Scanned & Semi-Proofed by Cozette

Shy and reclusive medical student Elaine Ross is warned she might have trouble dating after her only sister is brutally murdered by her brother-in-law, Dirk Stoner. Dirk, a handsome golf pro and the son of a billionaire developer, was convicted and executed amid a media frenzy that rivaled the O.J. Simpson trial. So when Elaine is coerced out to a nightclub and is unsettled by the advances of Jonathan Lewis. . .a man whose mannerisms and gestures eerily remind her of Dirk- she refuses to succumb to her paranoid fears.

But Elaine can't conceive of the twisted trail of bribes, blackmail, and murder that Dirk's billionaire father wove in an attempt to save his only son. She isn't aware that an FBI investigation linking the deaths of Dirk's prison doctor and a plastic surgeon has been inexplicably dropped. And Elaine has no way of knowing that the face in her nightmares is carrying a very real torch. . .for revenge.

In Double Jeopardy

Andrew Neiderman

Jonathan twirled his mixer in his drink and then took it out and licked it.

A chill went down Elaine's spine. Dirk used to do that: look as if he was making love to the mixer, hold it between his lips and swing his eyes at her suggestively.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

Elaine hesitated. "I'm not very good."

"That I can't believe," Jonathan said, sliding off the stool and taking her elbow.

Elaine let him lead her onto the dance floor. He was very graceful and sexy, as sexy as. . . She pushed the thought out of her mind.

Exhausted but strangely energized after dancing, they ended up at a table far enough from the music to be able to hear each other talk.

And then she saw it. In the better lighting, just under the hair at the back of his head, that small birthmark, difficult to notice. Dirk's birthmark. She was sure she saw it. Or were the lights and shadows playing tricks on that twisted imagination of hers?

Books by Andrew Neiderman

The Dark

The Devil's Advocate

Immortals

Imp

Night Owl

Tender Loving Care

In Double Jeopardy

Published by POCKET BOOKS

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-01561-3

First Pocket Books printing November 1998

10 987654321

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Cover art by Danilo Ducak Printed in the U.S.A.

For Hannah Rose— part of the legacy, the reason to be

Double

Jeopardy

Prologue

HARRY ROSS PAUSED AFTER HE entered the busy diner and gazed at the people seated on the black-and-silver counter stools, concentrating mainly on the men. A few glanced at him with vague interest. One, however, looked as if he recognized him. The man cupped his hand and leaned over to whisper something to the woman beside him. She turned quickly and widened her eyes as she nodded.

Harry ignored them. He panned the black vinyl-covered booths until he spotted a slim red-haired man of about forty signaling inconspicuously from a booth.

"Didn't expect you'd be out of uniform," Harry remarked as he slid into the bench seat across from Wayne Echert.

The velvet tones of Toni Braxton came through the small speakers at the rear, her voice just under the chorus of conversation, the clank of dinnerware, and the periodic announcement of orders from the waitresses and countermen.

"Correctional officer's uniform would attract attention, Mr. Ross. I didn't think you wanted that, with media hounds haunting you and your family all the time."

"I couldn't give less of a shit about the media," Harry said. Even he winced at his use of profanity. Up until Farah's murder and the trial, he hadn't been one to rely on profanity to express anger and dissatisfaction. He had his own puritanical words that ranked up there with "golly" and "gee whiz." But those days were long gone. He had buried that old Harry Ross alongside his daughter over a year and a half ago, and he was beyond mourning for himself.

"I want to hear about him, every gritty little detail," Harry Ross said, eager to skip any small talk. That was another thing now absent from his life: idle chatter, moments of relaxation and hilarity. He couldn't remember when he had last laughed, unless it was a laugh of sarcasm. He had become consumed by his need for retribution and revenge. Tales of his former son-in-law's suffering had become Harry's lifeblood. He fed on them like a vampire, sucking in every morsel of pain and discomfort Dirk Stoner endured.

Wayne Echert nodded and quickly shifted his gaze down to his coffee cup. Despite all his years as a prison guard on death row, he had never quite grown comfortable with the look in a condemned man's eyes. It was truly as if such men could see beyond death. That vision prematurely put the cold, glassy glint of a corpse into them. Those who were resigned to their fate moved like shadows of themselves—gaunt, dark afterthoughts, their every motion mechanical. They slept in coffins and heard the dirt fall on the lids.

"Sometimes it sounds like applause," one condemned man had told him.

Harry Ross had a similar look in his eyes. In a real sense, he too had been living on death row right beside the former son-in-law he despised so much.

Wayne was about to speak when the waitress appeared.

"What'll you have?" She skipped any friendly banter because she was behind in the taking of orders. One of the other waitresses hadn't shown up, and she had to cover her section. Consequently she didn't really look at Harry Ross. If she had, she would have recognized him immediately. She had followed the trial on Court TV whenever her work schedule had permitted and then had watched the recaps in the evening. Occasionally there was still an article appearing, especially when anything was continued through the legal system. It was one of those stories that defied death itself.

"Just coffee," Harry mumbled. The moment the waitress moved off, he focused on Wayne with all the intensity of a seasoned hunter fixing on his kill. "Well?"

"Okay. Let's start with his living conditions," Wayne began. Now that he was here and actually face-to-face with the man, he wanted to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible. "The cell's only about four feet by ten feet. He's got a stainless-steel sink, a toilet, and a bed. His bed is made of metal and has a mattress an inch and a half thick at most. I don't know how those guys sleep on them, and—"

"So all this time he hasn't been given anything special in the way of living quarters?" Harry asked impatiently. The muscles in his jaw twitched. His forehead tightened like a drum skin.

Harry was skeptical about the reports he had been given. He distrusted the system, especially when it involved someone with as much money and power as Dirk's father, Philip Stoner. That was why he had decided to seek information from someone who was right on the scene, a death row correction officer. Who better to describe the actual situation?

"Hell, no. There's no special setup on death row for anybody, but they do keep him away from even the other death row inmates as much as possible. They're always afraid someone will kill a famous inmate just for the notoriety."

"But he has more than the others," Harry said, nodding to confirm his own assumption. "Doesn't he?"

Wayne shifted his gaze as Harry smirked. "He gets more than the others because he has more money to spend," Echert admitted.

"He gets money from the outside regularly?" Harry asked with a painful grimace.

"Look," Wayne said, raising his hands as if he were defending his co-workers, "it's a place of business." He shrugged. "What isn't a place of business these days?"

Harry nodded, his face stolid, now the face of a man who had lost all warm human feeling. On his daughter's tombstone he should have added, "Here lies a father's heart." He lived like a man whose heart had been ripped out of his body.

"But so what?" Wayne continued, answering and arguing with himself. "What's he getting? Better snacks, instant coffee, more stamps, extra toilet paper? He has a television set, but he doesn't have cable. I mean, this guy is not on the Riviera by any means, Mr. Ross. The cells are so cold that the inmates have to wear layers of clothes in the winter, and in the warmer months some of them are nude just to stay cool."

Wayne paused and gazed at the other patrons in the diner, wondering if any had recognized Harry Ross and strained to hear their conversation. One couple toward the end kept looking their way.

Wayne wasn't comfortable talking to Ross; he wasn't even comfortable taking the man's money, but as he had just said, everything was business. Besides, the guy wanted information badly, and Wayne did feel like helping him. He did feel sorry for him. He too had watched some of the trial on television and had caught the pain in Harry Ross's face when grisly details were given. Wayne had a twelve-year-old daughter and lived with the fear every father inherited the day the doctor said, "It's a girl."

"Go on," Harry said, annoyed with Wayne's pauses. "You said you would tell me all of it."

"He still gets clean laundry only once a week. Before he can go out to the yard, he is strip-searched."

"How do you strip-search an inmate?" Harry asked quickly, anticipating some pleasure in the guard's answer.

"We look in his mouth, under his balls, and up his butt, Mr. Ross. Then we run a metal detector over him. There's nothing dignified about it."

"Every time?"

"Every time."

"How does he react to that?"

Wayne shrugged, hesitant to reply. "How would anyone?"

"I'm not interested in anyone. I'm interested in him," Harry shot back, raising his voice a few decibels. The waitress brought him his coffee, but he didn't acknowledge her. His eyes were frozen on Wayne.

Wayne swallowed some of his coffee, looked at the remains of his bagel longingly, but decided not to bite into it. Harry Ross wouldn't tolerate the moment it would take to chew it.

"He's cooperative," Wayne continued, "but he has this shit-eating grin on his face that pisses us off."

"Yes," Harry said, nodding as someone in the know would nod, "I did hear that he still had that confident grin."

Harry lifted his coffee cup, blew over the hot liquid, and then took a sip. Wayne Echert felt Harry Ross was staring through him now, not at him.

"He's the most relaxed condemned man on the block," Wayne admitted, knowing full well it wasn't something Harry Ross wanted to hear. "I think he's fucking crazy."

"As crazy as a fox," Harry murmured. "I don't know why he stopped his appeals."

Wayne shrugged. "He knew he wasn't going to win. All he was doing was prolonging the inevitable, and no matter what you heard, it's pretty close to hell living on death row, Mr. Ross. You oughta hear the cheers that go up at midnight on New Year's Eve, when they all realize they've survived one more year.

"You know what Dirk Stoner reminds me of now, Mr. Ross? He reminds me of one of Kevorkian's patients."

Harry thought about that. Philip Stoner had complained in the newspapers about his son's decision to stop fighting his execution.

"I can't force him to do anything he doesn't want to do," Philip Stoner had claimed. "I'm sorry for him, sorry for everyone," he'd added.

It was a little too late for that, Harry had thought.

He sat back. He had taken only the one sip of his coffee and didn't seem interested in taking another.

"He ain't gonna win any mercy from the governor, Mr. Ross. Everyone's watching this one. You did a good job of keeping the media on it, and all his father's money and all his fame as a so-called world-class golfer isn't going to help him now. We're in countdown. You won't have to wait much longer."

"We'll see," Harry Ross said, lighting up again. His lower lip trembled a bit. Nervousness, like an insidious serpent, had wound its way through the caverns and arteries of his six-foot, two-inch stout frame to curl up in his heart. It reared its ugly head every time he heard a mention of Dirk Stoner's death sentence being mitigated.

It hadn't been the trial of the century, and it hadn't been as long as the O.J. trial, but it had been one of the more popular ones on Court TV, and it had received considerable media coverage because of Dirk Stoner's victories on the golf circuit and his father's great wealth.

All through it, and especially afterward, during the sentencing hearing, Harry had aligned himself with representatives of minorities who were crying for equal justice.

"Let's see if a rich, famous white boy can get the death penalty for first-degree murder" was a statement often repeated. Harry didn't hesitate to second it.

As one of the most successful developers in Los Angeles, Philip Stoner was a confidant of the rich and powerful, of politicians and government officials. He was a chief contributor to the governor's reelection campaign and was said to have the ear of the White House when he needed it. With all that muscle, the cynics assumed he would get his son off death row.

Ironically, it had almost become a political necessity to convict and execute Dirk Stoner. Riots had occurred after the Not Guilty verdicts in the Rodney King incident, and the same sorts of riots were feared if the rich white boy escaped the fate that was so often and so easily meted out to poor minority men. There wasn't a politician in town or in the state who wanted to be associated with manipulating the legal system, not while all these eyes were focused on it.

Philip Stoner's army of attorneys, attempting to follow in the footsteps of O. J. Simpson's dream team, had challenged the forensic evidence. They made a little headway, but were unable to shake off the eyewitness who was every prosecutor's and defense lawyer's dream witness: a middle-aged female teacher with an Ivory soap-pure background who happened to be at the scene of the crime, who happened to get a full, close view of the assailant, and who happened to have excellent eyesight.

When the defense attorneys tried to discredit her testimony by implying she had seen Dirk's face so often on television and in papers that she just mistook it, she revealed that she didn't even know what a hole-in-one was. Golf was a bigger mystery to her than the universe. She couldn't name or identify a single professional player, and she hated sports—all sports. In fact, she rarely watched television.

She nailed Dirk Stoner, placed him at the crime scene, and shook her head as if she had just caught one of her young pupils committing an act of vandalism. With her long, bony forefinger, she pointed to Stoner in the courtroom.

"I have no doubt that is the man I saw leaving Ms Ross's apartment. I couldn't sit here and swear to something I didn't believe completely. I am well aware of the importance of my testimony."

And she was a churchgoer.

Ten thousand dollars' worth of designer suits suffered near fatal creases.

Defiant to the end, Dirk refused to consider a plea, and the trial went the distance.

After the guilty verdict came the death penalty proceedings. Philip Stoner's attorneys brought forward an impressive list of witnesses to testify to his son's character. Dirk had nothing in the way of a police record, not even a speeding ticket, but there was the clear implication that his father had taken care of any of that.

What did the prosecution have?

A vicious premeditated crime with no chance of reasonable doubt and no sign of remorse, a number of witnesses who testified to Dirk's often violent behavior, threats, stalking, arrogant displays of power, and money.

The jury voted for the death penalty. It went immediately into the appeal process, but unlike most inmates, Dirk Stoner had a legal staff ready to go to work for him; the usual delays finding representation didn't exist. The process moved quickly, denials following quick denials until, in a sudden and unexpected change of strategy, Stoner stopped his lawyers from continuing. That was what convinced Harry that his daughter's killer was getting special treatment at the penitentiary.

"I still don't understand this kind of animal giving up," Harry muttered.

Wayne nodded. "I do, Mr. Ross."

"You do?"

"Many of the condemned stop fighting for their lives when they realize they can have a lethal-injection execution. To them it's just like going asleep and getting it over, getting out of there. It's too . . . tempting. We should bring beheading back."

Harry's heart sank a bit. That wasn't what he wanted to hear, even after all this time. He craved revenge, needed it for many reasons, not the least of which was his own peace of mind.

"You know what a buddy of mine at the prison said? He said they're going to satisfy the bleeding hearts by inventing a serum that ages people in minutes and using that so it'll look like the condemned died of old age."

"You really think that's why he's giving up?" Harry asked sadly.

"I think so. A man like that can't stomach prison life. He wants out now."

Harry couldn't help showing his disappointment, even though he knew other people would think him sick with revenge. He looked as if he had aged in seconds. His eyes darkened, and his lips parted with his deep breath.

"Bastard," he said. "I hate the thought of anything being easy for him, even death. Especially death."

"Lethal injections don't always go smoothly," Wayne said.

Harry perked up. "Oh?"

"There have been cases where they have a hard time finding the veins and nearly poke the guy to death, and cases where the crap didn't run smoothly into the veins and the guy took forever to die. Billy Meredith, a fellow correction officer, was telling me about a case in Oklahoma where the killer had a violent reaction to the drugs. He said they described the guy gasping, his whole body going into spasms. They said it looked real ugly," he added with a smile.

"None of that will happen to this man," Harry predicted sadly. "The powers that be won't let it. Tell me more about his life at the moment."

"He hasn't had as many visitors lately and gets fewer letters. He makes his phone calls, but he's got to wait his turn like everyone else, Mr. Ross."

"How does he look?" Harry asked.

"Look? I don't understand." Wayne stalled.

"Has he lost weight?"

"He's . . ."

