot just past the ear.

That was not a mortal wound, but the other was: a devastating hole in

the base of the throat, gaping horribly, filled with shattered flesh and

stilled blood.

Brendan placed his trembling hands upon Stefan Wycazik's ravaged throat.

From within himself he felt the threads of power spinning out again, a

thousand-million filaments in a multitude of colors and tensile

strengths, all invisible yet sufficient to provide the wet and warp of a

strong and flexible fabric, the very fabric of life.  'Iben, reaching

psychically within the cooling body of this man he so deeply loved and

respected, Brendan tried with all his mysterious skill to weave those

threads upon the loom, to repair the torn cloth of life.

However, he soon became aware that the miraculous healing process

required an empathy between the healer and the healed.  He realized that

he had previously misunderstood the process, that he was not both the

spinning wheel, providing the threads of power, and the loom which wove

them into the cloth of life.  Instead, the patient had to provide the

loom to use the threads of life-giving power that Brendan provided. In

some strange way, the healing was a bilateral process.  And no loom of

life remained in Stefan Wycazik; he had died within seconds, had been

dead before Brendan reached the Jeep.  Therefore, the multiple threads

of healing power only tangled and knotted uselessly, unable to sew the

damaged flesh together.  Brendan could heal the wounded and cure the

sick, but he could not do what had been done for Lazarus.

A great, thick sob of grief shuddered from him, and another.  But he

refused to surrender to despair.  He shook his head violently in

stubborn denial of his loss, choked back

another sob, and redoubled his efforts, determined to raise the dead

even though he knew he could not.

He was dimly aware that he was talking, but it was a minute or two

before he realized that he was praying as he had prayed so many times in

the past, though not recently: "Mary, Mother of God, pray for us; Mother

most pure, pray for us; Mother most chaste, pray for us.........

He was praying not by reflex, not unconsciously, but ardently, with the

deep, sweet conviction that the Mother of God heard his desperate cries

and that, by the combination of his new power and the Virgin's

intercession, Father Wycazik would be raised up again.  If he had ever

lost his faith, he regained it in that dark moment.  With all his heart

and mind, he believed.  If Father Wycazik had been taken wrongly, before

his appointed time, and if the Virgin handed these pleas, wet with her

own tears, to Him who can never refuse His Mother anything she asks in

the name of love, then the ruined flesh would be made whole and the

rector would be restored to this world to complete his mission.

Keeping his hands upon the wet and awful wound, kneeling, wearing no

priestly raiments other than those the pure falling snow painted on his

humbled shoulders, Brendan chanted the Litany of the Blessed Virgin.  He

beseeched MaryQueen of Angels, Queen of Apostles, Queen of Martyrs.  But

still his cherished rector lay motionless on the bosom of the earth.  He

pleaded for the Virgin's mercy, she who was the Mystical Rose, the

Morning Star, the Tower of Ivory, Health of the Sick, Comforter of the

Afflicted.  But the dead eyes, once so full of warmth and intelligence

and affection, stared unblinking as flakes of snow spiraled into them.

"Mirror of Justice, pray for us; Cause of our joy, pray for us.  .  . ."

At last, Brendan admitted that it was the will of God that Father

Wycazik move on from this place.

He softly concluded the litany in a voice that grew shakier by the word.

He removed his hands from the monstrous wound. Instead, he took one of

Stefan Wycazik's limp dead hands in both his own and held fast to it

like a lost child.  His heart was a deep vessel of grief.

Colonel Leland Falkirk loomed over him.  "So you've got limits to your

power, do you?  Good.  That's good to know. All right, then, come on.

Get back there with the others."

Brendan looked up into the sharp face and polished-flint eyes, and he

felt none of the fear that the colonel previously aroused in him.  He

said quietly, "He died without an opportunity to make a last confession.

I am a priest, and I will stay here and do what a priest must do, and

when I'm finished I will rejoin the others.  The only way you'll move me

now is if you kill me and drag me away.  If you can't wait, then you'll

have to shoot me in the back." He turned away from the colonel.  Face

wet with tears 'and melting snow, he took a deep breath and found that

the Latin phrases came to his tongue without hesitation.

The crawl-through that Jack had cut in the chainlink fence was small,

but none of them-Jack, Dom, or Ginger-was a large person, so they all

squeezed onto the grounds of Thunder Hill without difficulty, having

pushed the rucksacks full of equipment ahead of them.

At Jack's direction, Dom and Ginger stayed close to the fence until he

had a chance to study the immediate landscape through the Star Tron

night-vision device.  He was searching for posts on which surveillance

cameras and photoelectriccell alarm systems might be rigged.  Though

blowing snow made the inspection more difficult than it would have been

in better weather, he located two poles on which were mounted cameras

that covered this portion of the Thunder Hill perimeter from different

angles.  He believed the lenses of both cameras were filmed with snow,

though due to the storm he could not be certain.  He saw no evidence of

photoelectric systems to detect movement across this part of the meadow.

Next, from a zippered pocket, he withdrew a wallet-size device-an

extremely sophisticated variation of a voltameter. It could detect the

passage of electric current through a line without making contact with

that line, although it could not measure the strength of the current.

He turned toward the open meadow, putting his back to the fence.

Crouching, he held the object out at arm's length, about two feet above

the ground, and moved slowly forward. The voltage detector would

register a current from lines buried as deep as eighteen inches

underground, unless they were sheathed in pipes.  The kind of lines he

was looking for were neither that deep nor sheathed.  Even the foot of

new and old snow would not measurably affect the device's performance.

He edged forward only about three yards before the detector began

beeping softly and flashing its amber light.

He halted immediately, stepped back a couple of feet, and called Dom and

Ginger to his side.  They huddled together, and Jack said, "There's a

pressure-sensitive alarm grid buried an inch or two under the ground. It

starts about ten feet inside the fence, and I'm sure it runs parallel to

the fence all around the facility.  It's a web of wires-sealed in thin

plastic-that carry a low-voltage current.  It's designed so the

connections of some of the wires will be broken and the current

interrupted if anything above a certain weight-oh, say fifty

pounds-steps on them.  The weight of the snow doesn't affect it because

that's evenly distributed.  It reacts to localized pressure-like a

footstep."

"Even I weigh more than fifty pounds," Ginger said.  "How wide's this

alarm grid?"

"At least eight or ten feet," Jack said.  "They want to be sure that if

someone immensely clever like me should come along and detect the

system, it'll be impossible just to jump across it."

"I don't know about you," Dom said, "but I can'tfly across."

"I'm not so sure you can't," Jack said.  "I mean, if you had time to

explore that power Of yours .  .  .  If you can levitate chairs, why

couldn't you levitate yourself?" He saw this suggestion had startled

Dom.  "But you haven't time to learn to control your power, so we'll

have to rely on what's gotten us this far."

"What's that?" Ginger asked.

"My genius," Jack said with a grin.  "Here's what we'll do. We'll walk

along the perimeter, staying in the safe ground between the fence and

the alarm grid, until we find a place where there's a big sturdy tree

standing twenty or thirty feet deeper in the meadow, well beyond the

width of the grid."

"Then?" Dom asked.

"You'll see."

"What if we don't find a tree?" Ginger asked.

"Doc," Jack said, "I had you pegged as a go-getting optimist.  If I say

we need a tree, I'd expect you to tell me we'll find a forest and have a

thousand to choose from."

They found the tree only three hundred yards down the slope toward the

valley floor.  It was a huge pine of such age and character that it

offered the thick and widely separated limbs that Jack required.  It

towered eighty feet or higher, a snow-dusted monolith looming out of the

storm, and it was thirty or thirty-five feet back from the fence, well

beyond the farther edge of the alarm grid.

Using the Star Tron again, Jack studied the massive pine until he found

exactly the right branch.  It had to be sturdy, yet not much higher than

the fence, with which it would form the opposing stanchions of a rope

bridge.  He put the Star Tron away again.

From one of the rucksacks, he removed the four-pronged grappling hook

that had been one of the many items on Ginger's and Faye's shopping list

when they had visited Elko earlier in the day.  Tied to the hook was a

hundred-foot length of hawser-laid nylon rope, five-sixteenths of an

inch in diameter, the kind made for serious climbers and capable not

only of holding one of them but of supporting all their weight at the

same time.

He tested the knot where the line tied to the hook, though he had tested

it a dozen times before.  He arranged the coil of rope at his feet,

stepping on the loose end to prevent the entire length from being

carried away when he pitched the grappling hook, but leaving most of it

free to pay out.  "Stand aside," he said.  Dangling the hook from his

right hand on two feet of line, he began to swing it around and around,

faster, faster, until the whoosh of it cutting the air was even louder

than the storm wind.  When he felt the velocity was right, he let go

with his right hand, and the rope slipped loosely through his left hand,

trailing after the grapple.  The hook arced up and out into the storm.

Though it had sufficient mass and momentum to be unbothered by the wind,

it fell short of its target by about three feet.

Jack reeled it back through the snow, churning the virgin mantle.  He

had to jerk on it a few times and then patiently finesse it when it got

caught on something.  He was not concerned about dragging it across the

buried pressure-sensitive grid, for it was not nearly heavy enough to

trigger that alarm. In a minute or two he had it in hand again.  Without

having been told what to do, Dom had knelt and coiled the rope once more

as it came in.  Now Jack was ready to try again.

His second pitch landed just where he wanted it.  The hook firmly snared

the target branch.

With the grapple securely planted, he took the other end of the rope to

the nearest fence post.  He slipped it through the chainlink about seven

feet off the ground, wrapped it around the post, threaded it through the

chainlink on the other side, and all the way around the post again.  He

pulled on it with all his strength, until the line between the post and

the distant tree was taut.  Then he enlisted Dom's and Ginger's help to

keep it taut while he knotted it tightly to the post.

As a result, they had a rope bridge that was seven feet off the ground

where it began at the fence, angling up to a height of about nine feet

at the tree.  That slight incline, even over a mere thirty-five feet,

would make the crossing more difficult, but it was as near to level as

Jack could make it.

He jumped high, grabbed the line with both hands, swung his body back

and forth a few times to get momentum, then kicked up and threw his legs

over the rope, crossing his ankles atop it.  Like a playful koala bear

clinging to the underside of a horizontal branch, he hung with his face

turned skyward and his back parallel to the ground.  By extending his

arms behind him and pulling himself on the line and by alternately

scrunching his legs up and extending them while keeping his ankles

locked, he could inchworm along with no danger of touching the ground.

He demonstrated the technique for Dom and Ginger.  Before he reached the

danger zone defined by the pressure-sensitive alarm grid, he let go

first with his feet, then with his hands, and dropped to the ground.

Dom tried getting onto the line.  He attained a handgrip with his first

jump.  But he needed a full minute to swing his legs up and over, though

he did it, then dropped back to the ground.

Ginger, only five-two, had to be given a boost to get a proper handgrip.

But to Jack's surprise she required no assistance to kick up and wrap

her legs over the line without delay.

"You're in pretty good shape," Jack told her.

"Yes, well," she said, swinging back to the ground, "that's because

every Tuesday, on my day off, I eat buckets of vareniki, several pounds

of graham cracker cake, and enough blintzes to sink a ship.  Diet, Jack.

That's the key to fitness."

Shrugging his arms through the straps on one of the rucksacks and

buckling it in place on his back, Jack said, "Okay, now, I'll cross the

rope bridge first with the two heaviest bags, which leaves one sack for

each of you.  Ginger, you'll come second.  Dom, you'll bring up the

rear.  When you come across, the rope will sag more the closer you get

to the center of the span, even as taut as we've made it, but don't

worry.  It won't droop far enough to put you in contact with the ground

and set off the alarm.  Keep your feet locked around the line, and for

God's sake don't accidentally let go with both hands at the same time as

you're pulling yourself along.  Try to make it all the way to the tree,

just to be safe.  But if your arms and legs give out, you can come down

ten or twelve feet this side of the pine if you must, which'Il probably

be past the other end of the alarm grid."

"We'll make it all the way," Ginger said confidently.  "It's only thirty

or thirty-five feet.."

"In just ten feet," Jack said, fastening the second rucksack to his

chest, "you'll feel as if your arms are coming out of their sockets.  In

fifteen feet, you'll feel as if they have come out of their sockets."

Something about Brendan Cronin's reaction to his rector's death had

jolted Leland Falkirk.  When the young priest demanded to be given time

and privacy to deliver the last rights to Stefan Wycazik, there had been

a fierce fire of indignation in his eyes and such hot grief in his voice

that his humanity could not be in doubt.

Leland's fear of alien possession was voracious, eating him alive.  He

had seen-and others had discovered-strange things inside that starship,

enough to justify his fear if not his total paranoia.  But even he found

it difficult to believe that Cronin's anguish was the clever play-acting

of an inhuman intelligence in disguise.

Yet.  Cronin, with his bizarre powers, was one of two prime suspects,

one of the two witnesses most likely to have been taken over, the other

being Dominick Corvaisis.  Where did the healing and telekinesis come

from if not from an alien puppet-master living within the man's body?

Leland was confused.