"What?"

"Well, he's got nothing much to do but stay in shape, Mr. Ross. Most of those guys work out. You know, push-ups, sit-ups, exercise in the yard, but he doesn't have a tan and look like a playboy professional golfer anymore," Wayne added quickly, but that wasn't enough to soften the pain in Harry Ross's eyes.

Harry sighed and gazed out the window at the cars pulling into the parking lot. The afternoon sunshine was so bright it made everything look metallic. Even the parking lot looked like a sheet of steel. They were about twenty minutes from the prison. It was the closest Harry had been to Dirk Stoner since the trial and aftermath. It was almost as if he could smell him, feel his heartbeat in the air.

"You know how he killed her, don't you?" he said. "How he sharpened the screwdriver and returned it to the tool chest, expecting it would never be found, how the microscopic forensic evidence confirmed the weapon, and how his skin and an almost microscopic sample of his blood were found on her right forefinger and index finger. She didn't put up much of a fight because she was taken by surprise. My little girl was a fighter, Mr. Echert. She would have fought much harder if he hadn't sneaked up on her."

Wayne forced a smile. Was that an appropriate reaction? he wondered. How should you react when a father brags about his dead daughter's fighting spirit? "And then he leaves and walks right into that teacher outside my daughter's apartment door," Wayne added quickly to show he knew the details.

"Yes. They tried to buy her off, you know. She was too decent even to mention it, but I found out. I found out," he said nodding.

"I'm surprised they didn't have that teacher killed," Wayne said. "Just like they killed Marilyn Monroe and Jack Ruby. Rich, powerful businessmen are in control of this country," Wayne continued, parroting slogans and thoughts he'd heard at the prison. He thought Harry Ross would second the comments and smile, but his expression didn't change.

"They would have, except that killing her would have confirmed Stoner's guilt even more," Harry said.

He was staring so hard and intensely that Wayne actually cringed. "I bet," he managed to say. He was looking toward the door, looking toward the end of this meeting. Harry held his gaze and then smiled, coldly. "There isn't anything a parent won't do to protect his child if he has the chance," Harry said. "If he has a chance . . ." His voice drifted off, but Wayne had no doubt that the statement was filled with as much determination as any living thing could muster for its own survival.

SITTING ON THE BED IN WHAT had once been Farah's room, Harry gazed around dumbly, his eyes glassy. Farah had taken most everything with her when she got married, and the room had been used as a guest room, but he had never stopped thinking of it as Farah's room. Memories of her lingered in these walls, in every nook and corner, her laughter caught and held forever and ever. All he had to do was look at the vanity table or the desk on which she used to do her homework and his reservoir of remembrances came rushing forward, now an exquisite torment.

Tomorrow, finally, he would get his revenge. Dirk Stoner would be executed, nearly four years after he had been convicted. Harry knew it was happening this soon only because Stoner had stopped the appeals.

"Mom's right, you know," he heard Elaine say and looked up at his younger daughter leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, head down. "Attending his execution won't bring Farah back, Dad."

"Maybe it will bring me back," he said.

She looked up, their eyes meeting.

"You want to be a doctor, Elaine. Think of what's in here"—he pressed his fist against his heart—"as a cancer that tomorrow the state of California will cut out of me."

"Operations leave scars, Dad," she said.

Harry almost smiled. Elaine had always had a doctor's personality. She could cut to the jugular gracefully, perform the procedure, and retreat unscathed. "I have scars deeper than what I might get tomorrow," he said.

"We all have scars, Dad. They're not going away, ever." He saw the tears in her eyes and was silent for a moment.

For the first time since Farah's death, he seriously considered Elaine's reaction to all this. He had always thought about his own and Lil's sorrow, but what about Elaine's? She had suffered a great loss too.

"If you insist on going, I'll go with you tomorrow, Dad," she said.

"You don't have to do that, Elaine."

"I won't let you go alone, Dad," she insisted, "even though I hate the thought of looking at him one more time, even to watch him die, even by lethal injection."

"Yeah," Harry said. "From what I've been told, it will be just like looking at one of your patients at pre-op."

She nodded. "You're right, Dad. That's what it's like. Pancurium bromide to stop his breathing, potassium chloride for cardiac arrest, sodium pentothal to make him unconscious."

"Dr. Ross," he said nodding and contemplating her for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows. "It should be Dr. Rosenberg, you know."

"What?"

"That's our real name."

"I don't understand."

"My grandfather changed it to Ross to avoid the ethnic stigma and any possible inference that we were related to the notorious Rosenbergs. I always felt funny going to see my great-uncle Benny because he was my grandfather's brother, but his name was Ben Rosenberg and mine was Harry Ross. He always made fun of the change, too. 'So how is it with you, Mr. Ross?' he would ask me and smile."

Elaine laughed. "What other surprises do you have for me, Dad?"

"Nothing else," he said sadly and gazed at the floor again. "Nothing else."

"Don't go, Dad," she said after a moment.

"I have to go, Elaine."

"It will be a circus—the media, demonstrators . . ."

"I have to go," he said again. "Thank God my parents didn't live to see any of this."

Lil's parents were still alive and remarkably healthy for people in their late eighties. They had attended only one of the trial sessions. They sat in the rear, listened, and then went home, too shaken by the details to return.

Now that the ordeal was truly coming to an end, Lil wanted Harry to put the matter to rest, to accept Farah's death, as she had finally accepted it.

Harry refused to accept it. His beautiful, talented daughter had been slaughtered, and even with Dirk Stoner's surprise legal capitulation, retribution had been slow in coming, as far as Harry was concerned. In more primitive times, when men were men, an eye for an eye would have been a quick and strong act of justice.

Immediate retribution was important. Why didn't our society see that? Time diminished the impact of the evil act, put it so far back in the memory that the horror was reduced to mere words and the victim drifted into a mere name, an old photo, a statistic.

But we are civilized men, he thought sarcastically. We house our criminals; we dissect their psyches and analyze their evil; we build entire professions, mechanisms, industries, around them as one great euphemistic expression. He concluded it was all only an attempt to deny the most basic truth about ourselves: we can be utterly vicious and cruel to each other to satisfy our own selfish needs.

No, he would not accept it, but he couldn't get mad at Lil for trying to get him to do so. She had been and still was one of the prettiest women he had ever met. He always considered himself lucky to have found her and won her heart. He and Lil had become the most famous and successful real estate couple in the Valley. All the movie studio executives came to them to find homes. They were featured in regional magazines and on regional television shows, but the wedding of their local fame with their national renown was an uneasy marriage.

Harry was self-conscious about the way people now looked at him. He had become paranoid. He was the first to admit it. Since the trial and its aftermath, he questioned the motives of nearly every client. Were they really coming to them to find a decent place to live, or did they just want to go back to their friends and say, "Guess who we're using as real estate agents—the Rosses. Yes, those Rosses!"

He and Lil had become "Those Rosses."

"Okay, Dad," Elaine said. "Good night." She gazed around the room for a moment and then left him.

He had such a feeling of emptiness.

Harry knew that Elaine felt he had favored Farah over her. He didn't think he had. Elaine was just a different kind of girl, more like Lil, cerebral, a reader, unafraid of being alone. Farah had been sociable, outgoing, more emotional, warmer, more dependent on him and his affection. Farah hadn't been subtle and complicated. There was never a question about what she wanted in life. She liked the recognition, the expensive cars and clothes, the adulation. She was admittedly and unashamedly vain. Her room had the big mirrors, the elaborate vanity table. She had bought all the workout tapes and moaned if she gained a pound.

Elaine was the class valedictorian, the writer, the deep thinker. She had a beautiful figure and Lil's naturally healthy complexion. Elaine was no four-eyed wallflower. She had boyfriends; she went to school dances and the prom, but she was far more career minded and independent and would, Harry believed, do what she had set out to do: become a doctor. He was very proud of her.

It was just that . . . just that he loved the sight of Farah waving from her convertible or rushing across the lawn to hug him or calling to him from her bedroom window or just stopping behind him in the living room and hugging him and then going on and on about her part in the school play.

Was she really dead? Could she be dead? When will I do what Lil and Elaine want me to do? he wondered. When will I accept it?

Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Maybe tomorrow.

Elaine stared out her window into the darkness. She couldn't stand this feeling of helplessness, this inability to say or do anything that would ease her father's pain.

Is this what it's going to be like for me when I'm a doctor and I confront terminally ill patients? she wondered.

And then she thought, Is my father ill? He wasn't half the man he had once been. His eyes were vacant much of the time. He looked lost, confused, almost brain-dead at times.

How she wished she had a medication, an anti-tragedy serum that she could simply inject into his arm to turn him back to the way he was. She laughed at how stupid that thought was, at how childish she could be, at how she could still fill her mind with little-girl fantasies. Sometimes that frightened her. It was as if admitting she was human would distract her from her destiny, would make her less of a doctor.

She gazed across the room at a doll Farah had given her years ago. Elaine had always wanted to be a doctor. Much of her make-believe had been built around that dream. She recalled examining that doll for Farah and deciding she had to put a Band-Aid on her leg. After carefully sterilizing the area, she had applied the bandage, and she and Farah had treated the doll like a patient in a hospital.

Everyone had thought it was cute.

The doll stared back at her with its glassy eyes seemingly full of sadness, two tiny pools of tears, matching her own.

Later she heard her parents talking softly, her mother still trying to get her father to change his mind about watching the execution. Elaine heard her soft sobs until they were both quiet. Neither would sleep tonight, she thought. How many sleepless nights had they both endured already?

Where do all your good dreams go when you don't sleep? she wondered.

Farah had believed there was a magical place for lost dreams, a place where they waited for happy dreamers.

She laughed at that and some of the other things her sister had said.

Then she closed her eyes and prayed she would wander into Farah's magical world tonight, especially tonight.

It was too nice a day for an execution. As if the state of California were a living person with an ego and a reputation, even this late in the day it provided bright sunshine, blue skies, warm breezes, and a clean, sparkling background for the myriad cameramen, satellite television feeds, and network anchors who filled the front yard of San Quentin.

"Look at this place," Elaine said as they parked their rental car. "Is this society sick or what?"

One of the reporters spotted them, and the group moved like one animal in their direction, microphones rising toward them like electronic antennae.

Elaine thrust her arm through her father's, holding on tight. "They want their pound of flesh," she muttered.

The reporter who led the pack threw his question at them from six feet away, just to be first. "How do you feel today, Mr. Ross?" The mob gathered around them.

"Good. I feel good for the first time in years."

"What about those people demonstrating against the death penalty out there?" another reporter asked.

Harry gazed for a moment at the posters and signs and listened to the voice droning over the portable loudspeaker.

"I doubt that anyone out there has had a daughter brutally murdered. If anyone has, and still wants to grant the killer mercy, then that parent didn't love his child more than he loved his own life. People are killing their children a second time when they grant mercy to murderers," he added.

The cameras clicked. The reporters ate it up. Pens were writing as quickly as Harry spoke and gave them the valuable sound bites.

Harry and Elaine moved toward the entrance.

"Did you know that Philip Stoner is going to be in the room with you, Mr. Ross?"

Elaine kept them moving.

"Lending his son comfort," another reporter interjected.

"Will you speak to him, and if you do, what will you say?"

Harry spun on them.

"Dad," Elaine pleaded.

"What will I say? I'll ask him what he did to raise such an animal," Harry said.

"You haven't had any conversations with Mr. Stoner since his son was convicted of murdering your daughter?" a young female reporter asked, shoving her microphone in his face. Harry gazed at her. She had eyes like Farah's. For a moment he imagined Farah there beside him instead of Elaine, looping her arm through his. Then he blinked back to reality.

"What in hell would I do that for? That man would spend twenty million dollars in a heartbeat if he could keep his son alive. I can't do anything to keep my daughter alive. I can only visit her grave."

"Soon Philip Stoner will be visiting his son's grave," someone in the rear of reporters' group declared.

Harry nodded. "And then finally, finally, Philip Stoner will understand what my life has been like since his creature killed my daughter," Harry said.

"Leave him alone!" Elaine shouted. "Don't you think this is hard enough for us?"

"What are your feelings today?" the young female reporter demanded, ignoring Elaine's plea.

"I feel you're all a bunch of animals," Elaine said and turned herself and Harry firmly away.

Harry saw the fury in his daughter's crimson face. She was pretty when she was angry, as pretty as Lil, he thought and felt a sudden pang of pride.

"Lucky you came along," Harry said, "to ride shotgun."

"I knew it would be like this. Horrific."

He nodded. "I'd walk through fire to see this, Elaine."

"I know," she said sadly.

It saddened him too that he had turned into a beast of revenge. But what about the early days? he thought to himself as if he were really two people now. He remembered Farah accompanying Dirk to his golf tournaments, flashing her beautiful smile, wearing those designer outfits that put her on the covers of sports, fashion, and entertainment magazines as well as on the society pages of big newspapers. What about their interviews on the talk shows?

What about the parties, the way Dirk's fame had rubbed off on them and helped his and Lil's real estate business, people wanting to meet them, their celebrity growing—and then the waking up: Farah's discovery that Dirk was having one sleazy affair after another, his picture with other women in the rag magazines.

What an embarrassment for all of them, but especially for Farah.

Harry truly felt like a man on a roller coaster, shooting downward with her, crashing toward some dark tunnel, never anticipating the depth of their fall, a fall that had brought him here to an execution, an execution that Stoner himself had finally found inevitable. The day of retribution was upon him. His father's wealth and power wouldn't change that.

Would Harry put it all to rest after this? He lived with the fear that Lil might be right in believing that Dirk Stoner might continue his murderous rampage and kill him and subsequently Lil and Elaine as well.

Once in the observation room, Harry saw that, through the glass window, all the witnesses would have a clear view of Dirk Stoner when he was brought in for his execution.

Harry and Elaine took their seats right up front, trying not to look at anyone else. Harry saw the empty seat at the other end of the row and assumed it was being held for Dirk's father.

Philip Stoner was nearly eight years older than Harry. He was a tall, very slim man who reminded people of Henry Fonda. When he entered the witness room, he was somber, but to Harry he was disgustingly distinguished, even now.

He didn't look at Harry and Elaine. He sat with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. No one spoke. It was as if they had all gone underwater and had to hold their breath.

Elaine held her father's hand firmly. He felt her squeeze as the tension built in her body. "Are you all right, Dad?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he said. His heart was pounding.

"I can feel your pulse," she said. "Breathe deeply, Dad. Easy."

"Okay, Doc," he muttered. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt full of sand.

Harry hadn't set eyes on his ex-son-in-law and the murderer of his daughter since Stoner's last court appearance. He recalled when Farah had first told him she was going to date Dirk Stoner. Farah and two other models had been invited to a film premiere in Westwood, and Farah had met Dirk in the lobby after the screening. He had offered to take her to the party and she had accepted. "He isn't what the gossip magazines make him out to be, Daddy. He was polite, even a bit shy," she had told Harry. "And he is soooo handsome in the flesh."

How could Harry have blamed her for her lack of insight and her gullibility? he thought as he waited for Dirk Stoner to come through that door to the death chamber. Hadn't he, too, been charmed by the man?

"I have a lot of money," Dirk had once told Harry over a cocktail in the clubhouse. "I'm not going to deny it, Harry. I'm not like some of these wealthy people who pretend they don't have a cent. I'm a millionaire because of my victories on the golf course and because of the trusts my father has set up for me. I'm actually a multimillionaire," he bragged sotto voce. "But until I met Farah, my life was empty. She has a way of making me feel good about myself. Know what I mean?"

Of course he knew what Dirk meant. It was what his daughter did for him too. This was a girl who had so much love and life in her that she infected people with happiness, Harry thought. But she was always a little girl, trusting, ready to be surprised and excited, ready for some new experience, a little girl who loved presents, loved adulation, loved to be loved. She really believed Dirk Stoner loved her so devoutly that he wouldn't betray her. She didn't want to believe he was unfaithful; she would rather discredit the messenger, but she confronted Dirk with the information and he confessed because he was arrogant enough to believe she would always forgive him. She was heartbroken, but she did forgive him.

That was the first of the little compromises Harry blamed for the eventual tragedy. Dirk hadn't been strong enough. There were the usual excuses: he was on the road alone too much; he was handsome and pursued by groupies.

True to his nature, Dirk Stoner saw forgiveness as weakness, an open door. Farah was too embarrassed to mention the other infidelities until things grew nastier, and then she confronted him more aggressively.

The divorce settlement was relatively quick. Right from the beginning, the public sided with Farah. Dirk became unpopular on the golf circuit. He began to lose more regularly, drink more, use cocaine more often. His descent continued until somewhere in his distorted brain, he found Farah and blamed her for his failures and new dark lot in life. He developed the obsession that if he could win her back, he would win back his old self, and so began the stalking, the endless solicitation, and eventually the vicious, psychotic murder, a descent into the maelstrom that would hit rock bottom and come to an end today.

Harry hoped.

The witness room filled. Someone coughed. Someone whispered. The door was opened, and Dirk Stoner, wearing hip chains and shackles, was led into the death chamber.

His dark brown hair was longer and his complexion was pale. There was hesitation in his steps, evidence of last-minute panic. Gone was that familiar Stoner arrogance. He looked worse than pale. He looked like a corpse, his terror-filled eyes shifting madly from side to side, his tongue licking his lips.

Dirk gazed at the witnesses, holding on his father for a moment, then panning the faces, and finally focusing on Harry and Elaine. Harry felt Elaine's hand tighten like a vise around his fingers. She was actually hurting him with her fingernails, but he didn't move, didn't utter a sound. Dirk's gaze remained fixed on her. There was a look of raw rage for a moment and then a crazed smile that quickly evaporated as the preparations continued.

Harry saw the way Dirk's hands shook. He felt the man's trembling. He knew they put a diaper on condemned men to avoid an embarrassing event.

What he didn't want to see was the man hold himself together. Finally, finally, there will be an end to this self-centered, spoiled, conceited excuse for a human being, Harry thought. Such men should fall apart in the shadow of their own impending doom.

Dirk looked at his father again as if he hoped he could wave his hand and stop the execution. Harry glanced at Philip Stoner.

Elaine saw the direction of his gaze and leaned in to whisper. "His father looks like stone," she said.

Harry nodded. Why was Philip Stoner here? Harry wondered. Was this the way he offered comfort to his son? What sort of comfort could that man give anyone anyway?

Dirk was asked if he had any final comments to make.

He looked at his father first. "I didn't do anything to embarrass my family," he said. "I want you to know that, Dad."

Stoner lowered his head.

"What does he expect now?" Harry muttered to Elaine, "Does he want his father to get us all to forgive him?"

Then Dirk turned and fixed his eyes on them.

Harry felt the heat in his face, but he kept his glare. He wouldn't let a man about to die intimidate him, not this man.

"I didn't do it, and I miss Farah as much as you do. This is a mistake! It's a terrible mistake!" he screamed.

He seemed to crumble, lose his legs completely. The guards held him up for a moment. There was a soft undertone of murmuring.

Harry started to rise.

"Don't, Dad," Elaine said, pulling on his arm.

"The bastard. He wants us to feel sorry for him."

"He wants you to lose your composure, Dad. Don't give him any satisfaction."

Harry glanced at her and nodded. She was right. His rational, cool daughter was right.

He held himself together.

They began to strap Dirk onto the gurney. The witnesses could see his sobbing. Harry closed his eyes to it for a moment.

Elaine stroked his hand and then closed her own eyes and lowered her head.

Finally it was to be over.

The reporters were waiting more eagerly when Harry and Elaine emerged from the prison. The late afternoon sun was gone, and dark shadows seemed to ooze around them like demons of death.

Camera lights were already on, and more were illuminated. They blinded Elaine's and Harry's vision for a moment.

"Don't talk to them," Elaine urged.

For the first time since the verdicts, Harry didn't care to be on camera or recorded, but he wasn't going to show anyone his reluctance. It would be misinterpreted as weakness.

"I'm all right," he said.

"Can you tell us what happened in there, Mr. Ross?"

"The state executed a vicious murderer," Harry said dryly.

"Are you satisfied?" someone else called out.

"Satisfied? I know justice was done, but I won't be satisfied until my daughter is raised from the dead." He pushed their way toward the parking lot. He and Elaine got into the car quickly, questions being shouted at them, tossed at them like rice at a wedding. He took a deep breath.

"Do you want me to drive, Dad?"

"No," he said quickly and started the engine. Don't show anyone weakness, he told himself. He didn't want them to learn about the emptiness he felt and the disappointment.

"He didn't suffer enough, Elaine," he said as they drove away. "There was no bleeding, no electric shocks, no sound of gunfire, no wham of the hangman's noose, nothing to indicate death except the physician who examined him, read the EKG and pronounced him dead." He trembled with rage. "He could just as easily have died of heart failure in his cell and escaped the entire event."

"Let it go, Dad. Let it go," Elaine pleaded.

Harry had trouble swallowing. Was this what he had waited to see all these years?

"It's as if Farah was a minor player in all this, Elaine, her death barely a factor. She didn't get the consideration Dirk got—the minister, the doctor, the psychologist. She didn't lay herself down to sleep and pray the Lord her soul to keep. She consciously faced the horrible awareness of her own impending doom, and she was in pain and alone and afraid. No priest stood at her side assuring her of eternal life. No friends and family gave her support. No officials handled her with dignity. She squealed like a hog and watched her blood seep into the carpet."

"Dad, stop it!" Elaine cried.

Tears were running down his cheeks.

"Pull over and let me drive," she said.

Harry suddenly screamed. He released a deeply held, horrible, grotesque cry and began to pound the steering wheel madly.

"Dad!"

He had to slow down, stop, and pull over to the side as he raged from side to side, slamming his hands against the windows like a trapped animal in a glass cage and then pounding his fists on the dashboard until the pain shooting up his arm and into his shoulder brought it to a halt.

Elaine remained out of his way until he fell forward, exhausted, gasping, drooling, his stomach cramped. Cars whizzed by. Then she got out, went around the car, and opened his door.

As soon as she did, he leaned out of the car and regurgitated. She held him until he was finished.

"I shouldn't have eaten dinner," he muttered. "I had to be a big shot and put on an act for your mother and you." He sat back, closed his eyes, and waited for the waves of nausea to subside.

"Move over. I'm going to drive," Elaine commanded.

Bright lights in the rearview mirror brought him to attention. He sat up as a highway patrolman got out of his vehicle and strolled up to their car, a flashlight in hand. The beam hit Elaine in the face.

"What's the problem, ma'am?" the patrolman asked.

"My father got sick while he was driving, but he's all right now," she said quickly.

The patrolman held the light on Harry a moment and then moved the beam around the car before shutting it off.

"You're . . .Mr. Ross, aren't you?"

"Yes."

The patrolman looked at Elaine. "Then you people were just coming from San Quentin?"

"Yes," Elaine said.

"I'm really sorry. Can you carry on or would you like some assistance?"

"No, we'll be fine," Elaine said. She looked at Harry. "I'm going to drive the rest of the way."

"Well, again, I'm sorry, Mr. Ross. You and your family have been through hell," the highway officer remarked.

For a moment, with the shadows around him, the patrolman looked like some vision from the underworld, the shape of a creature in a nightmare, something the devil himself had sent to remind Harry that evil had a way of lingering, like the seemingly endless echo of a gunshot and a scream and all the wailing of the bereaved.

"Yes," Harry said. He moved over so Elaine could get behind the wheel.

"Take care," the patrolman said.

Elaine put the car into drive and started away.

She looked at her exhausted father, slumping in the seat. Then she gazed into the side mirror and saw the patrolman standing there watching them drive away.

In a wild part of her imagination, she thought. She heard the sound of laughter.

"HAS THERE BEEN A GEOLOGICAL report on this property?" Mr. Feinstein asked.

Harry stood at the window in the living room and gazed out at the drop-dead view of Topanga Canyon. The morning fog had long lifted, revealing plush green hills spotted with expensive homes tucked away in every nook and cranny Mother Nature afforded. From the east a passenger jet floated through puffy clouds that resembled globs of cotton candy. It was truly a make-believe world.

So much of life is illusion, Harry mused. Here they were in the heartland of the entertainment industry, a business empire built on illusion. There was a time when people worked and lived mostly in the real world, spending their leisure hours reading or listening to others read. That was a limited time of the day because it took so much of the day to earn a living. Now, with the work week shrinking, with everyone guarding and worshiping his and her weekend as something sacred, with CDs, videos, electronic media, television, films, and the Internet, the world of make-believe had overtaken the real world. Everyone he knew seemed to be wrapped up in some fantasy, whether it was loyalty to a soap opera or remaking their own self-image on the model of someone's imaginary hero or heroine. Even recreational drugs were designed to take one away from reality.

No wonder so many people treated what had happened to Farah and to his family as if it were a televised soap. The Rosses had become characters in some Hollywood production, and as a result, they had lost some of their humanity. It was almost as if the public believed he and Lil hadn't really lost their beautiful daughter. It was just . . . just an episode in the weekly drama played out on slick newscasts.

"Excuse me," Mrs. Feinstein said after a long, silent pause. She was at least twenty-five pounds overweight for her five feet six inches. Her lean husband looked absolutely meek beside her, and she had asked most of the questions and made most of the comments. "Mr. Ross?"

"What?"

Harry turned and looked at the two of them so strangely that they both felt as if he had forgotten they were there, forgotten he had brought them to the house. He looked that surprised.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"My husband asked about the geological study. It's very important," she added, stating the obvious with a pedantic air.

"Oh. Yes, there was a geological study." Harry went to his briefcase and started to sort through the documents. "I must have left it at the office," he said after a few moments.

"Really?" Mrs. Feinstein said, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her abundant bosom like two pieces of artillery. Harry imagined her pumping nipples at him like rubber shells. He actually smiled. "Is something funny, Mr. Ross?"

"No, I was just . . . remembering something," he said quickly.

The Feinsteins looked at each other. Mrs. Feinstein's eyebrows curled like two annoyed caterpillars.

"Yes, well, this is a nice house, but it's not for us," she said sharply. "We're looking for something not quite so dramatic," she added. "I thought you understood that from our discussion in your office."

"Well, in my experience people aren't sure what they want until they see it," Harry offered. It was a weak excuse for poor preparation. Mr. Feinstein looked embarrassed for him. "Sorry," Harry added and closed his briefcase. "Let's return to the office and I'll show you some other—"

"Let's just go," Mrs. Feinstein remarked. She started toward the door, her husband snapping around to trail after her as if there was some invisible leash around his neck.

Harry scooped up his briefcase and locked up the house. The two were already seated in his car, the impatience building like a rash on Mrs. Feinstein's fuming face. Harry got in and drove them away as quickly as he could.

Nearly eight months had passed since Dirk Stoner's execution and Harry had sold only three properties, each under a half million. Lil still carried the ball. Harry had lost his passion for so much in life that he appeared nearly lobotomized at times. The healthy competition, the excitement of the kill and the rising sales charts, the respect he had once commanded in the business no longer interested him. Making money had become a droll activity. He resembled a man who was bored with himself.

He performed so poorly in their new regional television advertisement that Lil decided to cancel it. There used to be an amusing and very entertaining banter between them. Harry was once a very funny guy. Their older friends called them the George Burns and Gracie Allen of the real estate world. Others called them the Tim Allen and Zsa Zsa Gabor of Realtors. There was Lil, deliberately overdressed, draped in jewelry, rings dazzling on her fingers, talking about this or that high-end property, and there was Harry, emphasizing the more practical aspects, like built-in cabinets in the garage, home improvement possibilities.

"Why would anyone want to spend any more time than necessary in a garage, Harry?" Lil would quip. Even people who had no interest in new real estate tuned in to catch them.

However, the camera was a psychological X-ray, exposing the depth of depression in Harry's psyche. His eyes were vacant, the rings around them thickening. The light that was once in his face was gone, and there was a heaviness in his voice that made the pronouncing of each word seem laborious. He had the look of someone who was saying, "Just leave me alone."

He watched television the same way, gazing at the tube like a man mesmerized by the glow. Most of the time he didn't follow the thread of the story. He appeared to go in and out, recalling a detail here and a detail there, but not tying things together with any real interest. He would just as soon sit and stare at a set that wasn't turned on. He spent most of his time looking at pictures behind his eyelids anyway, replaying memories as if his brain housed some immortal VCR with an endless supply of videotape.

Lil was patient at first. When Harry drifted away in the middle of a conversation, she would calmly repeat everything. When he forgot a client or neglected to show clients the most obvious properties to fit their demands, she quietly reminded him and tried to compensate by taking on more of the load. They rarely made love these days, and when they did, it was as a friend of hers had once complained about her own husband and their own dying marriage: "I masturbate with Gordon in me."

Lil had hoped Harry's sessions with Dr. Stevens, their therapist, would help. Lil's own half a dozen sessions had done a great deal toward helping her regain some perspective and focus and, most of all, cope with the tragedy. Not so for Harry. He had one touchstone with which to measure everyone and anyone these days before he would listen to anything a person had to say: "Did you lose your daughter or son in a violent crime?"

If not, keep your mouth shut, Lil thought.

Their friends invited them to socialize less and less often. Before this, there was seldom a weekend when they could just sit around and entertain themselves. Their social calendar was always jammed. Now the spaces on the desk calendar were painfully blank on weekends.

They went to movies, to a show here and there, and to a concert, but everything they did and everything they saw seemed to remind Harry of Farah, of the murder and the events that had followed. Lil tried to avoid any movie that had a murder in it. When she flipped the channels, she dreaded catching even a glimpse of a golf tournament, and every time they saw a sign in the Los Angeles basin that announced a Stoner property, she tried to distract Harry.

What, she wondered, would it take to snap him out of it and bring him back to the world of the living? Should they move to a new house in a new area? Should they take a long vacation? Should they get involved in some charity project?

Harry, who hated drugs, who wouldn't even take an aspirin unless it was truly necessary, inevitably turned to booze. Vodka had always been his choice at parties. He had mixed it with tonic or juices for years, but now he drank it straight, like water. He used it to help him get to sleep, but he hadn't slept through a night since the murder itself, really, and after the execution, his insomnia only grew worse. When he did fall asleep, he often suffered a mentally excruciating nightmare, waking with a scream or pounding the bed. He refused to describe the horrible dreams, and Lil didn't believe he had told Dr. Stevens about them in any detail either. When she questioned him the morning after one of these episodes, he simply said, "You don't want to hear it, Lil. You don't want to know."