With powdery snow pluming up around his feet, he walked away from the

kneeling priest, then stopped and shook his head and tried to clear his

thoughts.  He saw the other six witnesses by Jack Twist's Cherokee,

still under guard.  He saw his soldiers caught between the need to do

their duty as they were told and a confusion worse than Leland's own. He

saw the stranger who had been with Wycazik-now up and moving around,

miraculously whole. That healing seemed wonderful, an event calling for

celebration, not fear; a blessing, not a curse.  But Leland knew what

lay inside Thunder Hill. That dark knowledge put things in a different

perspective. The healing was a ruse, clever misdirection to make him

think the benefits of cooperation with the enemy were too great to

justify resistance. They were offering an end to pain.  And perhaps an

end to all death other than that too sudden to be avoided.  But Leland

knew the very essence of life was pain. It was dangerous to believe

escape from suffering was possible.  Dangerous, because such hopes were

routinely destroyed.  And the pain following in the wake of shattered

hopes was far worse than it would have been if you had just faced it and

endured it in the first place.  Leland believed that pain-physical,

mental, emotional-was the core of the human condition, that survival and

sanity depended upon embracing pain rather than resisting it or dreaming

of escape.  You had to thrive on pain to avoid being defeated by it, and

anyone who came along with an offer of transcendence must be greeted

with disbelief, contempt, and deep distrust.

Leland was no longer confused.

The big Army truck-Jorja supposed it was a troop transport-had hard

metal benches along both sides and also against the forward wall that

separated the driver's compartment from the rear.  Dangling leather

loops, riveted to the walls at regular intervals, provided those on the

benches with something to hang on to when the ride got rough or steep.

Father Wycazik's corpse had been laid on the forward bench and secured

with lines that tied under the seat and then to the wall straps, forming

a rope basket to restrain the body's movement. Everyone else-Jorja,

Marcie, Brendan, Ernie, Faye, Sandy, Ned, and Parker-sat on the side

benches.  Usually, the rear doors were held shut only by the interior

latch, allowing soldiers to get out quickly in case of an accident or

other emergency.  But this time Colonel Falkirk himself slid the bolt

into place on the outside.  The sound of it made Jorja think of prison

cells and dungeons, and filled her with despair.  A fluorescent light

was set in the ceiling, but Falkirk did not order it lit; they were

forced to ride in darkness.

Although Ernie Block had endured the night remarkably well thus far,

everyone had expected him to come apart when he was locked in the

pitch-black bay of the truck.  But he sat beside Faye, holding her hand,

and coped.  He had periodic bouts of anxiety marked only by spells of

hyperventilation, which he quickly overcame.  "I'm beginning to remember

the jets Dom spoke of," Ernie said soon after they got in the truck,

before it started to move.  "There were at least four, swooping low, two

very low .  .  .  and then something else happened I can't recall .  . .

but after that, I remember getting in the motel van and driving like

hell down toward I-80 ...  out toward the special place along the

highway that means so much to Sandy, too.  That's all so far.  But the

more I remember .  .  .  the less afraid I am of the dark."

The colonel put no guards in with them.  He seemed to think it would be

dangerous for even two or three heavily armed soldiers to ride in their

company.

Before herding them into the truck, the colonel had seemed on the brink

of ordering their execution, right there along Vista Valley Road.

Jorja's stomach had knotted painfully with fear.  Finally Falkirk calmed

down, though Jorja was not convinced he would let them live once they

arrived wherever they were going.

He had demanded to know where Ginger, Dom, and Jack had gone.  At first,

no one would respond, which infuriated him.  He placed his hand on

Marcie's head and quietly told them what pain he would put the child

through if they continued to be difficult.  Ernie had spoken at once,

cursing Falkirk as a disgrace to his uniform-and reluctantly revealing

that Ginger, Dom, and Jack had gone west from the Tranquility, heading

for Battle Mountain, Winnemucca, and ultimately Reno.  "We were afraid

all the routes to Elko would be watched," Ernie said.  "We didn't want

to put all our eggs in one basket." It was a lie, of course.  For a

moment Jorja wanted to scream at Ernie not to jeopardize her daughter's

life with transparent lies, but she realized Falkirk had no way of

knowing for sure that it was a phony story.  The colonel was suspicious.

But Ernie provided more details of the route Jack was supposedly

following, and at last Falkirk sent four of his men to check it out.

Now, as the truck rumbled and jolted through the windy night toward a

destination Falkirk had not shared with them, Jorja hung on to a strap

with one hand and held Marcie with her free arm.  The girl made things

easier by clinging fiercely to Jorja.  Her semicatatonic limpness had

given way to a strong need for affection and contact, though she was

still by no means connected with reality.  But her sudden need to hug

and be hugged seemed, to Jorja, a hopeful sign that she would find her

way back from the dark domain into which she had retreated.

Jorja would not have believed that anything could distract her entirely

from her intense concern about her daughter. But a couple of minutes

after the truck started to move, Parker Faine began to tell them why he

and Father Wycazik had been making that risky cross-country trek through

the snowswept night.  The news he related was so momentous that it

pushed everything else from Jorja's mind and held her, rapt.  He told

them about Calvin Sharkle, about how Brendan had passed on his power to

Emmy Halbourg and Winton Tolk.  "And now .  .  .  perhaps .  .  .  to

me," Parker said with such wonder in his voice that it was communicated

instantly to Jorja and caused gooseflesh to break out all over her.

Parker spoke of the CISG.  And he told them what they must have seen on

that long-lost summer night in July: Something had come down.  something

had come down from the sky, and the world would never be the same again.

Something had come down.

As that amazing news was revealed, the darkness in the truck was filled

with an excited babble of voices.  Reactions from Faye's initial stunned

disbelief to Sandy's instant and enthusiastic acceptance.

Not only did Sandy accept, but she abruptly remembered large pieces of

the forbidden night, as if Parker's revelation had been a sledge that

had struck a wrecking blow upon her memory block.  "The jets came over,

and the fourth one blew across the roof of the motel, so low it almost

took the top off the building, and by that time we were all out of the

diner, people were coming over from the motel, but the shaking was still

going on.  The ground vibrating just like in a quake. The air vibrating

too." Her tone of voice was a peculiar mix of delight and trepidation,

both joyful and haunted.  In the darkness everyone fell silent to hear

what she had to say.

"Then Dom...  I didn't know his name then, but it was Dom, all right...

he turned away from the jets and looked up and back across the roof of

the diner, and he shouted: "The moon!  The moon!" We all turned ...  and

there was a moon, brighter than usual, creepy-bright, and for a moment

it seemed to be falling on us.  Oh, don't you remember?  Don't you

remember what it felt like to look up and see the moon falling on us?"

"Yes," Ernie said softly, almost reverently.  "I remember."

"I remember," Brendan said.

And Jorja had a glimmer of memory: the recollected image of a lambent

moon, eerily bright, rushing toward them....

Sandy said, "Some people screamed, and some started to run, we were so

scared, all of us.  And the powerful shaking and roaring got louder, you

could feel it in your bones, a sound like kettledrums and shotgun blasts

all mixed up with the greatest wind you ever heard, though there was no

wind. But there was the other sound, too, the queer whistling, warbling,

fluty sort of sound under the thunder, getting louder by the second....

The moon got very bright all of a sudden. These beams came down from it,

lit up the parking lot with a frosty sort of glow ...  and then changed.

The moon turned red, blood-red!  Then we all knew it wasn't the moon,

not the moon, but something else."

Jorja saw, in memory, the lunar form turning from frostwhite to scarlet.

With that recollection, barriers implanted by the mind-control

specialists began to crumble like sand castles under the assault of a

high tide.  She wondered how she could have looked so often at Marcie's

album of moons and not have been nudged toward understanding.  Now

understanding came in a flood, and she began to tremble with fear of the

unknown and with an indescribable exultation.

"Then it came over the diner," Sandy said, with such awe in her voice

that she might have been seeing the starship descend right now, not in

memory but in reality and for the first time.  "It came in as low as the

jet that had gone before it, but it wasn't moving nearly as fast as the

jet .  .  .  slow .  .  .  slow .  .  .  hardly faster than the Goodyear

blimp.  Which seemed impossible because you could tell it was heavy, not

like a blimp.  Ever-so-heavy.  Yet it drifted across us so slow, so

beautiful and slow, and in that instant we all knew what it was, what it

had to be, because it was nothing that had ever been made on this

world.........

Jorja's tremors grew as the memory returned with greater vividness.  She

recalled standing in the parking lot of the Tranquility Grille, with

Marcie in her arms, looking up at the craft.  It glided through the warm

July night above and would have looked almost serene except for the

thunderous sounds and base vibrations that accompanied it.  As Sandy had

saidonce the misapprehension of a falling moon was dispelled, they knew

instantly what they were seeing.  Yet the ship looked nothing like the

flying saucers and rockets seen in a thousand movies and television

shows.  There was nothing dazzling about it-other than the very fact of

its existence!-no coruscating bands of multicolored lights, no weirdly

extruding spines and nodules, no inexplicable excrescences in its

design, no unearthly sheen of unknown metal or peculiarly positioned

viewports or blazing exhausts or strange wicked-looking armaments. The

enveloping scarlet glow was apparently an energy field by which it

remained aloft and propelled itself.  Otherwise, it was quite plain: a

cylinder of considerable size, though not even as large as, say, the

fuselage of an old DC-3, perhaps only fifty feet long and twelve or

fifteen feet in diameter; it was rounded at each end, rather like two

well-worn tubes of lipstick welded together at their bases; through the

shining energy field, a hull was visible, though it was singularly

unimpressive, with few features and none of them dramatic, somewhat

mottled as if by time and great tribulation.  In memory, Jorja watched

it descend again, across the diner, toward I-80, while the jet escorts

wheeled and barrel-rolled and swooped and zoomed in the sky above and to

the east and west.  Now, as on that wondrous night, her breath caught,

her heart pounded, her breast swelled with turbulently mixed emotions,

and she felt as if she were standing before a door beyond which lay the

meaning of life, a door to which she had suddenly been given the key.

Sandy said, "It came down in the barrens beyond I-80, at that place some

of us knew was special, though we didn't know why.  The jets were

buzzing it.  Everyone at the motel and diner just had to get down there,

couldn't hold us back, my God, nothing could've held us back!  So we

piled in cars and trucks and took off-"

"Faye and I went in the motel van," Ernie said out of the darkness in

the troop transport, no longer breathing hard, his nyctophobia burned

away in the heat of memory.  "Dom and Ginger went with us.  That pro

gambler, too.  Lomack. Zebediah Lomack from Reno. That's why he wrote

our names on the moon posters in his house, the ones Dom told us about.

Some dim but urgent memory of riding with us in the van, down to the

ship, must have almost busted through his memory block."

"And Jorja," Sandy said, "you and your husband and Marcie and a couple

other people rode in the back of our pickup. Brendan, Jack, and others

went in cars, strangers piling in with strangers, but in some way none

of us were strangers any more.  When we got there we parked on the berm,

and a couple other cars pulled up coming west from Elko, people were

running across the divider, cars driving in from the west just stopped

right on the highway, and we all gathered on the shoulder of the road

for a minute, looking out there at the ship.  The glow around it had

faded, though there was still a ...  a luminous quality to it, amber now

instead of red.  It set some clumps of sagebrush and bunch-grass on fire

when it first touched down, but those burnt out almost entirely by the

time we got there.  It was funny ...  how we all gathered along the edge

of the road, not shouting or talking or noisy in any way, you know, but

quiet, all of us so quiet at first.  Hesitating.  Knowing we were

standing on ...  a cliff, but that jumping off the cliff wasn't going to

be a fall, it was going to be like .  .  .  like jumping off and up.  I

can't explain that feeling too well, but you know.  You know."

Jorja knew.  She felt it now, as she had then, the

almost-too-wonderful-to-bear feeling that humankind had been living in a

dark box and that the lid had just been torn off at last.  The feeling

that the night would never again seem as dark and foreboding or the

future as frightening as it had been in the past.

"And as I stood there," Sandy said, "looking out at that luminous ship,

so beautiful, so impossible there on the plains, everything that had

happened to me when I was a little girl, all the abuse and pain and

terror .  .  .  didn't matter as much any more.  Just like that-" She

snapped her fingers in the dark.  "Just like that my father didn't

terrify me any more."

Her voice cracked with emotion.  "I mean, I hadn't seen him since I was

fourteen, more than a decade, but I still lived with the fear that some

day he'd walk in again, you know, and he'd take me again, make me go

with him.  That was ...  that was silly ...  but I still lived with the

fear, 'cause life was a nightmare for me, and in bad dreams those things

happen. But as I stood there watching the ship, with everyone silent and

the night so big, the jets overhead, I knew my father could never scare

me again even if he did show up some day. Because he's nothing, nothing,

just a sick little man, a speck, one tiny grain of sand on the biggest

beach you can ever imagine.  .  .  ."

Yes, Jorja thought, filled with the joy of Sandy's discovery. Yes, that

was what this ship from beyond meant-freedom from our worst and most

inhibiting fears.  Although the vessel's occupants might bring no

answers to the-problems that beset humanity, their mere presence was in

a way an answer in itself.

Her voice thickening even further with emotion, beginning to cry now,

not with sadness but with happiness, Sandy said, "And looking at the

ship out there, I felt all of a sudden as if I could put all the pain

behind me forever .  .  .  and as if I was somebody.  All my life, see,

I'd felt I was nothing, less than nothing, filthy and worthless, just a

thing that had its uses maybe, but nothing with ...  dignity.  And then

I realized we're all just grains of sand on that beach, none of us so

very much more important than any of the rest of us, but more than that

.  She gave a small cry of frustration.  "Oh, I wish I had words, I wish

I had words and knew how to use them better."