"Why not? Can anything be more terrible than what's happened to us, Harry?" she asked.

He stared at her with those dead, cold eyes for a moment. "Yes," he said, but he refused to elaborate.

Things, she concluded, were going from the difficult to the impossible. Lately she had begun to consider her own mental health and welfare. How much longer, she wondered, could she take this without going mad herself?

Lil was at the office when Harry returned with the Feinsteins. She and Harry had a rather plush office on Cold Water Canyon. Their waiting room rivaled some of the best doctors' waiting rooms. Clara Weincoup, a widow of twelve years now, had been their receptionist-secretary for nearly fifteen. She was efficient and loyal and very professional.

Even Clara had been a target of media attention after Farah was murdered. Reporters and cameramen actually followed her home one day and tried to invade her garage before the door came down behind her car. She never gave them a word beyond "I have no comment." They soon gave up on her.

Clara had only one child, a son who was an accountant in Pomona. As if she understood Harry's mental anguish better than his therapist understood it, Clara stopped talking about her son and his family after Farah's death. She was all business, which made things even colder and more difficult at work for Lil.

Harry came in alone. The Feinsteins had rejected the offer to look at more property descriptions. Mrs. Feinstein's reply was something along the lines of our time being more important to us than it is obviously to you. He watched them drive off, actually wondering what the hell had happened this time? What had he done that was so damn terrible?

He and Lil had separate offices. Pictures of Farah, Farah memorabilia, her framed high school diploma, letters of commendation for her acting and modeling, and laminated copies of Farah's cover shots and modeling assignments were everywhere. Lost in the mix was the newspaper article about Elaine's high school valedictory speech and some of her commendations, including her winning of a National Honor Society scholarship. There were pictures of the four of them, but there were no pictures of Harry and Elaine, whereas there were three of him and Farah.

Lil's office was more balanced. There were more full family shots and almost as many pictures of Elaine as of Farah, even though Farah had gone into modeling, married Dirk, and become a media celebrity. That was Harry's excuse when Lil pointed out the disparity.

"What do you expect? Farah made a career of having her picture taken, Lil. It's not unusual to have some examples around me, is it?" he fired back.

She didn't continue the discussion. Dr. Stevens had implied that pitting one daughter against the other, especially since one was dead, would be a big mistake at this time. "People who survive violent death when one of their loved ones didn't survive often feel great guilt, and you don't want your surviving daughter to have any such feeling, Lil," Dr. Stevens had said.

It made sense. Lil zippered up her complaints and went on. But could she go on and on much longer? Where, she began to wonder, were they going anyway?

"How did you do with the Feinsteins?" she asked, following Harry into his office. He dropped his briefcase on the desk and stared at it for so long a moment that she thought he wasn't going to reply at all. He was simply going to ignore her.

"Can you believe I left out the geological study on that place?" he finally asked, still not looking at her.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Of course I can believe it."

He looked up sharply.

"Huh?"

"Why shouldn't you forget an important document, Harry? Last week you completely forgot an appointment and left a client waiting at a home for over an hour—even though you had it on your calendar and Clara had given you a memo."

"I told you, I confused a date, that's all."

"That's not all, Harry. It's . . . everything. If you continue this, we're going to be out of business," she warned.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say "So what?" but he just looked at his briefcase. "I'm trying," he mumbled.

"Trying is not good enough," she replied with uncharacteristic firmness. Again, he looked at her sharply. "You can try and try and try, but after a while if you don't succeed, Harry, you fail."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm dying, too," she replied, her eyes watering. "If you don't come back soon . . ."

"What?" he shot back. "What are you going to do, Lil?"

"Figure it out, Harry," she said, quickly regaining her composure. She had a two o'clock appointment.

He lowered himself into his desk chair like a man who had just learned he was terminally ill.

"I can't get him out of my mind," he muttered, his lips trembling.

"Harry . . ."

"Every time I look through a window, I feel as if I'm looking through the window in that witness room. I see that sickeningly arrogant face. He took our lives," Harry moaned, "and he suffered no pain, Lil."

"He was killed, Harry," she said softly.

"He didn't know it. He was given an easy ride."

"But it was still death, Harry. You've got to put it to bed or he gets what he wanted, Harry. He's the one who gets revenge, not you."

Harry took a deep breath and pulled his head back to close his eyes.

"You have another daughter whom you are ignoring, Harry. You are," Lil insisted. "And she feels it, too, Harry. He's getting his revenge that way as well.

"And then there's me, Harry."

He opened his eyes and looked at her. "I know," he said.

"You might think about moving on to a psychiatrist, Harry. You might need some medication. Dr. Stevens isn't helping you."

"That's for sure," he said. "None of them know shit."

"That may be true, Harry, but until you find another solution, you've got to try them, get help. I can't go on like this forever," she threatened.

He fixed his eyes on her.

"I love you and I want you to love me," she said, "but if you insist on letting that horrible man drag you down into the grave with him, then I've got to let go, Harry. I'm not ready to die. I have another daughter who needs a mother and I want to see grandchildren. I want to enjoy good food, good theater, travel. In short, I want to live and have fun, Harry. I don't feel guilty for having those feelings, either. If I could, I would sacrifice my life to bring Farah back. She grew inside me and was a part of me, and something of me died with her, but something of me lives on, Harry. Doesn't anything of you?" Her eyes were glassy again. She took a deep breath, turned, and left this office.

He stared after her. Then he turned and looked out the window. Civilized men aren't supposed to pursue vengeance, he thought. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," remember? Vengeance was a base motive. Those sinned upon became sinners themselves. Would he really feel better today if he had witnessed Dirk Stoner suffering great pain, begging for his life, reduced to a sniveling, driveling idiot?

Would he really feel better if had somehow been the instrument of Stoner's death?

He considered.

Yes, he concluded unabashedly. Call me a sinner, brand me with a v for vengeance, condemn me to hell. I can't deny it. I would feel better. So I'm not civilized. Was Stoner civilized? Is anyone, really? Maybe that's all just another illusion. Maybe we're simply not capable of such high ideals. I confess. I am not.

Just admitting that to himself seemed to free him of one of the shackles. He could breathe easier.

But what could he do about it? You can't kill a dead man, he thought, and then he thought about Stoner's funeral. Not even Lil knew Harry had attended. He had driven to the cemetery to watch the mourners, to see if he could catch a glimpse of Philip Stoner's face. Stoner stood head and shoulders above the others, but Harry wasn't close enough to see the man's expression. After the mourners left, they lowered the casket into the grave. Harry got there before they started to cover it. He leaned over the grave and he spit. Lil never knew any of that. If she did, she would be upset, he thought. She wouldn't believe him when he told her he felt a little relief.

What he ought to do now, he thought, is go over there one night and smash up that beautiful marble monument, shatter it to bits and imagine what Philip Stoner's face would look like when he found out someone had done it. He would probably suspect me, Harry thought. What would he do about it?

Harry almost welcomed the challenge.

I might just go and do it, he thought. He dwelled on the idea so intensely that Clara had to knock on his door to tell him she had been ringing his line.

"A client on two, Harry," she said. "Mr. Holt about the Klinger property."

"Huh? Oh. Thanks, Clara," he said.

She stared a moment and then closed the door.

He looked at the blinking button and then, without picking up the receiver, he got up and left the office.

ELAINE USUALLY HAD NO TROUBLE looking at the faces of the corpses provided to the N.Y.U. medical school for study. She performed with the necessary scientific detachment, only vaguely aware of how some of the males in her class watched her, listened to her objective analysis, her cold recitation of detail, and shook their heads, both out of envy and out of distaste. The joke the men passed around about her was that Elaine Ross took notes and gave dictation while making love, but at least you got a prostate exam in the deal.

Since accompanying her father to witness the execution, she suffered emotional weakness, however. Today, again, in the midst of a heart dissection, she glanced at the face of the fifty-eight-year-old male Caucasian and shuddered. She thought—imagined, of course—that the corpse turned its dull gray eyeballs toward her and the pale lips folded into a sardonic smile: Dirk Stoner's death-chamber smile. She gasped and turned white herself.

"Miss Ross?" Dr. Cummings said. "Are you all right?"

Everyone was looking at her.

"Um . . .no. I feel a bit dizzy. I'm sorry," she said.

"Mr. Forster, will you take over please," Dr. Cummings instructed, and the short, stocky man beside Elaine moved into place quickly. Elaine surrendered the scalpel and stepped back.

"Take a moment," Dr. Cummings whispered. She nodded and left the lab.

In the ladies' room she splashed her face with water as cold as she could get it and then took a few deep breaths.

When would it end?

She stood by the open window and gazed out at the street, watching the traffic and the people for a while. Then she gathered herself and returned to the lab. Dr. Cummings looked up as she entered, and she smiled to indicate she was all right. He nodded, and Elaine joined the group again. However, she didn't look at the face. She concentrated on the mitral valve and the left ventricle and listened to the discussion.

Afterward she apologized again.

"It happens," Dr. Cummings said. "We're only human."

She permitted him to provide that explanation, even though she knew in her own living, beating heart that it wasn't the right explanation. Everyone seemed to be helping her avoid reality in the hope that soon, soon it would go away. After all, who had anything close to her experience? Who else in this school was the sister of one the country's most famous murder victims?

By late morning Elaine was close to her usual self. After attending her lecture she charged off to the cafeteria, deciding today to have lunch at the school and keep up the continuous stream of study.

Elaine had the knack of reading and walking at the same time. She could even, as she was doing now, gaze down at an open book on her lunch tray, and read as she walked almost under the protection of some radar, to an empty seat, lower herself without lifting her eyes from the page, take the dishes off the tray, and keep reading until she had finished the paragraph.

She flipped the pages to an illustration, opened her notebook, and then, before taking the pen out of the top pocket of her lab coat, took a bite of her chopped egg sandwich. She chewed and began making notes.

There was noise all around her—chattering, clanking of dishes and silverware, laughter, even someone nearby singing to the music coming over the earphones of his portable CD player. She heard none of it and was surprised when the young man across from her raised his voice to say, "Excuse me."

She gazed at him and blinked as if to bring herself back to reality. She hadn't realized anyone had sat at her table. He was a good-looking dark-haired man with striking blue eyes. He too wore a lab coat, but she had never seen him before; she thought she would have remembered if she had. He smiled, a soft, gentle smile.

"I was just wondering if you were going to use that pack of sugar.

"What? Oh, yes. I mean, no. Here," she said, thrusting it toward him.

He took it and broke it to put into his iced tea.

"You've got the best concentration I've ever seen," he said. He bit into his sandwich.

"I'm just trying not to fall behind. It doesn't take long," she said.

"Tell me about it."

She considered him again, this time with more interest. "You're a med student here?"

"I'm pretending," he said and laughed. He put his sandwich down, wiped his hands on his napkin, and reached across to shake her hand. "Kellyn Dumbar."

"Elaine Ross." She offered her hand, and he held it as he shook his head

"Ross, Ross . . . why do I know that name?"

Her smile faded, and she pulled her hand away.

In the beginning she'd had to contend with the recognition, and she would have been the first to admit that it had turned her into more of a hermit. Now that some time had passed, however, she felt more at ease and had begun to let down her guard. The phone calls had ended, and the reporters had stopped waiting at her apartment door. Months earlier, one had had the nerve to wait for her in the corridor one afternoon. She had gotten rid of him only by threatening to call Security.

"We're not in any classes together," she said quickly. She turned back to her reading.

"No, I knew that," he said. "Oh," he added, "I remember now. Your sister was—"

"Excuse me," she said. "I've got to read this."

"Sure. Sorry," he said and returned to his sandwich. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye occasionally. He looked hurt.

It's getting to be I can't talk to people civilly, she thought. She lowered the book. "I don't mean to be short with you, but I don't like talking about my sister."

"I understand," he said. "Some time ago my little brother was killed in a car accident. It was tragic. He was only ten, and the guy who hit him was drunk, but he was the son of a politician in our town, so he got away with it."

"Where are you from?"

"A little town in Kansas. The accident made all the papers, of course, and then the television stations came around. It was a big story for our area. After that, whenever something similar happened, people who knew me and my family would say, Kellyn had something like that happen to his family, and inevitably I would have to repeat the details, relive the tragedy. I imagine that's the way it is for you."

"Exactly," Elaine said.

"Of course, that was just on a small scale—nothing compared to the national attention your sister's case received. Now that I look at you, I recall seeing your picture in magazines and newspapers."

"Not because I wanted it there," she said.

He nodded. "I still relive the horror, and it was years and years ago, but I still get angry thinking about the corrupt legal system that lets scum like that guy get away scot-free. For you . . . I'm amazed you're doing as well as you are. I guess working hard keeps you from thinking about it all, huh?"

"Yes, it does, but I work hard no matter what," she said.

He laughed.

She looked at her book again and finished her sandwich. He finished his and started on his iced tea.

"Can I ask you one more thing before shutting up?"

She lowered her book and stared at him. "What?"

"I remember reading that you attended the execution. Is there any . . . relief?"

"Pardon?"

"Does it do any good? I'm one of those people who are undecided about the death penalty," he added.

"Let's put it this way. He can't do to anyone else what he did to my sister. Dead is dead. You oughta know that from autopsies," she concluded. She didn't mean to sound so hard, but she just couldn't imagine what it would be like knowing Dirk was alive, even alive behind bars. He would still enjoy his food, masturbate or have some sick sex, watch television, read, play sports, breathe . . . while Farah decomposed in her grave.

"Yeah, I'm not concerned so much about the criminal as I am about the victims. Do they feel any relief?"

She lowered her book. "Are you in psychology?"

"You might say that," he replied. "Does it show?"

"No, nothing shows these days. That's the problem. Yes, I suppose there is some relief in knowing he's gone forever from my life," she said, even though she would have been the first to admit it wasn't so, not yet, not for her and not for her father. This morning's fiasco in the lab was proof enough of that.

Kellyn nodded. "Thanks." He sat back.

"No books?" she asked noticing he had brought nothing into the cafeteria.

"I like lunch to be lunch," he said. "A real break. It's better for the digestion, and I enjoy my food. You strike me as someone who eats to eat."

She laughed. "And why do you eat?"

"It's enjoyable when you have something tasty, something good," he said. "Don't deny the pleasure of the senses, all the senses," he said. "That's my credo."

"At least you're honest," she said, her eyes going back to the textbook page.

"Brutally sometimes. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you honest?"

"As honest as I have to be," she said.

"Sounds like you should be a politician, not a doctor."

"Sometimes there's no difference," she said, and he laughed.

"Are you seeing anyone in particular at the moment?"

"No."

"Straightforward answer."

"I don't have the time for relationships right now," she added defensively.

"I . . .don't know about that statement. That sounds like avoidance."

"Don't start analyzing me," she snapped.

He held up his hands. "Wouldn't think of it. You're a most interesting person. Do you room with anyone?"

"Why?"

"I'm trying to form an opinion about you," he said.

She stared a moment. "No. What does that indicate?"

"Independence, confidence. Do you drive or walk to work?"

"What is this?"

"I've got my own test. I designed it as a project. Walk or ride?"

"I live within walking distance of the school, and I don't have a car in the city," she said.

He nodded. "I bet you like opera, concerts, highbrow stuff," he continued.

"I've had enough analysis, Doctor." She rose.

"I don't mean to drive you away," he said. "I was just looking for an opportunity to ask you out, trying to find out what you like to do."

"At the moment, not much," she said. "Sorry."

She gathered up her books and tray.

"Bye," he said.

She nodded and walked away. When she reached the door, she turned and saw he was gone. He had left through the other doorway.

For the rest of the day Kellyn Dumbar came back to Elaine's mind intermittently. Call it instinct, call it a sixth sense, something bothered about him her. He seemed too smooth and gave up too easily. She had the feeling he knew who she was before he sat at her table and all that chatter first was just a facade. Almost everyone at this school knew her. Why hadn't she ever seen him before?

It bothered her so much that she stopped at the registrar's office before she left the building. The secretary looked up when Elaine entered. Although it had been months and months since Dirk's execution, her picture, her family's pictures, and the story were still fresh in people's minds, and the crime was still occasionally referred to in one of the news magazines. A debate always ensued about the death penalty, and invariably references were made to the Dirk Stoner-Farah Ross murder case.

"Hi," Elaine said. "I need a favor."

"What can I do for you, Miss Ross?" the secretary asked eagerly.

"I have to give another student something, and I've forgotten his schedule, where to meet him. His name's Dumbar, Kellyn Dumbar."

"No problem," she said and hit a function key on her computer. "Dumbar?"

"Yes." Elaine stood by and watched her work the keys and the mouse. "Thank you."

"No problem . . . Dumbar. I have a Domar and a Dunning, but no Dumbar, I'm afraid. You're sure that's the name?"

"Yes," Elaine said. She thought a moment.

Bastard must have been a reporter, she thought. After all, he did say he was pretending to be a student. They probably had my picture taken while I was unaware too. Where will this story appear?

She didn't forget about it. Her rage at being duped flamed for days, rising every time she entered the cafeteria and remembered him. Days passed. She paused at a newsstand every morning and perused the rag sheets. She even made it a point to watch some of the trash television news shows, but nothing appeared.

Weeks went by and nothing appeared anywhere. She never saw him on the campus again.

Vaguely she wondered who he was.

Why was it so important to him to know personal details about her? Who was suddenly so interested in Elaine Ross?

HARRY ROSS STOOD IN FRONT OF his daughter's grave, as he had done many, many times before, and read her name, her dates, and her epitaph, a quotation from Byron that was used in her high school yearbook: "She walks in beauty like the night."

Although he had been at every step in the journey to this place and knew as well as he knew the back of his own hand that Farah was dead and buried here, that her remains lay under the earth, neatly and beautifully wrapped in the cushions of that coffin, his mind wouldn't take the final step, wouldn't permit him to really believe in her death. She was away, but she would return.

How could he, as her protector, her provider, her guardian, have let this happen? Why hadn't he stopped it? Why wasn't he there that night? In wishful dreams he saw himself arriving just moments after Dirk. He heard the shouting, and he saw Dirk raise his arm, his hand clutching the sharpened screwdriver, ready to plunge it into Farah's throat and heart.

Without delay he ran forward and grabbed that lethal arm, pulling it down and away from his terrified daughter. He struggled with Dirk and forced him down, driving his knee into his crotch and then twisting his hand until the screwdriver fell to the floor. He pummeled his face, pounded his body incessantly, smashing him into oblivion. And then he rose and embraced Farah and calmed her, kissing and holding her tightly.

"Oh, Daddy," she was chanting, "thank God you came. Thank God. Oh, Daddy . . ."

"It's all right, honey. It's all right."

He had saved her a thousand times in his dreams, but in reality he stood here in the dark and gazed at her tombstone, mesmerized by the sight of her name and those dates. He recalled her birth vividly, Lil proudly holding her in her arms, the two of them rambling on and on about how beautiful Farah was, doing exactly what they had told each other they wouldn't do: becoming doting parents.

How does a parent stand in front of his child's grave, he thought, and remember the birthdays, the laughter, the happy events and not think, This cannot be, and if it is true, then this cannot be a reasonable and a good universe? It is a universe ruled by an evil force, and the priests, the clergymen who come around and try to explain, who ask him to work on a bigger view, a view of acceptance and faith, were all part of this evil force, working for it, keeping it alive and well in the hearts and minds of men and women.

Harry stepped forward and put his hand on top of the monument, as he always did before he left, and he closed his eyes and repeated his apology. "I'm sorry, Farah. I'm sorry I let this happen to you."

He stood there a moment afterward, as if he believed that someday he might actually hear her voice, hear her forgiveness and love. Then he turned and hurried out of the cemetery, moving like a spirit that had risen from the grave himself, swiftly, silently, keeping to the shadows, rushing into another pocket of darkness.

Tonight he had a second place to go. In his madness, his need for some respite, he thought this might just help. The idea had come to him earlier, and he had planned and prepared for it.

He got into his car and drove onto the freeway. He was like someone running on autopilot, weaving in and out of traffic and then finding himself at his destination without remembering the trip. How he kept from having an accident, he would never know. There was no good angel looking after him, that was for sure, he thought. If there had been, none of this would have been permitted to happen.

He drove slowly, turning off his lights as soon as he had passed through the gates. Then he brought the car to a stop, turned off the engine, and waited a moment. His heart was pounding. Did he have the strength to do this? he wondered.

He got out and closed the door quietly. He felt more like a grave robber than a father seeking vengeance. He went to the trunk, opened it and took out the new sledgehammer. It was heavier than he had realized. It seemed to have grown in weight since he bought it. Maybe that was because he was here and it was night and he was going to do it, but the hammer felt like double its original mass. In a way that was good, he thought; it would have more impact.

He turned toward the pathway between the tombs. He moved with determination now, walking briskly, and when Dirk Stoner's beautiful headstone came into view, Harry broke into a mad run, carrying the sledgehammer in front of him, looking like some barbaric warrior, his hair flying up, his eyes bulging, his lips stretched grotesquely. He let the weight of the sledgehammer draw him forward. As soon as he was close enough, he lifted it and cried out with rage as he swung it and delivered the first telling blow. He caught the headstone at the top left corner, sending chips and pieces into the night.

Then he spun around and delivered another blow into the center of it. The stone shook, but didn't shatter. He swung again and again, chipping away, sweating and grunting with every turn and delivery. The blows vibrated through his own body. They felt as if they might shatter his bones as well as the stone, but he continued, even after he had become short of breath. A large chunk of the tomb finally broke off, and he saw that it carried most of murderer's name and part of the date.

Gasping for breath, Harry paused and leaned on the sledgehammer, the realization of what he had done slowly overtaking him, rising up from the ground, filling his legs with a coldness that settled in his stomach and then around his heart.

"What have you become?" the voice of conscience and fear within him asked.

"I don't care," he told that voice. "He shouldn't have been given any sort of funeral, and he shouldn't have anything but a dark marker, and it should say, 'Here lies murdering scum.'"

To demonstrate his resolve and lack of remorse, he swung the hammer a few more times, chipping and gouging the stone until he really was too tired to hit it with any real effect anymore. His shoulders and his ribs ached, and he was soaked with his own perspiration. He had done enough damage anyway, he thought.

He looked around, for the first time wondering if anyone else was nearby, if anyone had heard or seen what he had done. Satisfied that he was alone, he took one last look at his work of vengeance and then hurried away, throwing the sledgehammer into the trunk of the car and getting in quickly.

He drove out and onto the freeway, heading back toward Los Angeles. The sweat on his face ran into his eyes. He wiped them and took deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. Then he realized he was going nearly a hundred miles an hour and quickly slowed down. The worse thing that could happen now, he knew, would be to get pulled over by a traffic cop and given a ticket, which would place him near the scene.

See, he told himself and laughed, I'm thinking like a criminal, like him, like them.

So what?

Fight fire with fire, he thought and drove on until he found a slope near the road that dropped a few hundred feet into a gully. He stopped, took out the sledgehammer, and tossed it. There would be no evidence.

When he arrived at his home, Lil was already in bed. She had been reading to keep her mind occupied, but the book was folded in her lap and her eyes were shut. He stood in the bedroom doorway and gazed at her for a long moment before going to the bathroom to take a shower. It didn't occur to him until he was drying off that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Pangs of hunger felt good, healthy. He was like a man who had been resurrected. The smashing of Dirk's tombstone had been cathartic. It had purged him of some of his grief. He realized he had more energy than he had anticipated.

He wrapped the towel around himself and emerged. Lil was awake now, waiting. "Where were you, Harry?" she demanded.

"Nowhere in particular," he said. "I did a lot of thinking."

"Clara called to tell me you walked out of the office with clients on the line. You said nothing to her; you didn't so much as look at her before you left. That wasn't fair to her, Harry."

"I'll apologize in the morning," he said.

"Why don't you do this instead, Harry?" she continued, her eyes narrow as she leaned forward. "Why don't you go into the garage, find a rag, pour some of that gasoline you use in the lawn mower over it, stuff it into a soda bottle with some of the rag out, drive over to the office, light it, and throw it through the office front window? Then come home, Harry," she said.

She held her gaze on him for a moment before leaning back on the pillow.

He blew air out of his closed lips and nodded. "All right, Lil. All right. It's going to be different from now on. I promise."

"Different, Harry? Oh, it's been different." She smiled. "I don't think I can stand any more different."

"I mean, better," he said. "Look, it's taking me longer than it took you. The therapist obviously was of some value to you, but not to me."

"Why is it going to be better now, Harry?" she asked after a few seconds of study.

"It just is. I feel it," he said. "I'm hungry. I can't remember the last time I was really hungry. I've been eating just to eat."

"I delayed supper for you for almost an hour."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You didn't call. You just walked out on Clara and the clients. What was I supposed to think, Harry? Have you punished me enough yet?" she added.

He raised his eyebrows. "Punished you? Why would I want to punish you?"

"I encouraged Farah to date Dirk. I was taken up with the celebrity and the fame and the attention."

"So? Who wasn't? Didn't I try to make him my son? Didn't I go places with him? I can't blame you, Lil. I don't, I swear."

She nodded, skeptical. "Dr. Stevens explained how that's often a subconscious problem for parents who survive their child's death. They blame themselves and each other, and sometimes one blames the other more in order to escape his or her own torment," she said.

"That's not me, and I told you, I don't think Stevens or any of them know a damn thing, really. It's all mumbo jumbo, just another kind of snake oil. I'm only sorry I put any money into it," he added.

"Okay, Harry," she said, sighing. "Okay. We'll go on merrily down the road of self-destruction until you've exorcised the demons."

She turned over and switched off the nightstand lamp. Then she lowered herself under the blanket.

"I'm getting something to eat," he declared.

"I'm getting some sleep. I know I'll need it," she muttered.

He stood there for a moment and then went to the kitchen. She'll see, he thought. She'll see.

The next morning he was up and at it as early as he used to be up and at it. She was surprised at how he was moving about the house. He had dressed nicely in one of his better sports jackets and a sharp, bright tie. He had the coffee made, the juice squeezed, and was preparing some healthy cereal for himself and for her with fresh fruit.

"Good morning," he sang. "I was thinking that maybe you and I would plan a little vacation and combine it with visiting Elaine at school."

"You would go back to New York City? After the last trip, you said you hate New York City now."

"I don't hate it; I just get crazy when I see what's happened to my old neighborhood and some of the other areas," he said. "But she's at NYU medical. There's no point in ignoring it," he added. "In fact, we've got to show her how proud we are of her accomplishments."

Lil drew the corners of her lips in and nodded. "That's what I've been saying for the last year and a half," Harry."

"I know. I'm sorry. Let's wrap up a few deals this week, and I'll get on the horn with our travel agent. I was thinking about Jamaica."

"Jamaica? I'll let you twist my arm for that," she said and sat down.

The sunlight was streaming through the window. It felt like more than just a new morning, however. It felt like . . .a whole new start, and why it should come now, she had no idea, but she wasn't about to question it.

At the office Harry was his old self, too. He apologized profusely to Clara, who was growing more and more embarrassed by it. Lil finally had to tell him to put it to an end. He laughed and went to work, making his calls, chasing down his clients. It was as if Lil could feel the thick, heavy air lift away. She and Clara smiled at each other, listening to Harry's familiar banter on the phone.

They had a good working lunch, talking to some clients who were looking for a home with a guesthouse. They had three good properties to show and made appointments for the next day and the day after that.

After lunch, Lil went off to meet a client, and Harry returned to the office. He had just sat down behind his desk when his phone buzzed and Clara, in a rather nervous tone, said, "You have a visitor, Mr. Ross."

"Visitor?" He checked his calendar quickly and saw that he had no appointment. "Um, I'll be right there."

He rose and opened his office door to face Philip Stoner. The two men stood so still that Clara thought they had turned each other to pillars of salt. Then she was afraid they might attack each other.

"What do you want?" Harry demanded.

"I want to talk, Harry."

"I have nothing to say to you, Philip," he replied sharply and started to turn.

"Then you'll just listen."

"I don't think there's anything you can say that I'd want to hear."

"Then I'll just talk at you, Harry, and if something's worthwhile, you'll hear it," Stoner said. He was fixed with the immovable determination of a dedicated security guard, a Secret Service agent, sworn to give his own life first. Harry saw that he would literally have to physically throw him out.

He returned to his desk. Philip Stoner entered the office and closed the door.

"Funny," Stoner said gazing around, "all the time Dirk was married to Farah, you and I never met here."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure it's quite a comedown from your offices, Philip. You didn't care to go slumming."

Stoner's eyes grew even colder. "There's no point in us hating each other, Harry. We both lost."

Harry blew air out of the side of his mouth and turned his chair so as not to look directly at Stoner.

Philip moved to the chair in front of the desk and sat. "I don't diminish your loss or your pain by reminding you that I lost my son, do I, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry threw back. "You do, because your son was an animal—wealthy, famous, athletic, but an animal, and you," Harry said, pointing at Stoner, "bear responsibility for that. You made him what he was, and then you tried to deny it."

"That's not fair, Harry. You know it's not fair. Farah was a beautiful, lovely woman, but she wasn't perfect. She had faults, but I would never blame you and Lil for her faults."

"Faults. What faults did she have that could compare . . . and even after he had done the deed, you did everything in your power to get him off, didn't you? Well, didn't you?"

"I tried to help him, yes. He was my son, Harry. Yes, the evidence was against him, and there was that eyewitness who placed him at the scene of the crime, but people make mistakes. You have to be sure and do everything you can, Harry, to be positive it's not a setup."

"Oh, please, spare me the dream team shit: five other people out of a trillion could have the same markers, so maybe it wasn't him. Please."

"And then there was all that clamor, that political backstabbing bullshit, demanding the death penalty," Philp Stoner continued, undaunted. "The minorities only wanted their pound of flesh, Harry. It wouldn't have been wrong to give him life imprisonment without parole, but no, we had to satisfy the bloodlust. Look at it from my point of view."