"You're doing all right," Faye said quietly.  "By God, girl, you're

doing all right."

And Sandy said, "But even though we're just grains of sand, we're also .

.  .  also part of a race that might some day go up there, out there

into all that darkness, out where the creatures in that ship came from,

so even as grains of sand we have a place and purpose.  Do you see?  We

just got to be kind to one another and keep going.  And one day all of

usall the billions of us who were and are-we'll be out there with those

who'll come after us .  .  .  out there on top of all the darkness, and

anything we ever endured will have been worth it, somehow, because it'll

have been a part of our getting there.  All of that hit me in a flash

while we stood there along the interstate.  And suddenly that night,

right there, I started crying and laughing both .  .  .  ."

"I remember!" Ned said from his part of the darkness. "Oh, God, now I

remember, I do, it's all coming back.  We were standing there on the

side of the road, and you grabbed hold of me and hugged me.  It was the

first time you ever told me you loved me, the first time, though I'd

known you did. You hugged me, you told me you loved me, it was crazy,

right there with a spaceship come down!  And you know what?

For a few minutes, you holding me and telling me you loved me .  .  .

the spaceship didn't matter.  All that mattered was you telling me,

telling me after so long." His voice filled with emotion, too, and Jorja

sensed that he was putting his arms around Sandy, in the gloom on the

other side of the truck. "And they took that away from me," he said.

"They came with their damn drugs and their mind control, and they took

away from me the first time you told me you loved me.  But I got it back

now, Sandy, and they're never taking it away from me again.  Never

again."

Faye said plaintively, "I still can't remember anything.  I want to

remember, too.  I want to be a part of it."

Everyone was silent as the transport rumbled through the night.

Jorja knew the others must be pondering some of the same thoughts that

were rushing through her mind.  The mere existence of another-and

superior-intelligence put human strife in a different context. Mankind's

endless, violent struggles to dominate and enslave, to impress one

philosophy or another upon the entire race at any cost in blood and

painthat seemed so hopelessly petty and fruitless now.  All narrow,

power-centered philosophies would surely collapse.  Religions that

preached the oneness of all men would probably thrive, but those that

encouraged violent conversion would not.  In some way impossible to

explain but easy to feel, just as Sandy had felt it, Jorja was aware

that extraterrestrial contact had the potential to make one nation of

all mankind, one vast family; for the first time in history, every

individual could have the respect that only a good, loving family-no

king, no government-could bestow.

Something had come down from the sky.

And all humankind could be lifted up.

"Moon," Marcie murmured against Jorja's neck.  "Moon, moon."

Jorja wanted to say: Everything'll be fine, honey; we'll help you

remember now that we know what it is you've forgotten, and when you do

recall it, you'll realize it's nothing to be scared about; you'll

realize it's wonderful, honey, and you'll laugh.  But she did not say

any of that, for she did not know what Falkirk intended to do with them.

As long as they were in the colonel's custody, she did not hold out much

prospect for a happy ending.

Brendan Cronin said, "I remember more.  I remember descending the

embankment from the interstate.  Moving out toward the ship.  It lay

like shimmering amber quartz.  I walked slowly toward it with the jets

swooping overhead, other people coming with me ...  including you, Faye

...  and you, Ernie ...  and Dom and Ginger.  But only Dom and Ginger

came all the way to the ship with me, and when we got there we found a

door .  .  .  a round portal ...  open.  .  .  ."

Jorja remembered standing on the shoulder of I-80, afraid to go closer

to the ship and blaming her reluctance on the need to keep Marcie safe.

Wanting to call out a warning and at the same time wanting to urge them

on, she had watched Brendan, Dom, and Ginger approach the golden craft.

The three had begun to move out of sight along the side of the ship, and

everyone still on the shoulder of the highway had rushed eastward a

hundred feet or so to keep them in view. Jorja had seen the portal, too,

a round circle of blazing light on the side of the glimmering hull.

"The three of us gathered in front of the door." Brendan spoke softly,

yet his voice carried above the rumble of the truck.  "Dom and Ginger

and me.  We thought ...  something would come out.  But nothing did.

Instead, there was a quality about the light inside ...  the wonderful

golden light I've seen in my dreams ...  a comforting and compelling

warmth that drew us somehow.  We were scared, dear God, we were scared!

But we heard helicopters coming, and we sensed government people would

take over the second they arrived on the scene, take over and push us

back, and we were determined to be part of it.  And that light!  So .

.."

"So you went inside," Jorja said.

"Yes," Brendan said.

"I remember," Sandy said.  "Yes.  You went inside.  All three of you

went inside."

The immensity of the memory was overwhelming.  The moment when the first

representatives of the human race had set foot for the first time into a

place built neither by nature nor by human hands.  The moment that

forever divided history into Before and After.  Remembering, their

memory blocks having entirely crumbled, no one could speak for a while.

The truck rumbled toward its unguessable destination.

The darkness within the vehicle seemed vast.  Yet the eight of them were

as close as any people had ever been since the dawn of time.

At last Parker said, "What happened, Brendan?  What happened to the

three of you when you went inside?"

Using the rope bridge, they crossed the pressure-sensitive alarm grid.

Pausing several times to employ other clever devices in Jack's bag of

tricks, they passed through the finely woven web of electronic security

that guarded the grounds of Thunder Hill, coming at last to the main

entrance.

Ginger looked up at the immense blast doors.  The blowing snow had stuck

and frozen to the burnished steel in cryptic patterns that looked as if

they ought to have some meaning.

A two-lane blacktop led away from the doors.  Heating coils were

evidently embedded in it, for not a speck of snow lay on the pavement,

and steam rose from its surface.  The road curved down and west across

the meadow, into the forest, where the lights of the main gate glowed

softly in the distance. She could not see the guardhouse past which they

had crept in the pickup, but she knew it was out there.

If visitors were admitted during the next few minutes, or if the guards

changed shifts and returned to the Depository, the jig was up.  She and

Dom and Jack could scurry off, lie in the snow, hide.  However,

obviously little traffic passed through here, for the snow around the

smaller door was smooth and undisturbed when they arrived; therefore,

the fresh tracks they left would guarantee apprehension as surely as a

tripped alarm.  They had to get inside quickly-if they had any hope of

getting inside at all.

The smaller single door to the right of the blast doors looked no less

formidable than those giant portals, but Jack was unperturbed.  He had

brought along an attachs-sized computer called SLICKS, and although

Ginger had forgotten exactly what the acronym stood for, she knew from

Jack that it was a device for penetrating electronic locks of various

types and that it was not for sale to members of the general public. She

did not ask where he had gotten it.

They worked in silence.  Ginger kept a lookout for incoming headlights

from the main gate and surveyed the snowy expanse of the meadow for a

foot patrol, though they were confident no guards were on prowl.  Dom

held a flashlight on the ten-digit codeboard that was the equivalent of

a keyhole in an ordinary door, while Jack employed the probes of the

SLICKS in search of the sequence of numbers that would gain entrance.

Crouching on one knee in the snow, alert for trouble, Ginger felt

exposed-and much farther than twenty-four hundred miles from her life in

Boston.  The wind stung her face.  The snow melted in her lashes and

trickled into her eyes.  What a cockamamy situation.  Meshugge.  That an

innocent person could be driven to such a state as they'd been.  Who did

this damn Colonel Falkirk think he was?  The people who gave him his

orders-who did they think they were?  Not true Americans.  Real

momzers-that's what they were, all of them. She remembered the picture

of Falkirk in the newspaper: She had known at once that he was a

treyfnyak, a person not to be trusted, not an inch, never.  And she knew

something else, too: Whenever she began to pepper her thoughts or her

speech with this much Yiddish, she must be in deep trouble or very much

afraid.

Less than four minutes after Jack set to work, Ginger was startled by a

whoosh of compressed air behind her.  She turned and saw the door had

already slid into its recess.  Dom stumbled back in surprise.  Jack fell

on his butt.  When Ginger went to help him up, he showed her that the

door had slid open so suddenly and with such force that he had not had

time to withdraw the SLICKS probe from the mechanism; it had torn the

probe right out of the computer.

But the door was open, and no alarms were ringing.  Beyond was a

twelve-foot-long concrete tunnel, about eight or nine feet in diameter.

It was lit by fluorescent bulbs.  It angled to the left, where it ended

at another steel door.

"Stay here," Jack said, stepping into the tunnel to look around.

Ginger stood at Dom's side, and though she knew part of the plan was to

give themselves up as hostages, she also knew that, on instinct, she

would bolt and run at the first sign of trouble.  Dom apparently sensed

her thoughts, for he put an arm around her as much to restrain her as to

reassure her that she was not alone.

After a minute or so, when still no alarm bells or sirens had split the

night, Jack stepped back out into the storm and joined them where they

stood six or eight feet from the door. "Two surveillance cameras on the

ceiling of the tunnel-"

"They saw you?" Dom asked.

"I don't believe so, no.  Because they didn't track my movements.  I

suspect you have to close the outer door before there's any hope of

getting the inner door open, and as soon as you do close the outer door,

the cameras are activated.  I also noticed some gas jets concealed along

the lighting fixtures.  Way I see it-you close the outer door, and the

cameras look you over, and if they don't like what they see, they can

hit you with either a knockout gas or something deadly."

Dom said, "We're ready to be captured, but not gassed like moles."

"We aren't going to close the outer door unless we've already got the

inner one open," Jack said.

"But you told us that wasn't-"

"There may be a way," Jack said, winking his cast eye.

The first step was to pile their rucksacks out of the way and cover them

with snow.  Jack did not think they would have any further need of his

high-tech devices and would only be slowed down by the weight.  The

second step, after they entered the tunnel, was for Dom to lift Ginger

so, instructed by Jack, she could use a knife to saw through the wires

on the surveillance cameras, putting them out of commission. Again, she

expected an alarm to go off, but none did.

Leaving the outer door open, Jack led them to the inner barrier.  "This

one has no keyboard to disengage the lock, so it doesn't matter that the

SLICKS was damaged."

"Should we be talking in here?" Ginger asked nervously.

"Aren't there liable to be microphones?"

"Yes, but I doubt anyone's monitoring until that outer door closes,

because that's probably what engages the computer's

attention and starts the clearance program for anyone trying to enter.

And even if there's a guard beyond this door, he's not going to hear our

voices through all this steel.  Not even if we shout," Jack said, though

he spoke barely above a whisper.  He pointed to a panel of glass set in

the tunnel wall to the right of the door.  "That's the only way to

unlock it. They were just starting to install locks like this in

high-security installations when I left the service eight years ago. You

put your palm against the glass, the security computer scans your

prints, and if you're authorized to enter, the door opens."

"And if you're not authorized to enter?" Dom asked in a whisper.

"The gas jets."

"So how can you open it?" Ginger asked.

"I can't," Jack said.

"But you said-"

"I said there might be a way," Jack told her.  "And there might." He

looked at Dom and smiled.  "You can probably open it."

Dom stared at Jack as if the ex-thief had lost his mind. "Me?  You

serious?  What would I know about sophisticated security systems?"

"Nothing," Jack said.  "But you have the power to peel thousands of

paper moons off walls and send them dancing through the air all at once,

and you can levitate a score of chairs and perform other nitty tricks,

so I don't see why you can't .  .  .  reach into the mechanism of that

door and cause it to slide open."

"But I can't.  I don't know how."

"Think about it, concentrate, do whatever you did to move the salt

shaker last night."

Dom shook his head vigorously.  "I can't control the power. You saw how

it got out of hand.  What if it runs wild here?

I could hurt you or Ginger.  I might inadvertently activate the gas jets

and kill us all.  No, no.  Too risky."

They stood in silence for a moment, with the wind huffing and whistling

eerily at the open outer door.

Jack said, "Dom, if you don't try, then the only way we'll get inside is

as captives."

Dom remained adamant.

Jack walked back to the outer door.  Ginger started to follow him

because she thought he was leaving: But he stopped just inside the mouth

of the tunnel and raised his hand over a button on the wall.  He said,

"This is a heat-sensitive switch, Dom.  If you won't try to open that

inner door, then I'll touch this switch and close the outer door,

trapping us here.  That'll start the computer's entry-clearance program,

and when the computer discovers the surveillance cameras have been put

out of commission, it'll sound an alarm that'll alert the security men."

"One of the reasons we came here was to be caught," Dom said.

"We came to have a look around and then get caught, if possible."

"Well," Dom said, "we'll have to settle for just getting caught."

The tunnel's heat had escaped into the night.  Their breath plumed from

them again.  Those smoking exhalations heightened the impression that

the two men were engaged in a battle, though it was a battle of wills

rather than one of physical strength.

Standing between them, Ginger had no doubt who would win.  She liked and

admired Dom Corvaisis more than any man she had met in a long time,

partly because he seemed to embody both the drive and determination of

Anna Weiss and the modest shyness of Jacob.  He was good-hearted and, in

his own way, wise.  She would have trusted him with her life.  In fact,

she had already trusted him with it.  But she knew Jack Twist would win,

for he was used to winning, while Dom, by his own admission, had been a

winner only since the summer before last.

Jack said, "If they can't see us, they'll gas us for sure. Maybe they'll

just sedate us.  But maybe, to be safe, they'll use cyanide gas or some

deadly nerve gas that'll penetrate our clothes because, after all, they

can't be sure we're not wearing gas masks."