"Your point of view?" Harry started to laugh.

"You don't know what you would have done had the situation been reversed," Stoner assured him.

"I would have disowned him, denied him. I wouldn't have kept him from getting what he deserved," Harry shot back, his face brightening with rage. "I'm sure if he thought he could have gotten away with it, he would have kept you and your army of lawyers going, but he was too damn spoiled to spend the time in prison. He'd rather take the easy way out, and believe me, that execution was a farce. It was an easy way out for someone like him."

"All right, Harry. All right. It's useless to argue about such a hypothesis. Someday, when enough time has passed, you'll admit to yourself that a son is still your flesh and blood and you can't walk away, especially under those political circumstances."

"Is that what you came here to tell me? Because if it is—"

"No, Harry. I came here to tell you we've got to put this to bed. We've buried them both, and we've got to let go. Now, I can bring forth a witness who saw a certain automobile at a certain hour at the cemetery where Dirk is buried, and the police can trace tire tread and check footprints. All that can be done, but there's no point. There's no point, Harry, because I could replace the headstone on Dirk's grave three, four, six times a day, every day for a hundred years, and it wouldn't make a dent in my net worth."

Harry stared. "What the hell are you saying now?"

"I'm not saying anything, Harry. I'm not making any accusations. I'm not making any complaints. I'm here only to tell you that we've got to put it to bed. If I could find a way to change what happened, I would, no matter what the cost, but I can't and you can't, and there's no point to adding our own self-destruction to the tragedy," he added firmly. He leaned over the desk. "Let it go," he concluded. Then he pushed away and straightened up.

"I've succeeded in keeping this business at the cemetery out of the newspapers, Harry. You can just imagine what they would do with the story. I won't have as easy a time if it happens again. None of us will," Stoner added, his voice more threatening.

"Please," he said, suddenly smiling, the change in expression as abrupt as a schizophrenic's, "give Lil my best. She is truly in my thoughts and prayers."

He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him. Harry felt as if his office had become a coffin, shut up, stifling. For a moment he couldn't breathe. He went to the window and threw it open, gasping until his heartbeat slowed. Then he sank back into his desk chair.

Later, when Lil returned and found out Philip Stoner had been there, she came rushing into Harry's office. "What did he want?" she asked.

Harry had his back to the door and was gazing out the window. When he turned to her, he looked as if he had regressed. His face had lost the lightness it had in the morning. He was pale, his eyes vacanct. Her heart had that hollow feeling again. The dread had returned.

"Maybe he wanted to apologize," Harry said after a moment. "Before he left he said to tell you that you were in his thoughts and prayers."

"Apologize?" She sank into the same chair Stoner had taken. "Why now? After all this time, why would he come to you?" she questioned suspiciously.

Harry shrugged. He would say nothing about the cemetery. "His conscience finally got to him, maybe. I don't know, and I don't care."

Lil shook her head. "It doesn't make sense. Does it make sense to you?" she asked him.

He stared at her a moment and then shook his head. "None of it ever did," he said, and now he realized he was even talking about his own actions.

THE WOMAN WHO HAD BEEN HIS nurse stood in the doorway of the living room with her suitcase in hand. She wore a drab gray coat over a dark blue dress with a hem that reached her ankles. Her dull salt-and-pepper hair looked as if someone had put a bowl over her head and trimmed it. She wore no makeup, and her lips were so pale, they were hard to distinguish from the rest of her face if he looked at her from a half dozen feet away. Close up, they reminded him of day-old dry worms. Her teeth were too yellow for a nurse's teeth too. A nurse should look healthier, he thought.

He never asked, but he imagined her age to be somewhere in the early fifties. Then he concluded that she was probably only in her forties but looked older. She had a small bosom and wide hips with a round, habitually swollen belly that pressed into the uniform and made the buttons strain against the buttonholes. Once he had a nightmare that the bulge came from some field animal she had swallowed whole.

Her arms had light, curly hair right down to the back of her wrists. She had her nails trimmed, but her fingers were bony, even a bit gnarled at the knuckles. In short, they couldn't have found him a more asexual woman. He thought that must have been deliberate.

He and his private-duty nurse had been together for some time, but he felt no affection for her and sensed she felt nothing for him either. He was merely her patient, nothing more, nothing less. She had done her job well, efficiently, but now it was time to move on to another position. He had asked her little or nothing about herself, and she had offered nothing. The only thing he really knew about her was her name, Miss Lester, Irene Lester, although he never called her Irene.

And she never called him anything but Mr. Lewis.

"My car is here, Mr. Lewis," she said. "I'll be going now."

He raised his eyebrows, or at least he thought he did. He wasn't sure of anything anymore, least of all his own facial gestures. "Oh?"

"You knew I was leaving today. I told you last night," she reminded him in the same curt voice she used to remind him to take his medicine.

He nodded. Of course he knew. This place wasn't exactly a bed of news. An event such as her leaving for good was a major headline on the front pages of his life these days.

She stared. Was she waiting for him to wish her luck, or was she debating whether or not to wish him luck? There was just a long, empty moment that apparently neither he nor she cared to fill.

"Well, then," she said, "you have your instructions. Everything has been organized and set up for you."

"Right," he said.

"Good-bye, Mr. Lewis."

"Good-bye, Miss Lester," he heard himself say.

She turned and went out the front door. The miniature grandfather clock on the mantel clanged out the hour. For a clock no more than two feet tall, it had an amazingly loud sound, he thought. He had grown to know each and every sound in this fucking place. He had grown to hate every corner, every hardwood floor, every area rug, every double-paned window, and every ceiling. He even hated the plumbing, which groaned every time someone took a dump in the toilet upstairs.

Of course, under any other circumstances, it would be just another quaint cottage on someone's Montana ranch, a place to house hunters, a retreat for some writer, a hideaway for someone who needed time alone to think and ponder the mysteries of existence, whatever. For him it was simply another part of the long nightmare.

He rose slowly and went to the front window in the living room to watch Miss Lester get into the black Lincoln Town Car. She didn't look back. She disappeared within and the car rushed away. It was quiet again. He stared out at the vast flat field and the mountains in the distance. That would be a walk, he thought, all the way to those mountains. Beyond them was the world he longed to be in again.

He was permitted reasonable physical activity. All of his limits were clearly delineated, and no one gave him a warning more than once. Break one rule, violate one command, disregard one word of advice, and he was on his own. For now, that was a very serious threat, but soon, soon, he thought gleefully, he wouldn't give a shit.

He turned and went to the small room off the kitchen. In it was the gym equipment. First he turned on the music, a heavy metal band called the Lower Intestines. Then he went to the rowing machine, strapped his feet in, and began his rhythmic movement of the oars and his body. He was very graceful. He could see that in the mirror. The music blared, and he worked up a light sweat.

He was so into it that he almost went on too long, but suddenly he looked up and saw the two of them in the doorway. He called them the Everly Brothers because their names were Phil and Don. They resented it, but they didn't say a word. He could call them Shit and Piss, and they would come running.

"What?" he demanded.

"We're moving on."

"What?"

"Pepper is upstairs packing your stuff," Don said. "She sent us down to get you."

"What the fuck . . . ? When was this decided?"

Phil shrugged. Don just stared dumbly.

"It was decided," Phil remarked.

He threw down the oars and reached over to turn off the music. Don handed him a sweat towel, and he wiped his face and neck.

"Where am I going?"

Both shook their heads.

"What the fuck do you guys know? Do you know you're alive?"

Neither replied for a moment. Phil looked at Don and then raised his arms. "We just tell you what we're told to tell you, Mr. Lewis."

"Right," Jonathan Thomas Lewis said and rose from the rowing machine. He smiled a cold plastic smile. "Okay, let me see what the hell's going on, then," he said and walked out.

He hurried up the stairs, his heart still racing from the exercise, and paused in the doorway of his bedroom. "What the fuck's going on here?" Lewis demanded.

Pepper continued to pull garments from the closet and place them in the open suitcase. Lewis stood in the doorway.

"You're moving on," she finally said, but she didn't stop to look at him. Instead, she began to sort through the pants, shirts, and jackets, determining what would be taken and what would be left behind.

"I don't get it," Lewis said.

Pepper was a stocky woman, butch, a female bodybuilder who took steroids and male hormones. From the back, no one could be sure if she was female or male. Most would favor male. Her hair was cut short and shaved around the ears and in the back. She had distinct triceps muscles and a latissimus dorsi that Steve Reeves and Arnold Schwarzenegger would have applauded. Supposedly she was in her late twenties. She got her nickname from the tiny red-pepper dots on her cheeks and neck. They ran over her shoulders too. He imagined they ran down her spine and between her tennis-ball breasts. He knew as much about her as he did about anyone else connected with him now.

When she finally turned, he saw she was wearing her thirty-eight in a holster strapped to her belt. He stared at it, and she looked at him with those disdainful eyes.

"Take a shower and change," she said. "Put this on," she added, plucking a pair of pants and a shirt from the closet and tossing them across the bed. "I want you in something dark."

"Why am I moving on?" he demanded. "Why?" She paused and glared at him so hatefully that he thought she might actually pull out the pistol and shoot away. "I'm not paid to give answers normally, but this one time I'll tell you. Yesterday you apparently met two hunters in the north field." "So?"

"So? So? You know you aren't supposed to speak to anyone but us without clearance."

"The whole conversation couldn't have been more than five minutes. It was just a little chatter about hunting. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is if you fuck up, I fuck up, and I can fuck up only once," she said and turned back to his clothes.

"Look. . ."

"Get started," she muttered.

"Can't I pick out my own clothes?"

"You can go to the bathroom yourself. That's it," she remarked.

"This is bullshit," he said. "I—"

"What?" she challenged, her head snapping up and her eyes burning holes in him. "What are you going to do, Mr. Lewis? You're not going to make any foolish phone calls, are you? You're not going to go whining to anyone, are you?" she asked, the clear threat underlying her words.

He stared, his bravado diminishing very rapidly. "I'd just like to have a little information about what's being done," he said. He did sound like he was whining. "I'd just like a little respect."

She actually laughed. "Respect?"

"Yeah," he said regaining some of his courage.

"The only respect you'll ever have is the respect you can buy, Mr. Lewis, and frankly, no one connected with you right now is selling any. Take a shower. Put on your clothes, and count your lucky stars."

"If you don't like what you're doing, why are you doing it?" he asked.

She lifted her eyebrows and smiled as if he had asked the dumbest question. As soon as he had asked, he knew it was dumb and he hated how juvenile he sounded.

"I'm doing it for respect, Mr. Lewis," she said and laughed. Then she stopped laughing and took a step toward him. "You going to put yourself in that shower or am I?" she asked.

He hesitated only long enough to retain a modicum of dignity and then scooped up the clothes she had chosen for him and went into the bathroom.

Pepper continued to pack his things.

The two tribal police deputies reluctantly stepped out of their Jeep and gazed ahead. Neither looked forward to this, but they had gotten the call on their watch, and they were the closest officers to the landfill on the Crow reservation. A heavy man easily six feet five came out of the trailer just inside the gate and hurried toward them. His legs looked like two thick saplings, and his jowls shook over the protruding jawbone, the skin on his neck rippling like water in a small pond as he planted one large foot after the other. He looked as if he fell forward and caught himself just in time after each step. That was his gait.

As he drew closer, the deputies could see his large, round green eyes widen with excitement. He had a head of bushy, straw-tinted hair with the strands around his ears literally looking like pieces of straw.

He wore baggy, torn dungarees and a flannel shirt buttoned up to the base of his throat, but one cuff was undone and the sleeve flapped against his wide wrist.

"Maximilian looks like he's on the warpath," Jim Silverwater quipped.

Henry Strongman shook his head and laughed. "Whoa there, horse," he called.

"What a fuckin' thing, what a fuckin' thing," Maximilian chanted as he drew up to them.

"Where is it?" Silverwater asked.

"Over here. I'll show you. It's still smoldering," he said. "What a fuckin' thing."

"You sure you're just not into the firewater, Maximilian?" Strongman asked.

"You'll see."

"What time did you discover it?" Silverwater asked.

"As soon as I stepped out this morning, about an hour or so ago."

The two tribal policemen glanced at each other and followed him.

Maxwell Davis was often the butt of jokes. Content to be the supervisor of the landfill, he was nicknamed Maximilian; garbage and refuse were his empire.

"How did you actually discover it?" Silverwater asked. It was almost a self-defense mechanism—to keep talking in order to avoid what they were about to see.

"How?" Maximilian paused. "I got up, saw the smoke, remembered I didn't light anything, looked and . . . shit, what a fuckin' thing to wake up to," he added.

"Where?"

"Don't you smell it?" He paused. "Look, see the trail of smoke?" Maximilian said and nodded to the right.

Out of a fifty-five-gallon oil drum a small trickle of smoke rose and dissipated in the Montana wind. The tribal deputies approached slowly. It was as if they were walking in glue, and every step took more effort than the one preceding.

Strongman leaned forward and gazed into the drum first. He covered his face with his hand, and then Jim Silverwater took a look and did the same.

"Jesus."

"What a fuckin' thing," Maximilian said. "Huh?"

"You heard nothing last night?" Strongman asked, backing away. He felt himself growing nauseated. Jim had turned and coughed up some sputum.

"Nothin'. I was watching television to about one-thirty and then I went to sleep. My dog died last week. I had to put her down. Tumors. She was fifteen years old. She probably wouldn't have heard anything and barked anyway. She was practically deaf. Whoever came here probably thought the place was deserted. I had the truck parked around back."

"We better beat on the drum," Strongman said. Silverwater nodded. They hurried back to their vehicle, eager to put distance between themselves and the stench.

Silverwater went to the car phone and reported what they'd seen.

"I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman," he said into the mouthpiece. "Too much of it already burned. We got no reports of anyone missing from the reservation." He paused and turned to Silverwater. "You see anything in the drum identifiable?"

"Whatever it was, I think it was white," he said.

"He thinks it might be a paleface," Strongman said. He grunted. "Good," he added. "Chiefs calling the FBI," he told Silverwater. He looked grateful. The FBI was responsible for investigating crimes on Indian reservations.

"How's your drinking water?" Strongman asked Maximilian after Silverwater concluded.

"Good, but I got something stronger, if you want."

The two tribal deputies glanced at each other.

"Maybe something stronger," Strongman said. Silverwater nodded.

They both looked at the dump. The small trail of smoke could be seen smoldering and catching the tail of the wind to ride itself into the distance like some message their people would have sent to each other a hundred or so years ago.

Dr. Felix Lawler stepped back in the large entryway of the Palm Springs house and smiled. Jenny was marching through the large rooms like a building inspector, the real estate agent trailing behind and "Yes, ma'aming" her like an obedient subordinate.

The house was dramatic. When you stepped through the oversize front doors, you confronted a rock-and-cactus garden with a fountain that trickled water over terra cotta and delivered the silvery liquid to a canal filled with shiny multicolored rocks before disappearing into the floor and being recirculated.

Parrot cages of multiple colors hung from some of the Grecian pillars that rose to the domed ceiling. Half a dozen skylights made the entryway bright as well as airy and spacious. The illumination brought out the turquoise in the rich floor tiles. There was statuary everywhere and large oil paintings depicting southwestern scenes. The grand windows in the rear were draped in velvet with gold tassels.

Felix had already seen the master bedroom, which had a sunken floor and its own sitting room with a large-screen television set built into the wall. There were two bathrooms off the bedroom, his and hers, both with large shower stalls, and both with steam rooms, whirlpool tubs, and rich brass fittings on every fixture.

The large library-office attracted Felix the most, however. He planned to do some writing, maybe a medical thriller, maybe an expose of the medical world. He hadn't decided. The only decisions he had been making lately pertained to what he should spend his money on.

He and Jenny had a handsome home in Bel Air, but Jenny had come up with the idea that they should have a home in the desert, a vacation home in the playland that served the rich and the famous of Los Angeles. This 10,450-foot hacienda on an acre and a half of Indian lease land was quite extravagant. It was in one of the fanciest Palm Springs developments, located in the Indian Canyons, with the San Jacinto Mountains directly in front of them and the San Andreas directly behind them. On a clear day they could look north and see the San Bernardino Mountains as well. The views were truly breathtaking.

The pool was nearly Olympic size. There was a cabana, a large gazebo, a tennis court, a built-in barbecue, and a collection of orange, lemon, lime, and grapefruit trees. It looked like the Garden of Eden.

And it had been listed at $1,850,000.

When Jenny emerged from the kitchen, Felix could read a complaint on her face. His wife of twenty-three years was a comely redhead whose five-foot, four-inch height put her in an eternal war with the scale. Felix constantly warned her about losing and gaining weight rapidly. She had experimented with every fad until she could afford the personal trainer. Now she did look trimmer and fitter than he could ever recall. She actually looked better than she had when they first met!

"What?" he said.

"It's not a Jenn-Air, Felix," she whined, referring to the range in the kitchen. "It's some inferior make."

"So we'll replace it," he said.

Despite their relatively recent greater wealth, or maybe because it was so recent, she couldn't get used to the way Felix agreed to spend money. Nothing in his life seemed as casual as the way he bought things now. It was as if he believed he had an endless well from which to draw. He had taken the time to explain how their investments would bring in five times as much as he normally had earned, but all that stuff about net asset values, options, tax-exempt properties, and zero coupons made her head spin. Just give her a limit and some blank checks. That's all she wanted.

"I'm not happy with the tile in the guest bathrooms. The walls, everything is so . . .sixties," she continued.

The real estate agent, a tall, slender man with thinning light brown hair and a rather pale complexion for someone living in the desert, laughed nervously. He swept his tongue over his dry lower lip in anticipation of making this enormous sale. "I could probably get the owners to agree to some changes," he offered.

"As long as we control it," Jenny replied almost before he had the words out.

"Of course, Mrs. Lawler." He nodded, his head bobbing on his long, narrow neck, the Adam's apple recoiling and then becoming prominent.

"What do you think, Felix?" Jenny asked.

"Bigger than I expected," he said, "even from the pictures."

"Yes, it is a lot of house for two people. We have a son and a daughter, but they're both at college in the East," Jenny explained to the agent.

The real estate agent smiled weakly. This was usually where the couple talked themselves out of it, he realized sadly.

"It's big, but it's a bargain," he said. "And I can get you very attractive mortgage terms."

"We won't need a mortgage," Felix said. He stepped up to one of the statues and ran his fingers over the texture of the material.

"Oh? Well, that's always a plus," the real estate agent said, now smiling dumbly. He was so anxious for success, he nearly drooled.

Jenny turned and slowly perused the entryway. Felix watched her, amused. "Well?" he said.

"It's . . . magnificent, Felix."

"Yes, it is," he said matter-of-factly. He looked at the real estate agent. The man was literally holding his breath. The housing market had gone flat at the high end. These people could negotiate the price down a quarter of a million easily, but they hadn't even questioned him about the price or the people who wanted to sell, to see how desperately they wanted to unload the property.

"Draw up the papers," Felix said, and Jenny clapped her hands and embraced him.

"Thank you, Felix. Thank you!" she cried and threw her arms around him. He kissed her, unabashedly, even in front of the stranger.

"Well, yes, thank you, Mr. Lawler. I'll take care of everything, every little detail. I'll—"

"I'm sure you will," Felix said. "I'd like to close in thirty days."

"Absolutely," the real estate agent said. "No problem. I'll be on this personally. Absolutely."

"I can't believe it," Jenny said when they had gone outside and stopped at the real estate agent's car to look back at the house. "It's so beautiful, and it will be ours."

"Believe it," Felix said.

"It's all happened so fast, Felix," she said as if she thought they were moving in a dream bubble that would soon burst.

"We waited long enough," he said, although neither of them had ever been uncomfortable, both having come from well-to-do families.

Jenny giggled like a little girl and then grew serious. "I'll never understand it all, Felix. It's as if you'd won the lottery. I never knew you were so brilliant when it came to money."

"We're going to learn a lot about each other now, Jen," he said. "It's as if we just met."

"Yes," she said, her eyes widening. "I do feel. . . reborn."

"That's the power money gives you," Felix said. The real estate agent was so intrigued with their conversation that he was dumbfounded for a moment. Then he lunged to open the door for them, and they got into the rear seat of the car. He hurried around to the driver's side and quickly started the engine. It was almost as if he thought he was dreaming, too, and had better get all this finished before he woke.

Only Felix had the look of a man who knew he had his two feet well planted in reality.

Oh, how well he knew that.

Jimmy Silverwater and Henry Strongman stood by their patrol car as the FBI forensic experts completed their removal of the remains. The tribal policemen preferred to watch the activity from a good distance. Both had seen corpses, but they were mainly traffic fatalities. Jimmy had once seen the body of a man who had committed suicide with a double-gauge shotgun. He talked about that blown-away face as if it had made him experienced enough to handle this, but one had only to see his face every time he looked toward the drum to know that that was far from true. He would have nightmares about those smoldering eye sockets.

Maximilian sat in a torn web aluminum chair on the cracked cement patio in front of his trailer. He drank from a can of beer and watched the activity as if it were happening on his small television screen.

Finally, carrying the remains in two dark plastic bags, the forensic experts started toward Strongman and Silverwater. Both men still wore masks. The deputies joined them at their van.

"Make sure he keeps the area inviolate until we say otherwise," the taller of the two said and removed his mask.

"Sure. So whaddaya got?" Strongman asked quickly.

"Professional hit," the other FBI man said. "Whoever did it knew enough to shatter the teeth. Looks like he took a sledgehammer to them."

"Jesus."

"But," the forensic man continued with a cold smile, "we got something."

"What?" Silverwater made the mistake of asking.

The forensic man nodded at his partner, who reached into his metal box and proudly came up with a charred thumb.

"Christ," Strongman said.

"The underside is untouched. We'll get a good print from it," the forensic man said.

"Do you know if it was male or female?" Silverwater asked.

"Yeah, female."

"How old?"

"Not sure yet."

"We're off to work," the other agent said. "Thank you, boys. Have a good day." The two detectives laughed and got into their van.

Maximilian hurried over. "What'd they say?" he asked.

"It's a female," Strongman said.

"How old?"

"That's all we know so far," Silverwater said. "They don't want you fucking with that area they have roped off."

"Who the hell wants to go near it? I still can't get the stench out of my head."

"The FBI will probably come here to question you further," Strongman said.

"I ain't goin' nowhere."

"Neither is she," Strongman said watching the van bounce down the dirt and gravel road.

"Someone really wanted her dead and forgotten," Silverwater remarked. "Burned her, smashed up her teeth."

"Well, they brought her to the right place, then," Maximilian said.

They looked at him. "How's that?" Stongman asked.

"A landfill on an Indian reservation," Maximilian said, shrugging and sweeping his long arms around. "Everything's dead and forgotten here."

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WHAT seemed like ages, Harry sat comfortably with a tumbler of gin and tonic in his hand and gazed out at the sweeping panorama of Pacific Palisades. One of the advantages to running a successful and highly respected real estate agency was access to inside information concerning prime properties. Nearly eighteen years ago this house had been about to go on the market because the owners had lost their carpet retail business and could no longer afford it. It would have been listed as a distress sale, and Harry believed someone would grab it up pretty quickly.

Why not he and Lil?

It had been custom-designed by one of the leading architects in Los Angeles at the time. Just the sort of home successful real estate agents should own, Harry had thought—dramatic, splashy, with a view of the mountains on one side and views of the ocean on the other.

A two-story structure with three bedrooms downstairs and two upstairs, the house had large picture windows and skylights everywhere. It was bright and cheery, full of positive energy. And it was plush. The entryway was all white marble, the dining room lit with grand teardrop chandeliers. Yet it had a homey feel, not a showcase feel, because the kitchen was very functional, also bright and large with an oak-topped center worktable; there was a kitchen nook on the south side and a pantry big enough to stock food for five years.

The front of the house had well-defined gables, a slight eyebrow lift, and a porch with paired columns. The front had the ocean view, but it also faced the street. Harry preferred the rear deck because it offered complete privacy. No one could build behind them or anywhere close on the right or left.

The master bedroom was very large with some windows facing the ocean and others overlooking the canyon view, but what had sold Lil was the living room, with its elegantly sweeping balcony bridge and its openness to surrounding rooms.

It was truly a house that challenged decorators, stimulated creative ideas, and yet felt cozy and warm. It had once been a happy home, Harry thought sadly. He recalled memory after memory of Farah and Elaine as they were growing up, Farah bouncing down the stairs with her schoolbooks in her arms or calling to him from the living room balcony, pretending to be Juliet. Funny, and now ironic, how she was so taken with that play, a tragedy of love. It was practically the only thing she had read from that she could quote. He smiled, recalling her reciting a line at the dinner table.

Elaine had tried to get her to read other things, but Farah rarely accepted any of her younger and more erudite sister's suggestions. And yet they did get along well, didn't they? He asked himself. He was sure they admired each other's strengths.

When was the last time he had spoken with Elaine? Time and recent events were blurred. Impulsively he seized the 900 megahertz cordless and punched out Elaine's New York number. She answered on the first ring.

"Expecting someone, Dr. Ross?" Harry asked.

"What? Oh, Dad. No, I was just working next to the phone. Actually, it startled me and I picked it up to shut it up," she said.

He laughed. Elaine had a great dry sense of humor. He missed that.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Oh, I completely forgot about the time difference," Harry said. "Sorry."

"It's all right. I was up and keeping company with human anatomy."

"What?"

"Studying, Dad. What are you doing?"

"Right this moment I'm waiting for your mother, which is something I've been doing for nearly thirty-four years. We were supposed to have a quiet late dinner at home—wine, candlelight, chicken Kiev. We might still have it, but it will be from the Barrington Avenue Gourmet Shop, I bet. Actually, they do a great job, but I can't say that or your mother will think I'm criticizing her."

He paused, but Elaine didn't fill in the silence.

"I'm sitting out back, sipping a drink and watching the shadows creep over the mountains," he said. "It looks like a blanket being spread very slowly."

"Really? You okay?" she asked quickly.

"Me? Great," he said. "So here's the plan. We're going to leave for Jamaica next Sunday. We'll stay there a week and then stop in New York on the return."

"You will?"

"That's the game plan. I know you'll be busy, but maybe you'll have time to join us for a dinner or two. We'll be in New York four full days, take in a show or two, see your uncle Louis and aunt Carol, and do some shopping."

"That's great, Dad. I'll work out the time."

"Good," he said. "Your mother's looking forward to it."

"Aren't you?"

"Oh, sure. It's just that I haven't been away since . . . It's been a while," he concluded quickly. "You know, you get used to a routine."

"I know," she said charitably.

"So meet any heterosexuals with a job?" he asked. It was an old joke he used to tease her about her social life or lack of it.

"I'm not seeing anyone steady, Dad, but I've had a few dates."

"A few dates? How many months apart?" he followed and laughed.

"Are you drinking something stronger than borscht, Dad?" she countered.

"Well. . ."

"You're not overdoing that, are you?"

"Don't be a doctor with me, young lady. I remember you and your sister painting the walls with the product in the diapers. Funny how you did the same thing Farah had done and almost at the same age. I thought your mother had given birth to a clone. I remember . . ." He paused.

There was something so familiar about this conversation, the things he was describing. He realized he had said similar things to Farah, maybe only a few months before her brutal death.

"Dad?"

"Nothing. I thought I heard a car. I think your mother's home. I'd better get ready for dinner. You know her. She'll come tearing in here like a drill sergeant, ordering me to get this out and put that on the table. I had it made when you two were here. Should have kept you both ten years old forever."

The door from the garage to the house did open.

"She's here," he declared. "Take it easy, Dr. Ross."

"Bye, Dad. Thanks for the call."

"Bye."

He hung up and sat there.

Farah had never ended a call by thanking him. She had just expected him to call her, and he'd never thought of it as something he was doing for her. It was always something he was doing for himself.

"Harry?"

"Well, where have you been?" he asked, turning.

"We're going to close on the Rosenblatts' house. I got the paperwork together, and then I had to stay and fill them in on escrow. We got $895,000 for it!"

"All right!" Harry said, slapping his hands together. "I guess we do have something to celebrate. Maybe we'll go out for dinner."

"No, I stopped at the Barrington Avenue Gourmet Shop. I knew you wanted chicken Kiev."

"Right. I just called Elaine."

"Oh?"

"I thought I'd tell her about Jamaica, our stopping over in New York . . ."

"She already knew," Lil said.

"What?"

"Didn't she tell you I called her yesterday?"

"No," Harry said. He stared.

"Probably just forgot. You know how she is when she's studying," Lil said quickly. "I'll start getting dinner laid out."

Harry watched her move through the house, and then he turned and looked back at the mountains.

She was handling me, he thought. That's what his younger daughter had been doing.

Farah would never have done that. She would have burst out with "I know, Dad. Mom told me!"

It saddened him until he thought about something his therapist had said: "Don't look for your dead daughter in your living one, Harry. They're two different people."

"Right," he muttered aloud at the memory of that conversation.

But the incident drove home the cold, hard reality a little more. It felt like another nail shutting away the small light that was trying desperately to break into the coffin he had built around himself.

Elaine realized she had fallen asleep at her desk again. For a moment when her eyelids fluttered open, she was disoriented. Then she looked at her notebooks and the open textbook and realized she had lowered her head onto her folded arms to rest her eyes for a few minutes and, as before, had fallen into such a deep sleep that she hadn't wakened for nearly four hours.

Her apartment was high enough and her desk was far enough from the windows to subdue the sounds of the Greenwich Village street life below, not that they would have bothered her anyway. She could turn off Hootie and the Blowfish if they were just in the next room. It didn't surprise her that she had fallen asleep so easily at her desk.

She was stiff, though. Her shoulders and lower back ached, and there were dark red blotches across her forehead and her left cheek from the weight of her head on her folded arms. Her mouth was so dry it hurt to swallow. She admitted to herself that she had been neglecting herself, had eaten only one real meal today and had drunk only the equivalent of two glasses of water.