"You're bluffing," Dom said.

"Am I?" Jack said.

"You wouldn't kill us."

"You're dealing with a professional criminal, remember?"

"You were.  No more."

"Still got a black heart," Jack said, grinning, and this time there was

a disconcertingly maniacal note to his humor and a cold glint in his

misaligned eye that made Ginger wonder

if he actually might risk killing them all if he didn't get his way.

"Our dying isn't part of the plan," Dom said.  "It'll screw up

everything."

"And your refusal to help-that's not part of the plan, either," Jack

said.  "For God's sake, Dom, do it!"

Dom hesitated.  He glanced at Ginger.  "Step as far out of the way as

you can."

She moved back beside Jack Twist.

"Dom, if it does come open," Jack said, still keeping one hand raised

over the heat-sensitive switch that would close the outer door, "go

through fast.  There's a guard in there somewhere.  He'll be real

surprised when the door opens because the entry-clearance program hasn't

been run.  If you can knock him down quickly, I'll be right behind you

to silence him.  That'll improve our chances of getting deeper into the

installation and seeing what's to see before they nail our asses."

Dom nodded, faced the inner door again.  He looked over the frame, put

one hand to the steel, moved his fingertips back and forth in the manner

of an old-time safecracker feeling for the telltale vibration of falling

tumblers.  Then he turned to study the glass panel that read palmprints

and fingerprints.

Jack lowered his hand from the switch that he'd threatened to hit, and

glanced at the stormy night beyond the outer door. He whispered so

softly to Ginger that Dom, at the far end of the tunnel, could not have

heard: "I get a creepy feeling that, any minute now, the giant's going

to come down the beanstalk and stomp us all flat."

She knew then that he would not have risked their destruction, that he

would probably just have led them out to the guardhouse at the main gate

and asked to be arrested.  But with his murderous glower, he had been

thoroughly convincing.

Abruptly, the inner door whooshed open.  Even though Dom was the agent

of its movement, he was so startled that he jumped back a step instead

of rushing through immediately, as Jack had told him to do.  He realized

his error as he made it, and he leapt across the threshold, into the

subterranean world beyond.

Jack hit the button to close the outer door even before Dom was across

the inner threshold, then ran after the writer.

Ginger followed.  She expected the sounds of struggle or gunfire, but

heard neither.  When she stepped out of the concrete tunnel, she found

herself in another, huge tunnel with natural rock walls, where lights

were suspended from scaffolding overhead.  The passage was about sixty

feet across, at least a hundred yards long, beginning inside the massive

steel blast doors, and ending far away at what appeared to be banks of

elevators.  Three yards in from the door, a guard's table was cemented

to the concrete floor.  A watchman's log was chained to the table.  A

few issues of recent magazines were stacked beside the log.  There was a

computer terminal as well.  But no guards were in sight.

In fact, the entire tunnel was deserted.  The place was as still and

silent as a mausoleum.  Not even the drip of water from a stalactite or

the rustle of batwings in the vault above. But Ginger supposed that a

multibillion-dollar facility designed to weather World War III would not

be plagued by either condensation or flying rodents.

"Should be guards," Jack murmured.  His voice echoed sibilantly off the

rock walls.

"What now?" Dom asked shakily.  Clearly, he had been surprised by his

ability to focus his power so soon after the near-catastrophe in the

diner last night.

"Something's wrong," Jack said.  "I don't know what.  But no guard .  .

.  something's wrong." He skinned back the hood of his ski suit and

pulled the zipper down a few inches, and the others did the same.  Jack

said softly, "This is just the cargo-receiving area.  Trucks come in and

unload.  The main part of the installation must be below us.  So .  .  .

I don't like this emptiness .  .  .  but I guess we go down."

"If we've got to go, then let's stop shmoozing and get a move on,"

Ginger said, heading toward the far end of the tunnel.

She heard the inner door swish as Jack closed it.

They went farther into Thunder Hill.

2.

Fear

They made hardly more noise than three mice easing past a dozing cat,

yet their footsteps echoed in the rock-walled vault.

Not loudly.  The echoes did not sound like footsteps but rather like the

whispers and murmurs of conspirators hidden within the shadowed niches

on all sides.

Dom's uneasiness grew.

They crept past a couple of enormous elevators.  Each of them was

seventy feet wide and nearly as deep, open platforms that were raised

and lowered by synchronized hydraulic shafts at each corner, more than

big enough to move fighter aircraft in and out of the bowels of the

mountain.  They passed smaller cargo lifts, too, and finally came to a

pair of standardsize elevators.

Before Jack could press the call button for the lift, Dom was hit by

another flash of memory.  As before, it was sufficiently vivid to

displace current reality.  This time, he recalled the crucial event of

July 6: the white-to-scarlet metamorphosis of the moon, which suddenly

proved not to be the moon at all but a head-on view of the rounded bow

of a descending ship.  It was a plain cylinder with few features, none

remarkable, almost homely in a way, yet he sensed immediately that its

journey, ending here, had not begun anywhere on this world.

When the initial power of the memory faded enough to allow reality to

impinge upon him once more, Dom found himself leaning against the closed

doors of the lift with both hands, his head hanging down between his

arms.  He felt a hand on his shoulder, turned, and saw Ginger.  Jack was

standing behind her.

She said, "What's wrong?"

"I remembered .  .  .  more.

"What?" Jack asked.

Dom told them.

He didn't need to convince them that contact with an extraterrestrial

craft had been made that summer night.  The moment he reminded them of

what they'd seen, their own memory blocks crumbled as quickly as his. In

their faces, he saw the singularly unique blend of awe, terror, joy, and

hope that the event aroused.

"We went inside," Ginger said wonderingly.

'Yes," Jack said.  "You, Dom, and Brendan."

"But," Ginger said, "I can't ...  can't quite remember what happened to

us in there."

"Me neither," Dom said.  "That part hasn't come back to me yet.  I

recall everything up to the minute we went through the hatch, into that

golden light .  .  .  then nothing."

For a moment they were oblivious of their perilous surroundings.

Ginger's lovely, delicate face was bone-white.  Partly, it was the

bloodless look of fear.  But not fear alone.

Dom now understood, as Ginger did, why they had responded to each other

so powerfully the instant that she had gotten off the plane at the Elko

County Airport on Sunday. That summer night, they went into the ship

together and shared something that had forever bonded them.

"The ship's here, inside Thunder Hill," she said.  "It must be."

Dom agreed.  "That's why the government took the land away from those

ranchers.  They enlarged the grounds of the Depository to make it more

difficult for anyone to spot the truck that brought the ship in."

Jack said, "It would've been a hell of a big load."

"Like those huge trucks they haul the space shuttle on," Dom said.

Jack said, "Yeah, but why would they hide what happened?"

"I don't know," Dom said.  He tapped the button that would summon the

elevator.  "But maybe we can find out."

The elevator arrived with a quiet hum, and they rode down to the second

level.  Judging from the length of the ride, the top two floors of the

installation were separated by several stories of solid rock.

The doors opened at last, and they stepped into an immense circular

cavern three hundred feet in diameter.  From far above, the scaffolded

lights shed wintry beams on an odd collection of sheet-metal buildings

that hugged the walls most of the way around the chamber.  Warmer light

shone at small windows in two of those structures; otherwise, they were

dark and appeared untenanted.  Dom thought it looked a little like a

film crew on location, a bunch of dressing-room trailers. Four large

caverns branched from the main chamber, one of which was closed off by

huge wooden doors that were curiously primitive for an otherwise highly

modern facility.  In the three adjacent open caverns, lights glowed, and

Dom saw stored equipment-Jeeps, troop carriers, trucks, helicopters, and

even jet aircraft-in addition to other trailer-like buildings with more

lights at the windows than those in the main chamber.  Thunder Hill was

an enormous arsenal and a selfsustaining subterranean city, which Dom

had known, but he had not guessed at the immensity of it.

More mystifying than the Depository's many wonders was its air of

abandonment.  The second level was as deserted and silent as the first.

No guards, no busy personnel, no voices or sounds of labor.  True, the

caverns were slightly cool; and at this time of the evening, most of the

staff would probably keep to the heated living quarters.  But a few

should have been in sight.  And if most were off duty, there should have

been music, T-V, voluble poker-game conversations, and other muted

recreational sounds waiting from the farther reaches of the facility.

In a whisper so thin it was little more than a subvocalization, Ginger

said, "Are they all dead?"

"I told you," Jack said in an equally quiet voice, "something's wrong.

..  ."

Dom felt drawn toward the huge wooden doors-almost three stories high,

at least sixty feet wide-that sealed the entrance to the fourth cavern,

so he allowed his feelings to guide him.  Followed by Ginger and Jack,

he walked as quietly as he could toward a smaller, man-sized door set in

the bottom of one of those giant wooden portals.  It was ajar, and a

wedge of light, brighter than that in the main cavern, fell out onto the

stone floor.  He put one hand upon the door to pull it open, then

stopped when he heard low voices inside.  He listened until he

ascertained there were only two of them, both men.  They were speaking

too softly for him to follow their conversation.  Dom considered turning

back, but he had a hunch that if he had an opportunity to look into any

one room before being apprehended, he could do no better than this one.

He pulled open the small door in the huge door and walked through.

The ship was there.

Ginger stood with one hand on her breast, as if to restrain her heart

from hammering loose.

The cavern beyond the wooden doors was enormous, fully two hundred feet

long and varying between eighty and a hundred-twenty feet in width, with

a high domed ceiling.  The rock floor had been chiseled, planed, and

abraded to form a level surface from wall to wall; all the deep holes

and crevices had been filled with concrete.  Judging from scattered oil

and grease stains, and from recessed ringbolts in the floor, the chamber

had once been used for storing or servicing vehicles. To the right of

the entrance, along the wall, were more trailerlike buildings with small

windows and metal dbors, a dozen stretching almost to the end of the

chamber.  Though probably used as offices or living quarters at one

time, they'd been converted to research facilities. Hand-lettered signs

were fixed to some doors: CHEM LAB, CHEM LIBRARY, PATHOLOGY, BIO LAB,

BIO LIBRARY, PHYSICS I, PHYSICS 2, ANTHROPOLOGY, and others too far away

to read.  In addition, work tables and large machines-a conventional

X-ray unit, a large sound spectrograph of exactly the kind in use at

Boston Memorial Hospital, and many other pieces of equipment Ginger did

not recognize-stood in rows or clusters in the open area immediately in

front of the metal buildings, as if someone were conducting a sidewalk

sale of high-tech laboratory equipment.  The amount of research to be

done had outstripped the available quarters, which was no surprise,

considering the object of the inquiry.

The ship from another world lay to the left of the entrance. It looked

exactly as Ginger had recollected minutes ago, when the forbidden memory

had at last pushed through the block and returned to her: a cylinder

between fifty and sixty feet long, fifteen feet in diameter, rounded at

both ends.  It had been set upon a series of five-foot-high steel

trestles to keep it off the floor, rather like a submarine in dry dock

for repairs. The only thing different from its appearance on the night

of July 6 was the absence of the eerie glow that had changed from

moon-white to scarlet to amber.  It possessed no visible propulsion

system, no rockets.  The hull was nearly as featureless as she recalled:

here, a ten-foot-long row of shallow depressions in the metal, each big

enough for her to insert her fist, but without evident purpose; there,

four protruding hemispheres like halves of cantaloupes, also without

apparent function; here and there, half a dozen circular elevations,

some as large as the lid of a trash can, some no bigger than the mouth

of a mayonnaise jar, none higher than three inches, all quite

mysterious.  Otherwise, but for the marks of wear and age, the long

curving hull was smooth over ninety-eight percent of its surface.  Yet

its unspectacular design did not prevent it from being by far the most

spectacular thing Ginger had ever seen.  She was simultaneously

terrified and joyous, overcome with a dread of the unknown yet exultant.

Two men were sitting at a table at the foot of portable stairs that led

up to an open hatch in the flank of the elevated spacecraft.  The most

imposing was a lanky man in his forties, with curly black hair and

beard, wearing dark trousers, dark shirt, and white lab coat.  The other

was in an Army uniform with the jacket unbuttoned, a somewhat portly man

ten years older than his bearded companion.  Now, seeing their three

visitors, they fell silent, rose from their chairs, but did not shout

for guards or rush to trip an alarm switch.  The two merely watched Dom,

Jack, and Ginger with interest, gauging their first reactions to the

trestled craft that loomed over them.

They were expecting us, Ginger thought.

That realization should have concerned her, but it did not. She had no

interest in anything but the ship.

With Dom close by her right side and Jack on her left, she moved with

them in silence to the nearest end of the cylindrical vessel.  Although

her heart had begun beating hard and fast the moment she had entered the

chamber and seen the ship, its previous pounding was mild compared to

its current furious hammering.  They stopped within an arm's length of

the hull and studied it with an attitude of wonder bordering on

veneration.

Random swirling patterns of fine-grain abrasion swept across the entire

curving bulk of it, as if it had persevered through clouds of cosmic

dust or particles of a type and origin as yet unknown to man.  Random

nicks and small dents were scattered across the surface, clearly not

part of the design but inflicted by elements far more hostile than the

winds and storms that battered the ships of earth's seas and skies.  The

hull was mottled gray-black-amber-brown as if bathed in a hundred

different acids and scorched in a thousand fires.

Aside from its intrinsic and powerful alienness, the strongest

impression Ginger got from the ship was a sense of great age.  For all

she knew, it could have been built only a few years ago and could have

journeyed to Elko County at fasterthan-light speeds, arriving on the

night of July 6, just a few months or a year after being launched.  But

she did not think that was the case.  She could not ascertain the source

of her conviction-call it intuition-but she was certain that she was

standing in the shadow of an ancient vessel.  And when she reached out

and touched the cool metal, letting her fingertips move lightly over its

scarred and finely abraded surface, she felt even more strongly that she

was in the presence of a venerable relic.

They had come such a long way.  Such a very long way.

Following her lead, Dom and Jack had touched the hull, too.  Dom took a

deep quaverous breath.  His, "Ahhhhhhh," was more eloquent than any

words could have been.

"Oh, how I wish my father could have lived for this," Ginger said,

remembering dear Jacob the dreamer, Jacob the lufunentsch, who had

always loved tales of other worlds and distant times.

Jack said, "I wish Jenny'd lived longer ...  just a little

longer.........

Ginger suddenly realized that Jack did not mean the same thing she

meant, that he was not saying he wished his Jenny had lived to see this

vessel.  He was wishing she had lived through these events because, as a

result of this extraterrestrial contact, Brendan and Dom had acquired

the power to heal her.  If she had not succumbed on Christmas Day, they

might have been able to go back to her-assuming they got out of Thunder

Hill alive-and might have knit up her damaged brain, bringing her out of

her coma, returning her to the arms of her devoted husband.  That

jolting moment of comprehension made Ginger aware that she had hardly

begun to grasp the implications of this incredible event.

The portly man in the military uniform and the bearded man in the lab

coat had walked over from the table near the ship's portal.  The

civilian put his hand to the hull, which Ginger and Dom and Jack were

still exploring.  He said, "An alloy of some kind.  Harder than any

steel produced on this world.  Harder than diamond, yet extremely light

and with surprising flexibility.  You're Dom Corvaisis."

"Yes," Dom said, offering his hand to the stranger, a courtesy that

would have surprised Ginger if she had not also sensed that this

mild-spoken scientist and the military man with him were not their

enemies.

"I'm Miles Bennell, director of the team studying this .  .  . wonderful

event.  And this is General Alvarado, commanding officer of Thunder

Hill.  I can't tell you how deeply I regret what's been done to you.

This shouldn't be a secret possessed by a few.  It belongs to the world.

And if I had my way, the world would hear about it tomorrow."

Bennell shook Jack's and Ginger's hands, too.

Ginger said, "We have questions......

"And you deserve answers," Bennell said.  "I'll tell you everything

we've been able to learn.  But we might as well wait until everyone's

assembled.  Where are the others?"

"What others?" Dom asked.

And Ginger said, "You mean from the motel?  They're not with us."

Bennell blinked in surprise.  "You mean most of them managed to slip

through Colonel Falkirk's hands?"

"Falkirk?" Jack said.  "Do you think he brought us here?"

Bennell said, "If not Falkirk-who?"

"We came in ourselves," Dom said.

Ginger saw the shock of that news register with both Bennell and General

Alvarado.  They looked at each other in surprise, and then a light of

hope lit both their faces.

Alvarado said, "You're not telling us you found a way through the

Depository's security?  But that's not possible!"

"Have you read the file on Jack?" Bennell asked his friend. "Yes?  Well,

just remember his Ranger training and what he's been doing for a living

these past eight years or so."

Jack shook his head.  "I can't take all the credit.  Yeah, I got us

through the perimeter, across the grounds, and past the first door, but

it was Dom who actually got us inside."

"Dom?" Bennell said, turning in surprise to the writer. "But what do you

know about security systems?  Unless .  .  .

of course!  This strange damn power of yours!  Since that experience in

Lomack's house and since the light you generated when Cronin first

arrived at the Tranquility, you must've discovered the power wasn't

external.  You must know now that it's actually in you."

Ginger realized that Bennell's statement had revealed that their

conversations at the Tranquility had, indeed, been monitored.  But it

also revealed that their discussions and strategy sessions in the diner,

after Jack's arrival, had not been penetrated.  Otherwise Bennell would

have known about the experiment last night in which both Dom and Brendan

had learned that their apparently mystical experiences were, in fact,

events of their own creation.

"Yes," Dom said.  "We know the power's in us-me and Brendan.  But where

does it come from Doctor Bennell?"

"You don't know?"

"I think it has something to do with what happened to us when we went in

the ship, but I can't remember.  Can't you tell me?"

"No," Miles Bennell said.  "Not really.  It was known that three of you

went into the vessel, but we didn't know that anything ...  peculiar had

happened to you in there.  You'd come out just as the helicopters with

DERO troops and scientific observers began to arrive on the site, and no

one figured you'd been in there more than a couple minutes.  When you

were taken into custody, you didn't tell anyone that something important

had happened while you'd been aboard.  I believe you said you'd just

looked around.  And for ease of handling, you were all sedated

immediately after being arrested and conveyed back to the Tranquility.

So even if you'd changed your mind and decided to tell us what happened,

you didn't have a chance." Excited, the lanky scientist absentmindedly

began to comb his long fingers through his curly black beard as he

talked.  "When the decision was made to put a lid on the event, to

brainwash every civilian who'd seen it, there wasn't time for a thorough

debriefing of all the witnesses.  In fact, you were never brought out of

sedation; you were moved directly onto the drug program that was part of

your memory-wipe.  That's one reason I was opposed to the cover-up.  I

felt that by brainwashing you without giving us plenty of time to

debrief .  .  .  well, it was not only unfair and cruel to you but a

really stupid waste of potential sources of data."

Ginger looked toward the open portal farther along the flank of the

vessel, at the top of the portable stairs.  "If we go back inside now,

maybe the last of the memory block will crumble."

"That might help," Bennell agreed.

Looking up at the starship again, Jack said, "How'd you know it was

coming down out there along I-80?"

"Yeah," Dom said.  "And why'd they think it should be covered up?"

"And the creatures who came in it," Jack said.

"God, yes," Ginger said, "where are they?  What's happened to them?"

Interrupting, General Alvarado said, "Like Niles said, you'll get the

answers because you deserve them.  But first, there's more urgent

business." He turned to Dom.  "I suppose if you can levitate things and

create light out of thin air, there's no problem getting through an

electronic security system.  And if you can get in, you ought to be able

to use your power to keep other people out.  You think you could?  Keep

both the blast doors and the smaller entrance from opening until we're

ready to open them?"

Dom was clearly as baffled by these questions as Ginger was.  He said,

"Well, maybe.  I don't know."

Bennell looked at the general.  "Bob, if you keep the colonel out,

that'll be like lighting the fuse.  He knows no one can control VIGILANT

but him.  If he can't get in .  .  .  it'll look like voodoo to him.

He'll be sure we're all infected."

"Infected?" Ginger said uneasily.

Alvarado said, "The colonel is convinced that we-you, me, Miles, all of

us-have been somehow possessed by alien beings, taken over like a bunch

of puppets, and that we're not human any more."

"That's insane," Jack said.

But with greater uneasiness, Ginger said, "Of course, we know we haven't

been.  But is there reason to believe it could've happened?"

"Initially, yes, some small reason," Miles Bennell said, "but it didn't

happen.  It's not true.  And we understand now that it was never a

possibility.  Just typical black-minded human nature .  .  .  putting

the worst interpretation on everything.  I'll explain later."

Ginger was about to demand an immediate explanation, but General

Alvarado said, "Please, hold the questions.  We don't have much time.

Right now, we believe Falkirk is returning here, having taken your

friends into custody-"

"No," Dom said, "they got away before we did.  They're gone."

"Never underestimate the colonel," Alvarado said.  "But see, the thing

is-if Dom could use his power to shut down the entrances and keep

Falkirk out, maybe we'd have the time to find a way to blow this whole

story wide open.  Because

if he gets in here .  .  .  I'm afraid there's going to be bloodshed one

way or another."

Movement at the front of the chamber caught Ginger's attention, and she

gasped in dismay when she saw Jorja, Marcie, Brendan, and then all the

others coming in through the small door in the big door.

"Too late," Miles Bennell said.  "Too late."

At the entrance to Thunder Hill Depository, the seven witnesses and

Parker Faine were taken out of the transport and grouped in the snow in

front of the smaller steel door.  Lieutenant Horner's machine gun

discouraged flight and resistance.

Leland ordered the other DERO men back to Shenkfield, where they were to

bury Stefan Wycazik in an unmarked grave and await further orders.  But

no orders would be forthcoming from Leland, for he would not be alive to

give them. It was not necessary to sacrifice the entire company, for

just he and one other man could control the prisoners and destroy the

entire Depository, and it was Lieutenant Horner's bad luck to be

second-in-command and have that responsibility fall upon his shoulders.

In the entrance tunnel, Leland was alarmed to see that the video cameras

were not working.  But then he realized that the new emergency program

under which VIGILANT was operating did not require visual ID for

admittance, for it would respond only to one key: the prints of the palm

and all the fingers on Leland's left hand.  When he put his palm to the

glass panel beside the inner door, VIGILANT admitted him at once.

He and Horner took the eight prisoners down to the second level and

across The Hub to the cavern where Alvarado and Bennell waited.  As

Leland stood back and watched them file through the man-sized door in

the huge wooden wall, he looked beyond them and saw the other

witnesses-Corvaisis, Weiss, and Twist-and although he did not know how

they had gotten here, he was exhilarated by the realization that,

contrary to expectations, he had the whole group exactly where he wanted

them.

He left Horner to follow the prisoners, while he hurried back to the

elevators.  He could never trust poor Tom again,

not now that the lieutenant had been alone with people who might be

contaminated.

Carrying his submachine gun at the ready, Leland took a smaller elevator

down to the third level.  He intended to kill anyone who moved toward

him.  And if they rushed him in great numbers, he would turn the gun on

himself.  He wouldn't let- himself be changed.  Through childhood and

adolescence, his parents had striven to change him into one of them: a

shouter-and-wailer-in-churches, a self-flagellator, a God-terrorized

speaker of tongues.  He had resisted the changes his parents would have

wrought in him, and he would not be changed now.  They had been after

him all his life, in one guise or another, and they would not get him

after he had come this far with his identity and dignity intact.

The bottom level of Thunder Hill Depository was given over entirely to

the storage of supplies, munitions, and explosives.  Staff members all

lived on the second level and most worked there as well.  However, at

any hour of the day, a few workers and a guard were usually on duty on

the third and lowest floor.  When Leland stepped out of the elevator,

into the central cavern off which other chambers openedan arrangement

much like that on the second floor-he was pleased to see the basement

was deserted tonight.  General Alvarado had obeyed Leland's orders and

had sent all of his people to their quarters.

Alvarado probably thought that, by cooperating, he could convince Leland

that he and all his people were unquestionably human.  But Leland was

not naive enough to be taken in by such a ruse.  His own parents had

been capable of behaving like normal human beings, too-oh, yes, smiles

and plenty of sweet-talk, oaths of love and affection-and )*ust when you

started to think they actually cared about you and wanted the best for

you, they'd suddenly reveal ' themselves for what they really were. They

would get out the leather strap or the Ping-Pong paddle in which the old

man had drilled holes, and the beatings would be administered in the

name of God.  Leland Falkirk couldn't be easily deceived by a masquerade

of humanity, for at an early age he had learned to look for-in fact, to

expect-an inhuman presence below the skin of normality.

Crossing the main cavern to the massive steel blast door that sealed off

the munitions room, Leland looked nervously left and right and up into

the darkness between the lights. One of his punishments, as a child, had

been long imprisonments in a windowless coal cellar.

Leland pressed his left hand to the glass panel beside the door, which

rolled open.  Banks of lights flickered on automatically down the length

of a room piled twenty feet high with anchored crates and drums and

racks that contained live ammunition, mortar shells, grenades, mines,

and other instruments of destruction.

At the end of the long chamber was a twenty-foot-square vault that also

required a palm ID to be opened.  The weapons within were of such deadly

magnitude that only eight people out of the hundreds in Thunder Hill

were authorized to enter, and no one of them alone could open the vault.

The system required three of the eight to apply their palms to the glass

panel, one after another, within one minute, before access would be

granted.  But this also was overseen by VIGILANT, and the computer's new

program, designed by Leland, made him the sole keeper of the

Depository's tactical nuclear arsenal.  He put his palm to the cool

glass, and fifteen seconds later the many-layered, steel MacGruder vault

door swung slowly open with a hum of electric motors.

To the right of the vault door, twenty backpack nukes hung on wall pegs,

missing only their primary detonators and their binary packages of

explosive material.  The detonators were stored in drawers along the

back wall.  To the left of the door, in lead-lined cabinets, the binary

packages lay waiting for Armageddon.

DERO training included familiarization with a variety of nuclear devices

that terrorists might conceivably plant in American cities, so Leland

knew how to assemble, arm, and disarm The Bomb in virtually all of its

design permutations. He got the components from the cabinets, took two

backpackbomb frames down from the wall pegs, and put together both

weapons in only eight minutes, glancing nervously at the door as he

worked.  He breathed easier only when he had set the timers on both

detonators for fifteen minutes and had started the clocks.

He slung his submachine gun over his shoulder, slipped each arm into the

straps of a backpack nuke.  Each device weighed sixty-nine pounds.  He

heaved both off the floor and lurched out of the vault, bent like a

hunchback and grunting under that apocalyptic weight.

Another man might have had to stop two or three times during the journey

back through the immense munitions room. Any other man might have been

forced to pause, put the bombs down, catch his breath, and stretch his

muscles before going on.  But not Leland Falkirk.  That dead weight

wrenched his back and pulled at his shoulders and made his arms ache,

but he grew happier as the pain intensified.

In the main cavern into which the elevators opened, he put one of the

backpack nukes on the center of the floor.  He looked around at the

solid rock walls and up at the granite ceiling with a feeling of

satisfaction.  If there were any faults at all in the rock strata-and

surely there were-the place would cave in, bringing everything above

down with it.  But even if the mighty stone chambers could contain and

withstand the blast, no one who tried to take refuge on this level would

survive.  Not even an alien lifeform of great adaptability could

reconstitute itself after being vapotized in a nuclear heat and reduced

to random atoms.

Nuclear pain.

He would not be able to survive it, but he would prove that he had the

nerve to contemplate and endure it.  Only a fraction of a second of

blinding agony.  Not bad, actually.  In fact, not as bad as vigorous and

drawn-out beatings with a leather strap or with a Ping-Pong paddle that

had been drilled full of holes to increase the sting.

Still holding the second nuke by its straps, Leland smiled down at the

changing numbers on the first bomb's digitaldisplay clock, which was

already counting toward Ragnarok. The nicest thing about backpack nukes

was that, once armed, they could not be disarmed.  He did not have to

worry that someone could undo his work.

He entered the elevator and rode up to the second level.

Carrying Marcie, Jorja crossed directly to Jack Twist and stood beside

him, looking up at the ship cradled on trestles. Although the collapse

of her memory block and the inrushing recollections had more or less

prepared her for this sight, she was overcome with an awe as powerful as

that which had seized her in the troop transport, when the astounding

truth had first been revealed.  She reached out to touch the mottled

hull, and a shiver-part fear, part wonder, part delightcoursed through

her when her fingertips made contact with the scorched and abraded

metal.

Whether following her mother's lead or acting on an impulse of her own,

Marcie reached forward, too.  When her small tentative hand pressed

against the hull, she said, "The moon.  The moon."

"Yes," Jorja said immediately.  "Yes, honey.  This is what you saw come

down.  Remember?  It wasn't the moon falling. It was this, glowing white

like the moon, then red, then amber."

"Moon," the child said softly, sliding her tiny hand back and forth

across the flank of the vessel, as if she were trying to clean off the

mottled film of age and tribulation and, thereby, also clean off the

clouded surface of her own memory.  "Moon fell down."

"Not the moon, honey.  A ship.  A very special ship.  A spaceship like

in the movies, baby."

Marcie turned and looked at Jorja, actually looked at her, with eyes

that were no longer out of focus or turned inward. "Like Captain Kirk

and Mr.  Spock?"

Jorja smiled and hugged her tighter.  "Yes, honey, like Captain Kirk and

Mr.  Spock."

"Like Luke Skywalker," Jack said, leaning forward and pushing a lock of

hair out of the girl's eyes.

"Luke," Marcie said.

"And Han Solo," Jack said.

The child's eyes blurred out of focus.  She had returned to her private

place to contemplate the news she had just received.

Jack smiled at Jorja and said, "She's going to be all right. It may take

time, but she'll be all right because her whole obsession was a struggle

to remember.  Now, she's begun to remember, and she doesn't need to

struggle any more."

As usual, Jorja was reassured merely by his presence, by his aura of

calm competence.  "She'll be all right-if we can get out of here alive

and with our memories intact."

"We will," Jack said.  "Somehow."

A rush of warm emotion filled Dom when he saw Parker.  He embraced the

stocky artist and said, "How in God's name did you wind up here, my

friend?"

"It's a long story," Parker said.  A sorrow in his face and eyes said,

better than words, that at least part of the story was bleak.

"I didn't mean to get you so deep in this trouble," Dom said.

Looking up at the starship, Parker said, "I wouldn't have missed it for

the world."

"What happened to your beard?"

"When this kind of company's coming," Parker said, gesturing at the

ship, "they're worth shaving for."

Ernie moved along the side of the starship, staring, touching.

Faye stayed with Brendan, for she was concerned about him.  Months ago,

he had lost his faith-or had thought he'd lost it, which was just as bad

for him.  And tonight he had lost Father Wycazik, a blow that had left

him hollow-eyed and shaky.

"Faye," he said, looking up at the ship, "it's truly wonderful, isn't

it?"

"Yes," she said.  "I never was one for stories about other worlds, never

gave much thought to what it would mean.  .  .  .

But it's the end of everything and the start of something new. Wonderful

and new."

"But it's not God," he said, "and in my heart, that's what I'd hoped it

would be."

She took his hand.  "Remember the message that Parker brought you from

Father Wycazik?  What he told you in the truck?  Father Wycazik knew

what had happened, what had come down that night, and for him it was a

reaffirmation of his faith."

Brendan smiled forlornly.  "For him, everything was a reaffirmation of

his faith."

"Then it'll also be a reaffirmation for you," she told him. "You just

need time, a little time to think about it.  Then you'll see it the same

way Father Wycazik did because, though you aren't aware of it, you are a

lot like him."

He looked at her, surprised.  "Not me.  You didn't know him.  I'm not

half the priest .  not half the man that he was."

Faye smiled and pinched his cheek affectionately.  "Brendan, when you

told us all about your rector, it was clear how much you admired him.

And within one day, it was also clear that you were more like him than

you realized.  You're young, Brendan. You've still got things to learn.

But when you're Father Wycazik's age, you're going to be the man and the

priest that he was.  And every day of your life is going to be a living

testament to him."

A fragile hopefulness replaced his despair.  His mouth trembled and his

voice cracked.  "You ...  you really think so?"

"I know it," Faye said.

He put his arms around her, and she hugged him.

Ned and Sandy stood with their arms around each other's waists, looking

up at the ship.  Neither spoke because nothing more needed to be said.

At least, that's the way it seemed to him.

Then Sandy said something that did need to be said.  "Ned, if we get out

of this alive .  .  .  I want to go see a doctor.  You know -one of

those fertility experts.  I want to do whatever I can to bring a baby

into the world."

"But .  .  .  you've always .  .  .  you never .

"I never liked the world enough before," she said softly. "But now .  .

.  I want a part of us to be there when our kind go out to ride on top

of all the darkness, to other worlds, maybe to meet the strangers-the

wonderful strangers-who came in this.  I'll be a real good mother, Ned."

"I know you will."

When Miles Bennell saw the last of the witnesses and Parker Faine filing

into the chamber, he gave up hope of employing Dom Corvaisis' new powers

to freeze Falkirk out of Thunder Hill.  He would have to rely, instead,

on the .357 Magnum that was tucked into his belt.  It pressed hard

against his stomach, hidden beneath his loose white lab coat.

Miles thought Leland would come with at least twenty men, probably twice

that number.  He expected the colonel, Horner, and half a dozen soldiers

to enter the chamber behind the last of the witnesses.  But only Horner

appeared, toting a submachine gun and prepared to use it.

As the Blocks, the Servers, Brendan Cronin, and the others were drawn

instantly and irresistibly to the starship, Horner said, "General

Alvarado, Dr.  Bennell-Colonel Falkirk will be along in a moment."

"How dare you come in here with an automatic weapon at the ready," Bob

said with an aplomb Miles admired.  "Good God, man!  Don't you realize

if your finger slipped and you let off a burst, the slugs would keep

ricocheting off these rock walls, killing all of us-you included!"

"My finger never slips, sir," Horner said in such a way that he was

virtually challenging Bob to make an issue of it.

Instead, Bob said sharply, "Where's Falkirk?"

"Sir, the colonel had some things to attend to," Horner said.  "He

apologizes for keeping you waiting.  He'll join us shortly."

"What things?" Bob Alvarado asked.

"Sir, the colonel doesn't always consult me about his every move."

Miles was half-afraid Falkirk had already taken squads of DERO troops to

liquidate the staff.  But that grim possibility seemed less likely with

every second that passed unmarred by the rattle of gunfire.

He was a heavily armed man looking for a chance to turn the tables on

his enemies, but he did not want to appear that way to Horner, so Miles

decided the most natural thing to do would be to talk with the witnesses

and begin to answer some of the many questions they had.  He discovered

that most of them had already heard about the CISG, so he quickly

summarized the findings of that committee for the others, by way of

explaining why the cover-up had initially been ordered.

The ship before them, Miles explained, had first been spotted by deeply

positioned defense satellites orbiting the earth at a distance of more

than 22,000 miles.  They had seen it coming in past the moon.  (The

Soviets, whose defense satellites were cruder, did not spot the visitor

until much laterand never accurately identified it.)

Initially, observers thought the alien craft was a large meteorite or

small asteroid on a collision course with Earth.  If it was a soft,

porous material, it might burn up during descent. And even if Earth were

unlucky, if the incoming debris was made of more solid stuff, it still

might fragment into a host of small and relatively harmless meteorites.

However, if Earth were very unlucky, if the wandering rock had a high

nickeliron content, which might eliminate the possibility of extensive

fragmentation, it was definitely a menace.  Of course, it was almost

certain to hit water, since oceans covered seventy percent of the

planet's surface.  Water impact would result in little damage, unless it

hit close enough to shore for its tsunami to devastate a port.  The

worst-case possibility was a land strike in a heavily populated area.

"Imagine a lump of nickel and iron the size of a bus hurtling into the

heart of Manhattan at a couple of thousand miles an hour," Miles told

them.  "That picture was horrifying enough to make us consider measures

to destroy or deflect it."

Less than six months earlier, the first satellites in the nation's

Strategic Defense Shield had been placed secretly in orbit.  They had

comprised less than ten percent of the system as it would be ultimately

constituted, and on their own they could not have done much to prevent

nuclear war.  But thanks to several forward-thinking designers, every

satellite had been given high maneuverability that would allow it to

turn its armaments outward and double as a planetary defense against

just such a threat as that hurtling piece of space junk.  Recent theory

proposed that impacting comets or asteroids had wiped out the dinosaurs,

and prudent planners had decided it might be wise to use the Strategic

Defense Shield to knock down not only Soviet missiles but the fate-flung

missiles of the universe itself.  Therefore, one of the satellites was

repositioned while the meteorite streaked nearer Earth, and plans were

laid to fire all of its antimissile missiles at the intruder.  Although

none of those projectiles was nuclear, their explosive warheads, in

combination, were believed sufficient to fragment the meteorite into

enough pieces to ensure that none would be large enough to reach the

surface of Earth with destructive potential.

"Then," Miles said, "hours before the scheduled attack on the intruder,

an analysis of the latest photographs indicated a shockingly symmetrical

shape.  And spectrographic readings, forwarded by the satellite, began

to confirm that it might be something stranger than a meteorite.  Its

analysis did not match any of the standard profiles for meteorites." He

had walked among the witnesses as he talked, and now he put one hand

upon the flank of the ship, still capable of being awed by it even after

eighteen months.  "New photos were ordered every ten minutes.  During

the following hour, the approaching shape grew ever more distinct, until

the likeli hood of it being a ship was so great that no one would risk

ordering its destruction.  We hadn't informed the Soviets of the object

or of our intention to destroy it, for that would have given them

information about our defense satellite capabilities.  Now, we

purposefully began random jamming of Soviet high-atmosphere radar,

dropping bogeys and electronic shadows on them, to cover the ship's

advance and thus keep the secret of its visit.  At first, we thought it

would take up orbit around Earth.  But very late in the game, we

realized it was going to come straight in, following the very path an

unpowered meteorite would have followed, though in a controlled fashion.

Defense computers were able to give a thirtyeight-minute warning that

point of impact would be here in Elko County."

"Just enough time to close I-80," Ernie Block said, "and call Falkirk

and his DERO men in from wherever they were."

"Idaho," Miles said.  "They were on training maneuvers in southern

Idaho, fortunately quite close.  Or unfortunately, depending on your

point of view."

"Of course, Dr.  Bennell, I know your point of view," said Leland

Falkirk from the door where he had, at last, appeared.

The .357 Magnum felt as big as a cannon against Miles Bennell's belly,

but suddenly it seemed as useless as a peashooter.

Upon seeing Leland Falkirk for the first time, Ginger realized how

little justice the newspaper photograph had done him. He was handsomer,

more imposing-and more frightening than he'd appeared in the Sentinel.

He didn't carry his submachine gun in the stern attitude of readiness

that Horner affected, nonchalantly dangling it in one hand.  However,

his apparent laxity was more threatening than Horner's posturing. Ginger

had the feeling that, by seeming to be careless, he was taunting them to

try something.  As Falkirk drew nearer the group, Ginger thought that he

brought with him a palpable aura-and almost a stench-of hatred and

madness.

Dr.  Bennell said, "Where are all your men, Colonel?"

"No men," Falkirk said mildly.  "Just Lieutenant Horner and me.  No need

for a display of force, really.  I'm quite sure that when we've had time

to discuss the situation rationally, we'll reach a solution to the

problem that will satisfy everyone."

Ginger had an even stronger feeling that the colonel was taunting them.

He tad the air of a child who, in possession of a secret, not only takes

enormous pleasure in his special knowledge but is especially tickled by

the ignorance of others. She saw that Dr.  Bennell seemed baffled by

Falkirk's behavior and wary of him.

"Go on with your discussion," the colonel said, checking his watch. "For

heaven's sake, don't let me interrupt.  You must have a thousand

questions you'd like Doctor Bennell to answer."

"I have one," Sandy said.  "Doctor, where are the ...  the people who

came in this ship?"

"Dead," Bennell said.  "There were eight of them, but they were all dead

before they got here."

A pang of regret pierced Ginger's heart, and from their expressions she

saw that the others were equally shocked and disappointed.  Parker and

Jorja even groaned softly, as if they had just been given news of a

friend's death.

"How did they die?" Ned asked.  "Of what?"

Glancing repeatedly at Colonel Falkirk, Bennell said, "Well, first,

you've got to know a little about them, about why they came in the first

place.  In their ship, we found a virtual encyclopedia of their

species-a crash course in their culture, biology, psychology-recorded on

something like our own videodisks.  We required a couple of weeks to

even identify the player and a month to learn how to operate it.  But

once we figured it out, we found the machine still operable, astonishing

when you consider ...  well, better not jump ahead. Suffice to say we're

still going through the trove of material on those disks.  It's superbly

visual, explaining so much in spite of the language barrier-though it

also slowly teaches their language.  Those of us on the project almost

feel .  .  .  a brotherhood with the people who built this ship."

Colonel Falkirk laughed sourly.  Mockingly, he said, "Brotherhood."

Dr.  Bennell glared at him, then continued: "I'd need weeks to tell you

what we know of them now.  Suffice to say they're an unimaginably

ancient spacegoing species which had, at the time this ship departed its

home port, searched out and located five other intelligent species in

other solar systems than their own."

"Five!" Ginger said in amazement.  "But-even if the galaxy is positively

packed with life, that's incredible.  Considering the vast distances to

be traveled, the endless places to search."

Dr.  Bennell nodded.  "But you see, from the time they achieved the

means of traveling from star to star, they apparently decided it was

their sacred duty to seek out other intelligences.  In fact, it seems to

have become a religion to them." He shook his head and sighed.  "It's

difficult to be sure we understand this, because even their excellent

visual encyclopedia more readily describes physical things than it does

philosophies.  But we think they see themselves as servants of some

supreme force that created the universe-"

" God?" Brendan interrupted.  "Are you saying they see themselves as

servants of God?"

"Something like that," Bennell said.  "However, they aren't spreading

any religious message.  They simply feel they have a sacred obligation

to help intelligent species find one another, to bind intelligences

across the vast emptiness of space."

"Bind," Falkirk said ominously, and he looked at his watch.

General Alvarado had been moving slowly to his right, putting himself at

the periphery of the colonel's vision.  He took another step.

Ginger was increasingly uneasy about the undercurrent of antagonism

between Falkirk and Bennell and Alvarado, which she did not entirely

understand.  She moved closer to Dom and put an arm around him.

"And they bring another gift," Bennell said, frowning toward the

colonel.  "They're such an ancient species that they've evolved certain

abilities we think of as psychic.  The ability to heal.  Telekinesis.

Other things.  Not only have they evolved those talents, but they've

learned to .  .  .  to infuse the same abilities in other intelligent

species that lack them."

"Infuse?" Dom said.  "How?"

"We don't entirely understand," Bennell said.  "But they can pass these

powers along.  That is evidently what was done with you, and now you

have the ability to pass the power to others."

"Pass the power?" Jack said, astonished.  "You mean Dom and Brendan

could give us ...  or anyone ...  what they have?"

"I've already given it," Brendan said.  "Ginger, Dom, Jackyou didn't

hear the news Parker brought from Father Wycazik.  Those two I healed in

Chicago-Emmy and Wintonthey've both got the power now."

:'New sources of infection," Falkirk said somberly.

' And evidently," Parker said, "since Brendan healed me, I'll have it

too, sooner or later."

"Although I don't think it's passed only in healing," Brendan said.

"It's just that the healing is such an intimate contact. Along with

knitting up the tissues of the person you're healing, you somehow pass

the power to them."

Ginger's mind reeled.  This news was every bit as earthshaking as the

existence of the starship.  "You mean ...  my God .  .  .  you mean they

came to help us evolve to a new level as a species?  And that evolution

is now already under way?"

"It would seem to be, yes," Bennell said.

Looking at his wristwatch again, Leland Falkirk said, "Please, this

masquerade is getting boring."

"What masquerade?" Faye Block asked.  "What are you talking about,

Colonel?  We were told you believe we've all been somehow possessed,

some nonsense like that.  How can you have gotten such a crazy idea?"

"Spare me this charade," Falkirk said sharply.  "You all pretend to know

nothing.  In reality, you know everything. Not one of you is human any

longer.  You're all ...  possessed, and this innocence is play-acting to

convince me to spare you. But it won't work.  It's too late."

Repelled by Falkirk's air of madness, Ginger turned again to Bennell.

"What is all this stuff about infection and possession?"

"A mistake," Bennell said, moving a few steps to his left.

Ginger realized he was trying to pull the colonel's attention in that

direction, away from General Alvarado, in order to give the general a

better chance of slipping entirely out of Falkirk's notice.

"A mistake," Bennell repeated.  "Or rather .  .  .  an example of the

human race's typical xenophobia-hatred and suspicion of strangers, of

anyone that's different.  When we first viewed some of the videodisks I

mentioned, when we first learned about the extraterrestrials' desire to

pass these powers to other species, we apparently misinterpreted what we

were seeing. Initially, we thought they were taking possession of those

they changed, inserting an alien consciousness into a host body.  I

guess it's an understandable paranoia, after all the horror novels and

movies.  We thought perhaps we had a parasitical race on our hands.  But

that misapprehension was quickly dispelled when we'd seen more of their

disks and had time to puzzle out some of the finer points. Now we know

we were wrong."

"I don't know it," Falkirk said.  "I think you were all infected and

then, under the control of these creatures, you began to downplay the

danger.  Or ...  or the disks are merely propaganda.  Lies."

"No," Bennell said.  "For one thing, I don't think these creatures would

be capable of lying.  Besides, if they could so easily take us over,

they wouldn't require propaganda. And they sure as hell wouldn't bring

us this encyclopedia that tells us they're going to change us."

Ginger had noticed Brendan Cronin following the discussion even more

avidly than everyone else, and now he said, "I know the religious

metaphor may not be entirely appropriate here.  But if they feel they

come to us as the servants of God .  .  .  and if they come to hand down

to us these miraculous gifts, then you could almost say they were

angels, archangels bestowing special blessings."

Falkirk laughed harshly.  "Oh, that's rich, Cronin!  Do you really think

you can get to me from a religious angle?  Me?

Even if I were a religious fanatic, like my dead and rotting parents, I

wouldn't buy these creatures as angels.  Angels with faces like buckets

of worms?"

"Worms?  What's he talking about?" Brendan asked Bennell.

The scientist said, "They look very different from us.  Bipeds with

forearms rather like us, yes.  Six digits instead of five. But that's

about all we have in common in the way of looks. Initially, they seem

repulsive.  In fact, repulsive is a mild word. But in time .  .  .  you

begin to see they have a certain beauty of their own."

"Beauty of their own," Falkirk said scornfully.  "Monsters is what they

are, and they'd only have beauty in the eyes of other monsters, so

you've just proven my point, Bennell."

Ginger's anger with Falkirk drove her to take a couple of steps toward

him in spite of his submachine gun.  "You damn fool," she said.  "What

does it matter what they look like?

The important thing is what they are.  And evidently they're creatures

with a deep sense of purpose, noble purpose.  No matter how different

they look, the things we have in common with them are greater than our

differences.  My father always said that, as much as intelligence, the

things that separated us from the beasts were courage, love, friendship,

compassion, and empathy.  Do you realize what courage it took for them

to set out on this journey across God knows how many thousands of

millions of miles?  So that's one big thing we share with them-courage.

And love, friendship?  They must have those too.  Otherwise how would

they have built a civilization that could reach to the stars?  You need

love and friendship to have a reason to build.  Compassion?  They've got

a mission to bring other intelligent species to a higher rung on the

evolutionary ladder.  Surely, that takes compassion.  And empathy? Isn't

that obvious?  They empathize with our fear and loneliness, with our

dread that we're adrift in a meaningless universe.  They empathize so

much that they commit themselves to these incredible journeys on the

mere hope of encountering us and bringing us the news that we are not

alone." Suddenly she knew her anger wasn't directed so much at Falkirk

as at this horrid blindness in the human species that led it frequently

into spirals of self-destruction. "Look at me," she told the colonel.

"I'm a Jew.  And there are those who'd say I'm not the same as they are,

not as good, even dangerous.  Stories of Jews drinking the blood of

gentile babies-there are the ignorant who believe that garbage.  Is

there any difference between that sick antisemitism and your stubborn

insistence, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, that these

creatures come to drink our blood?  Let us go, for God's sake.  Stop the

endless hatred here.  Stop it now.  We have a destiny that leaves no

room for hatred."

"Bravo," Falkirk said acidly.  "A very nice speech." Even as he spoke,

the colonel swung his machine gun toward General Alvarado and said,

"Don't go for your gun, General.  I assume you're carrying one.  I won't

be shot.  I want to die in the glorious fire."

"Fire?" Bennell said.

Falkirk grinned.  "That's right, Doctor.  The glorious fire

that will consume us all and save the world from this infection."

"Christ!" Bennell said.  "That's why you didn't bring more men with you.

You didn't want to sacrifice more than necessary.  " He turned to

Alvarado.  "Bob, the crazy bastard's gotten into the tactical nukes."

Ginger knew that Alvarado was feeling precisely what she felt at this

news, for his face twisted and went instantly gray.

"Two backpack nukes," Falkirk said.  "One right outside that door.  The

other in the main chamber downstairs." He checked his watch.  "Less than

three minutes, and we'll all be vapor.  Not even time left for you to

change me, I'll bet.  How long does it take to change one of us to one

of you?  Longer than three minutes, I suppose."

Abruptly, the machine gun tore out of Falkirk's hands as if it had

acquired life and taken flight, wrenching loose of his grasp with such

force that it cut his fingers and tore off a couple of his nails.  At

the same instant, Lieutenant Horner screamed as his machine gun erupted

from his grasp with equal suddenness and force.  Ginger saw both weapons

spin through the air and drop with a clatter, one at the feet of Ernie

Block and the other at Jack Twist's side, both of whom jubilantly took

up the guns and covered Falkirk and Horner.

"You?" Ginger said wonderingly, turning to Dom.

"Me, yeah, I think," he said breathlessly.  "I ...  I didn't know I

could do it until I had to.  Sort of the way Brendan heals people."

Stunned, Dr.  Bennell said, "But it doesn't matter.  Falkirk said three

minutes."

"Two," Falkirk said, cradling one bleeding hand in the other and

grinning happily.  "Two minutes now."

"And backpack nukes can't be disarmed," Alvarado said. Running, Dom

shouted: "Brendan, you take the one outside this door.  I'll get the one

downstairs."

"They can't be disarmed!" Alvarado repeated.

Brendan knelt beside the nuclear device and winced when he saw the time

remaining on the clock.  One minute, thirtythree seconds.

He didn't know what to do.  He had healed three people, yes, and he had

caused some pepper shakers to whirl through

the air, and he had even generated light out of nothingness. But he

remembered how the pepper shakers had gotten out of control and how the

chairs had leapt off the diner floor and smashed against the ceiling.

And he knew if he made one false move with the detonator in this bomb,

he would not be saved by all his superhuman power.

One minute, twenty-six seconds.

The others had come out of the cavern where the ship rested and had

gathered around.  Even Falkirk and Horner remained under guard, though

there was no reason for them to try to get their guns.  They trusted in

the efficacy of the bomb.

One minute, eleven seconds.

"If I smash the detonator," Brendan said to Alvarado, "pulverize it,

would that-"

"No," the general said.  "Once armed, the detonator will trigger the

bomb automatically if you try to wreck it."

One-oh-three.

Faye knelt beside him.  "Just make it pop right up out of the damn bomb,

Brendan.  The way Dom tore those guns out of their hands."

Brendan stared at the rapidly changing numerals on the detonator's clock

and tried to imagine that entire device popping free of the rest of the

bomb.

Nothing happened.

Fifty-four seconds.

Cursing the slowness of the elevator, Dom virtually flew out of the

doors when they opened, with Ginger close behind him, and dashed to the

backpack nuke standing in the center of the main cavern on the bottom

level of Thunder Hill.  Heart pounding even faster than his stomach was

churning, he crouched beside the bomb and said, "Jesus," when he saw the

digital clock.

Fifty seconds.

"You can do it," Ginger said, stooping at the other side of the hateful

device.  "You've got a destiny."

"Here goes."

"Love you," she said.

"Love you," he said, as surprised as she was by that statement.

Forty-two seconds.

He raised his hands over the nuclear device, and he felt the rings

appearing immediately in his palms.

Forty seconds.

Brendan had broken out in a sweat.

Thirty-nine seconds.

He strained, trying to work the magic that he knew was in him.  But

though the stigmata burned on his palms, and in spite of the fact that

he could feel the power surging in him, he could not focus on the ur ent

task.  He kept thinking about what could go wrong, and that in some way

he would be responsible if it did go wrong, and the more he thought the

less he could direct the miraculous energy within him.

Thirty-four seconds.

Parker Faine pushed between two onlookers and dropped to his knees

beside Brendan.  "No offense, Father, but maybe the problem is that you,

being a Jesuit, are just too damn prone to intellectualize.  Maybe this

requires going with your gut.  Maybe what this needs is the wild-ass,

go-foreit, tryanything, gonzo, berserker commitment of an artist." He

thrust his own large hands toward the detonator and shouted: "Come out

of there you fucker!"

With a snap of wires, the detonator leapt out of its niche in the bomb

package and straight into Parker's hands.

There were cries of relief and congratulations, but Brendan said, "The

clock's still counting down."

Eleven seconds.

"Yeah, but it's not connected to the bomb any more," Parker said,

grinning broadly.

Alvarado said, "But there's a conventional explosive charge in the damn

detonator."

The detonator erupted out of the bomb, into Dom's hands. He saw the

clock still counting, and he sensed it had to be stopped even though

there was no longer a chance of a nuclear explosion.  So he simply

willed it to stop, and the lighted numerals froze at 0:03.

0:03.

Parker, unaccustomed to the role of magician, panicked at this secondary

crisis.  Certain his power was depleted, he chose a course of action

perfectly in character.  With a war cry to rival John Wayne in one of

the Duke's old movies, Parker turned and threw the detonator toward the

far wall of the cavern, as if lobbing a grenade. He knew he could not

cast it clear to the other side of the chamber, but he hoped he could

pitch it far enough.  Even as it left his hand, he flung himself to the

floor, as the others had already done.

Dom was kissing Ginger when the explosion sounded overhead, and they

both jumped.  For an instant he thought Brendan had failed to disarm the

other device, then realized a nuclear explosion would have brought the

ceiling down on them.

"The detonator," she said.

"Come on," he said.  "Let's see if anyone's hurt."

The lift crawled upward.  When they arrived at the second level, the

main chamber was filled with scores of Depository staff members, all

carrying guns and responding to the sound of battle.

Holding Ginger's hand, Dom pushed through the crowd, toward the place

where he had left Brendan with the first backpack nuke.  He saw Faye,

Sandy, and Ned.  Then Brendan-alive, unhurt.  Jorja, Marcie. Parker

loomed on his right and gave both him and Ginger a bear hug. "You

shoulda seen me, kids.  If they'd had both me and Audie Murphy, World

War 11 would've been over in about six months."

"I'm beginning to see why Dom admires you so," Ginger said.

Parker raised his eyebrows.  "But of course, my dear!  To know me is to

love me."

A sudden cry of alarm rose, which jolted Dom because he thought all

danger was past.  When he turned, he saw that Falkirk had dodged away

from Jack and Ernie in the turmoil and had wrenched a revolver from one

of the Thunder Hill staff.  Everyone fell back from him.

"For Christ's sake," Jack shouted, "it's over, Colonel.  It's over, damn

you."

But Falkirk had no intention of resuming his private war. His gray

translucent eyes shone with madness.  "Yes," he said. "It's over, and I

won't be changed like the rest of you.  You won't get me.  " Before

anyone could reach him, or before anyone could think to tear the weapon

from his hands with telekinetic power, he thrust the barrel of the

revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

With a cry of horror, Ginger looked away from the falling corpse, and

Dom turned his head, too.  It was not the bloody death itself that

repelled but the stupid, pointless waste when, at last, humankind had

within its grasp the secret of immortality.

3.

Transcendence

As the staff of Thunder Hill filled the cavern, milling around the ship

that most had never seen before, Ginger and Dom and the other witnesses

followed Miles Bennell into the vessel.

The interior was not dramatic, but as plain as the exterior, with none

of the complex and powerful machinery that one expected in a craft

capable of such a journey.  Miles Bennell explained that the builders

had advanced beyond machinery as humankind understood it, perhaps even

beyond physics as humankind understood it.  There was one long chamber

within, and it was for the most part gray, drab, featureless.  The warm

golden luminosity which had filled the vessel on the night of July 6-and

which Brendan had remembered in his dreams was not visible now.  There

was only a line of ordinary work lights that the scientists had strung

for their convenience.

In spite of its plainness, the chamber had a warmth, appeal, and magic

that, strangely enough, reminded Ginger of her father's private office

at the back of his first jewelry store in Brooklyn, the one he always

used as his headquarters.  The walls of that sanctum sanctorum had been

decorated only with a calendar, and the furniture had been inexpensive,

old, and well used.  Plain.  Even drab.  But for Ginger, it had been a

fine and magical room, because Jacob had seldom worked there but had

squirreled away with one book or another, from which he'd often read to

her.  Sometimes it would be a mystery, or a fantasy about gnomes and

witches, a story of other worlds, or a thriller about spies.  And when

Jacob read, his voice acquired a resonant and mesmerizing timbre.  The

reality of the gray little office faded, and for hours Ginger could

believe herself to be investigating with Sherlock Holmes upon the misty

moors, celebrating with the Hobbit Mr.  Bilbo Baggins inside the Hill at

Bag End, or with Jim and Will as they explored the terrible carnival in

Mr.  Bradbury's lovely book. Jacob's office hadn't been only what it

seemed to be.  And although this ship bore no physical resemblance to

Jacob's office, it was similar in that it was more than it appeared;

under its drab skin, it harbored wondrous things, great mysteries.

Spaced along each long wall were four coffinlike containers of a

semitransparent, milky-blue substance that looked like carved quartz.

These were, Miles Bennell explained, the beds in which the travelers had

passed their long journey in a state of near-suspended animation, aging

only the equivalent of one earth-year for every fifty that passed.  As

they dreamed, the fully automated ship proceeded through the void,

reaching ahead with an array of sensors and probes for indications of

life in the hundreds of thousands of solar systems that it passed.

It did not escape Ginger's notice that the top of each container was

marked by two raised rings precisely the size of those that had appeared

in Dom's and Brendan's hands.

"You told us they were dead when they got here," Ned reminded Bennell.

"But you never answered my question. What did they die from?"

"Time," Bennell said.  "Although the ship and all its devices continued

to function well right through the descent and the landing there along

I-80, the occupants had perished of old age long before they ever got

here."

Faye said, "But .  .  .  you've told us they aged one year for every

fifty that passed."

"Yes," Bennell said.  "And from what we've learned about them, they're

long-lived by our standards.  Five hundred years seems to be their

average life-span."

Standing with Marcie in his arms, Jack Twist said, "But, my God, at one

year for fifty, they'd have to've been traveling twenty-five thousand

years to have died of old age!"

"Longer," Bennell said.  "In spite of their vast knowledge and

technology, they never found a way to exceed the speed of light-186,000

miles per second.  In fact, their ship cruises at ninety-eight percent

of that, something like 182,000 miles per second.  Fast, yes, but not

fast enough when you consider the distances involved.  Our own galaxy-in

which they're our neighbors-has a diameter of 80,000 lightyears, or

about 240,000 trillion miles.  They tried to pinpoint the location of

their home world for us through tridimensional galactic diagrams.  We

believe they come from a place more than 31,000 lightyears around the

perimeter of the galaxy from us.  And since they travel at just under

the speed of light, that means they left home a little less than 32,000

years ago.  Even with their lives extended by suspended animation, they

must have perished nearly 10,000 years ago."

Ginger found herself shaking again, as she had shaken upon first turning

her gaze upon the ancient ship.  She touched the nearest of the

milky-blue containers, which seemed to her to be a powerful testimony to

compassion and empathy beyond human understanding, the embodiment of a

sacrifice that staggered the mind and humbled the heart.  To have

willingly given up the comforts of home, to have left their world and

all their kind to travel such distances on the mere hope of being able

to help a struggling species at the far, far end.  .  .  .

Bennell's voice had grown lower as he spoke, and now it was as soft as

if he had been speaking in a church.  "They died twenty-five thousand

lightyears from home.  They were already dead when humankind still lived

in caves and was just beginning to learn the basics of agriculture. When

these .  .  .  incredible journeyers died, the entire population of our

world was only about five million, fewer people than now live in New

York alone.  During the past ten thousand years, while we've struggled

out of the dirt and broken our backs to build a shaky civilization

always teetering on the edge of destruction, those eight dead seekers

were coming steadily toward us across the vatness of the galactic rim."

Ginger saw Brendan touch the other corner of the coffin on which she'd

rested her own hands.  Tears glistened in his eyes.  She knew what he

was thinking.  As a priest, he had taken vows of poverty and celibacy

and had forsworn many of the pleasures of secular life as an offering to

God.  He knew the meaning of sacrifice, but none of his sacrifices

compared to what these beings had given up in the name of their cause.

Parker said, "But to have found five other intelligent species when the

distances are so great and the odds so small, they must send out a great

many of these ships."

"We think they dispatch hundreds a year, maybe even thousands-and had

been doing so for longer than 100,000 years before this vessel left

port.  As I said, it's their religion and their racial purpose combined.

All the other five species they discovered were within 15,000 lightyears

from their world. And remember, even when they locate an intelligence at

that distance, they don't know of it until 15,000 years after the

discovery, for it takes that long for the message of the contact to

reach home again.  Are you beginning to grasp the depth and scale of

their commitment?"

"Most ships," Ernie said, "must go out and never come back-and never

meet with any success.  Most of them just cruise on and on into endless

space while the crew perishes, as this crew perished."

"Yes," Bennell said.

"And yet they keep going," Dom said.

"And yet they keep going," Bennell said.

"We may never meet others of them face-to-face," Ned said.

"Give humanity a hundred years to learn to apply all the knowledge and

technology they brought us," Bennell said. "Then give us another .  .  .

oh, at least one thousand years more to mature to the point where we're

capable of making that same commitment.  Then a ship will be launched,

manned by a human crew in suspended animation.  And possibly we'll find

a way to improve the process, so that they don't age at all or age far

more slowly.  None of us will be alive to watch it take off, but it will

go.  I know in my heart it will. Then .  .  .  32,000 years after that,

our distant descendants will be there, returning the call, remaking the

contact these creatures don't even know they've established."

They stood in stunned silence, trying to grasp the immensity of what

Bennell envisioned.

Ginger felt a chill of the most delicious and indescribable nature.

Brendan said, "It's God's scale.  We're talking about ... thinking,

planning, and doing on God's scale rather than mankind's."

Parker said, "Sort of makes it a whole lot less important who's going to

win this year's World Series, doesn't it?"

Dom put his hands upon the rings that were featured on the top of that

particular suspended-animation chamber around which everyone was

gathered.  He said, "I believe only six of the crew were dead, fully

dead that night in July, Dr.  Bennell. I'm beginning to recall what

happened when we entered this ship, and I feel as if we were called to

two of these containers by something that still lived within them.

Barely lived but was not yet entirely dead."

"Yes," Brendan said, tears weaving down his cheeks now. "In fact, I

remember the golden light was coming from two of these boxes and that it

exerted not only an obvious but subliminal attraction.  I was compelled

to come and put my hands upon the rings.  And when I put them here ...

somehow I knew that, beneath the lid, something was desperately clinging

to life, not for its own sake but for the sake of passing on some gift.

And by putting its own hands against the inner surface of those

conductive rings .  .  .  it gave me what it had come so far to give.

Then it died at last.  I didn't know what was in me then, exactly.  I

suppose it would have taken some time to understand, to learn how to use

the power.  But before I ever had a chance, we were taken into custody."

"Alive," Bennell said-shocked, fascinated.  "Well, the condition of the

eight bodies .  .  .  two were virtually turned to dust .  .  .  two

more were badly decomposed .  .  .  apparently because their

suspended-animation boxes had shut down once they died.  Four were in

much better condition, and two seemed perfectly preserved.  But we never

dared imagine .  .  ."

"Yes," Dom said, clearly recalling more.  "Just barely alive, but

holding on to pass the gift.  Of course, I expected to be interrogated,

to have a chance to tell what had happened to me in the ship.  But the

government was so eager to protect society from the shock of contact,

and then so afraid of the unknown .  .  .  I never had the chance to

tell."

"Soon," Bennell said, "we can tell the world."

"And change the world," Brendan said.

Ginger looked at the faces of the Tranquility family, at Parker and

Bennell, and sensed the bond that would soon exist between all men and

women, an incredible closeness that would arise from their sudden shared

leap up the evolutionary ladder toward a better world.  No more would

people be strangers, one to another, not anywhere on earth.  All prior

human history had been lived in the dark, and now they stood at the

gates of a new dawn.  She looked at her two small hands, a surgeon's

hands, and she thought of the decade-long studies to which she had

diligently applied herself with the hope of saving lives.  Now, perhaps

all that training would be for nothing.  She didn't care.  She was

filled with joy at the prospect of a world that did not need medicine or

surgery. Soon, when Dom had passed the gift to her, as she would ask him

to, she'd be able to heal with her touch.  More important, with only her

touch, she would be able to pass unto others the power to heal

themselves.  The human life-span would increase dramatically

overnight-three hundred, four hundred, even five hundred years.  Except

for accidents, the specter of death would be banished to a distant

horizon.  No more would the Annas and Jacobs be wrenched away from the

children who loved them.  No more would husbands have to sit in mourning

at the deathbeds of young wives.  No more, Baruch ha-Shem, no more.