She had lied to her father. She'd had no actual dates. Two and a half months ago she had met Todd Astin at a movie theater's ticket window. Todd was a medical student with whom she shared classes. They had gone into the theater together and sat together, but one would hardly refer to that as a date. Todd was involved with someone who lived and worked in Yonkers, anyway, not that she cared about him romantically.

The trouble was, most of the men she met were insubstantial, immature, and insecure. She wanted a man who had a good grasp on his own identity, someone upon whom she could rely whenever she felt vulnerable, someone she could trust. Leaning on the men she knew was risky. The weight of her problems and needs could easily overwhelm them, and whomever she chose might very well topple along with her.

Many young women her age and younger expected the man of their dreams to come sauntering into their lives, sweeping them along in a romantic current that would carry them to Lake Bliss, where they would float forever and ever on a raft of love.

She thought about her own parents, married so long, devoted to each other. How did that old song go, "I want a girl just like the girl who married dear old dad"? Or a man who married dear old Mom? Her parents, she thought, had clung to each other throughout this tragedy like two survivors of a sunken ship being tossed and thrown from wave to wave, using each other as life rafts in a storm of grief that would have sunk most other marriages.

She knew her mother was very worried about her father, but no matter what she said or did, she would never desert him, never give up on him. Elaine admired them for their loyalty and devotion to each other, and she envied them for their passion. She knew from what she had gleaned from their stories that theirs had been a hot and heavy romance at the start. Despite the way Elaine presented herself, the facade of being aloof and dedicated to her pursuit of a career in medicine, she harbored the same romantic illusions as did many of her contemporaries. She just would not be caught dead admitting it.

It wasn't necessary for her to go to a therapist to learn she had a poor self-image. Because her older sister had been so beautiful, so sought after and admired, Elaine had felt diminished in her shadow. The comparisons were inevitable. She could see it in the eyes of those who looked from Farah to her. They expected her to have some of the same characteristics, the same charismatic beauty.

Well, she didn't. She was different, but she wasn't ugly. She was five feet ten with a trim figure and a nice complexion. She just wasn't contest beautiful, she thought. However, she couldn't sustain that thought and remain self-confident when she was around other girls and young men. In her mind the men made the same inevitable comparisons between her and the others and concluded she was just too plain—not ugly, but nothing special. Men were friendly, especially when they wanted to get something from her, like notes or help on an exam, but she didn't excite anyone the way Farah used to excite everyone.

She used to have little arguments with her sister when Farah complained about how Elaine looked, how she dressed, wore her hair, used makeup or cologne, walked, talked. Her sister did have a natural instinct for the kill, sensed her own power over men, toyed with them, tormented them, but enjoyed them. Elaine didn't really enjoy flirting, courting. It made her nervous.

Farah had once said, "You're afraid of meeting someone who will love you, Elaine. You're afraid of what you might have to give up."

Actually, Elaine thought that was very perceptive. It took the breath out of her for a moment. She looked at her sister in a different way from then on. Farah was nobody's fool. She could play Marilyn Monroe, but she was not dumb or flighty, really.

Funny, she thought, we didn't get to know each other well until we were both grown, and then . . . before we could become real sisters . . .

She closed her eyes to stop the rush of pain. She couldn't help thinking about the actual physical events of Farah's murder, the way Dirk Stoner had hacked at her, the arteries that had been cut, the wound to the heart muscle, the rush of blood, the drop in her blood pressure, and the loss of consciousness. Elaine had read the autopsy report, thinking she could do so objectively, but it had been impossible not to think of Farah, not to see her being struck repeatedly.

The corpse had borne little resemblance to Farah. Elaine had warned her father not to look at it. She'd described what he would see, hoping he would be dissuaded, but it was as if he had to punish himself for somehow letting this happen.

"I don't know who that is," he muttered to her afterward. "It's not Farah. They must have mixed up the bodies. Imagine that," he said. He was so strange she had thought they were going to lose him too.

"Remember her the way she was, Dad," she told him.

He nodded and smiled.

"Yes, that's right. Elaine's right," he told her mother. "That's not our daughter in there. I've got her here," he said pointing to his head. "That bastard can't take that, can he?"

"No, Dad."

"Right, right, right," he had chanted like a madman.

What a nightmare those days immediately after the murder were: her father not sleeping, wandering the house, actually calling Farah's number to see if he had dreamed the whole thing, spending hours in her old room, handling her toys, her pictures, sifting through the memories like someone running sand through his fingers in the hope of finding a valuable jewel he had lost on a vast beach.

"I'm afraid," her mother told her, "that the screwdriver Dirk drove into Farah went through her and into your father's heart as well."

Elaine had always known that her father was closer to Farah than to her. She had attributed that to Farah being his older daughter, but she also believed Farah fit the image of what her father expected from a woman, whereas she did not. Farah rarely argued about anything, challenged anything, unless it was a restriction on her social life. As far as Farah was concerned, Daddy was king. His politics and his opinions about everything were her politics and her opinions.

Elaine was the one who started arguments at the dinner table, the one who criticized and made suggestions. Sometimes—often, actually—her mother agreed with her, but then her father complained about being ganged up on, and Farah would declare she was on Daddy's side so it was even.

Elaine wanted her father to love her as much as he loved Farah, but she wouldn't beg for his love or make even small compromises, because to her that was the same as buying his affection. Love had to come as naturally and as fully as it had come to Farah.

Now she was the only daughter he had left, and she felt guilty about that. Perhaps she too should have, could have, prevented Farah's death. Perhaps she should have been more of a sister, closer, more concerned. Maybe Farah had felt alone and that left her vulnerable. Elaine regretted the fact that she and Farah had last spoken more than two weeks before the murder. She should have been more sensitive to her sister's pain. In truth, she should have resented her less and loved her more.

It drove her to tears to think of this. Her father probably didn't believe she shed any tears now, but there were many sleepless nights for Elaine too, and many evenings when she looked into the darkness and begged for her sister's forgiveness, just as she imagined her father often did.

"We're not as unlike as you think, Dad," she whispered.

She stretched and stood up and then gazed out the window for a moment at the dark street below.

No one knew about her nightmares, those horrible visions at school during the autopsies, least of all her parents. That's all she would have to do, she thought, is tell her mother, and her mother would go after her father with a hatchet, screaming, "I told you this would happen. Why did you take her to that execution?"

She smiled at the image and then grew serious again. Funny how my father can't imagine me having these feelings, she thought. He thinks I'm the iron lady or something. If he had only known how close I came to crumbling at that prison, and how much I remain haunted by Dirk's last hateful look at me.

Those eyes . . . those damned piercing, mesmerizing . . .Why is it that evil people have such power?

She saw a dark, silhouetted figure cross the street toward her building and felt her heart thump. Lately, especially since the encounter with that mysterious man in the cafeteria, this had been happening more and more often, these sudden inexplicable rises in blood pressure, these fingers of ice on the back of her neck, a loss of breath just at the sight of a similar face, a reference to golf, the cover of an entertainment or sports magazine.

"He did get some revenge, Dad. We shouldn't have been there to see him. He lingers forever and ever in our deepest consciousness, resurrected by the smallest, most insignificant things.

"Damn you. Die, you bastard!" she cried at the darkness. Elaine closed her eyes and got hold of herself after a moment.

"I've got to get some sleep," she muttered and headed for the bedroom.

She crawled under the blanket, closed her eyes, and welcomed her descent into the dark tunnel of sleep, boring under reality, taking her farther and farther away from her own troubled conscience and fears.

JONATHAN THOMAS LEWIS watched the airstrip come up at the plane as they touched down gently. He had been on a Cessna Citation many times before, ridden in a number of private jets, in fact, but he had always known where he was going. This cloak-and-dagger stuff was beginning to get on his nerves. He knew he had no right to complain, but there was a limit to how he would be treated. Someday, when it was over, these people . . . What was he talking about? These people? He would never see these people again. Good riddance to all of them, he thought.

He studied the lights. There was something familiar about the place. He had been here before; he felt certain of that. Phil and Don were sitting behind him, both still asleep. When the plane came to a complete stop, Pepper emerged from the cockpit, and approached him.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Here," she said. "Get out and into the car quickly," she ordered.

"Jesus, it's dark, and who the hell will recognize me anyway?" he snapped.

She glared at him. "You knew what this was going to be when we were hired, Mr. Lewis. I don't understand this childish behavior. Well, maybe I do," she said.

"Shit," he said.

She grinned. Phil and Don were up and waiting for her orders.

"Help get his things," she told them. "Get up and get out," she told Jonathan and turned to the opened door. She went out first and waited at the limousine. He paused in the airplane doorway and looked around, deliberately taking his time. When he got into the limousine, he found a short, bald man of fifty-five or sixty seated in the back. He wore a dark suit with no tie, but his shirt was buttoned to his throat.

"Who the hell are you?" Jonathan asked before the man could introduce himself. Jonathan sat across from him. Don and Phil sat beside him.

"I'm Mr. Faraday, Mr. Lewis. I'm your speech therapist," he said with an oily smile.

"Therapist? Nothing's wrong with my speech."

"No, nothing's wrong with it, but it has to be changed, and I've been assigned that responsibility, Mr. Lewis. We're going to work closely and intensely, and we'll make sufficient progress in the short time we have—if you're cooperative, that is."

Faraday spoke in sharp, clipped, deliberate tones, punctuated with that sickening smile again. "And how was your trip, Mr. Lewis?" he asked in an amazingly accurate and authentic-sounding Irish brogue. "I trust you had a good journey."

"What the hell is this?" Jonathan asked.

"I usually teach accents to movie stars, Mr. Lewis. I was just showing off—to win your confidence. Now, sir, I think we can make you into a New Englander. It will be easier for you to work on your vowels. You know what I mean: I pahcked the kah just outside." He laughed.

Jonathan shook his head and looked dead ahead. They were already on a very dark highway, moving away from any signs of population. "Where the hell are we?" he asked.

"Someplace in Ohio," Faraday said. "I'm not sure of the exact location myself." He glanced at Phil and Don, who sat like mannequins, their hands on their knees, their eyes set like glass balls. "The organization believes that everyone should be on a need-to-know basis about everything. That way there's less chance . . ."

"Of what?" Jonathan asked.

"Why, a fuckup, Mr. Lewis." Faraday laughed. "I don't hesitate to use profanity when it's necessary. It's actually the most colorful part of our language. A good deal of it comes from Anglo-Saxon roots, you know."

"I know you're all fucking crazy," Jonathan muttered. "That's what I know."

"Indeed, sir, indeed. Then you have seen the black bird, sir." Faraday smiled. "That's my best Sydney Greenstreet. The Maltese Falcon? Casablanca?"

"I know who he was," Jonathan said, even though he really didn't.

Pepper, who was seated in front, slid the privacy window open and peered through at them.

"Are you two getting along?" she asked, with her irritating shit-eating grin.

"Why, Miss Pepper," Faraday said, now sounding as if he came from Virginia, "I'm surprised at you for asking such a question. Gentlemen of quality always get along."

"So? I'll ask again, you getting along?" She laughed and closed the window.

"Someday," Jonathan said, "I'm going to add another smile to that damn face."

"I'm only assigned to your voice and accent, Mr. Lewis, but I don't think remarks like that will do you any good, now or later," Faraday said wagging his head. He suddenly lost his pleasant, kindly-old-man look and took on the bone-chilling demeanor of a psychotic. Even Jonathan felt a small chill, and he had seen plenty of psychotics.

They turned onto a gravel road and continued into a heavily wooded area. Minutes later they turned again and climbed a driveway toward a long ranch house. The property was fenced in, and Jonathan could see cows on the left and some horses on the right. The barns came into view and another structure that looked like a guesthouse.

"A farm?" he said.

Pepper slid open the window. "Thought you would like to learn how to milk a cow and gather eggs, Jonathan," she said. "You haven't decided on a new vocation yet, and farming is a healthy life."

Phil and Don chuckled, their heavy shoulders shaking.

He glared at Pepper until she turned around again.

"You must maintain your sense of humor, Mr. Lewis," Faraday advised. "It's a strength, you know."

"I have a sense of humor when something's funny."

The limousine pulled up in front of the guesthouse, and the doors were opened. He stepped out into a rather crisp evening, noticing that there were no stars. The air felt as if rain was minutes away. He watched the driver go to the trunk and remove some of the bags, handing them to Phil and Don.

"This way," Pepper ordered. "You have the room upstairs, Mr. Lewis. Mr. Faraday, we'll house you downstairs and to the rear. I trust you will both be comfortable."

"How long am I going to be here?" Jonathan asked, pausing at the door.

"Until you leave," she replied and thrust open the door. She stepped back, and Jonathan Thomas Lewis entered.

He gazed around the small, comfortably furnished living room on his right. It looked warm and cozy, with its thick area rug, its well worn maroon leather easy chair and sofa, the oils of rustic scenes on the walls, and the small fieldstone fireplace, now crackling with some firewood. A floor lamp with a faded yellow shade stood beside one of the easy chairs; magazines and newspapers were stacked on the butler's table and in a small magazine rack beside the chair.

Jonathan continued slowly down the hall to the stairway where he paused.

"You can explore the premises to your heart's delight tomorrow, Mr. Lewis," Pepper said. "Let's get you upstairs. Someone is waiting for you."

"Huh? Waiting for me? Who?" Jonathan said, gazing up the stairway. Could it be? Would he have taken such a risk and come?

"Someone you know," she added cryptically. "Mr. Lewis," she added gesturing toward the steps.

He started up, his interest piqued, his heart thumping. Don and Phil followed with his suitcases.

"To the right," Pepper said as they reached the second-story landing. Jonathan turned and then paused, disappointed.

"Hello, Jonathan. How are you?"

Jonathan grunted.

Dr. Felix Lawler stood in the doorway. The two men stared at each other a moment longer, and then Lawler stepped aside for him. Jonathan paused just inside the doorway to consider his new surroundings. The guesthouse was spartan compared to where he had been before and to where he was accustomed to living. There was a twin-size bed with a gray comforter, a tall mahogany dresser that looked as if it had been bought from a thrift shop, along with the two nightstands. The closet was small, and the bathroom was in the hallway. The two windows behind the bed were narrow. The curtains were closed, and the window shades had been pulled down. The room was illuminated by a single ceiling fixture, the pale yellow bowl of which was full of dead insects.

Dr. Lawler's bag was open on an uncomfortable-looking thin-cushioned chair with a maple wood frame. The floor was composed of worn-looking floorboards and an oval grayish brown rug on which the bed sat. There were no pictures on the walls, which were covered with dull hazel paper.

"Jesus," Jonathan muttered. "Just like the Ritz."

Don and Phil brushed by him and put his suitcases on the floor by the closet. They looked at the doctor and then left the room quickly.

"If you need anything, Doctor, I'll be right outside," Pepper said. Felix nodded. She closed the door after her.

Jonathan turned, and Felix gave him a small and brief smile.

"So how are you feeling, Mr. Lewis? Any pains, discomfort?"

"I'm feeling terrible," Jonathan replied. "Look at this. It's as if they're looking for the most unpleasant places for me."

"I'm sure they have their reasons, Mr. Lewis. Why don't you sit on the bed, relax a bit?" Felix took out his blood pressure cuff. "Take off your jacket and shirt, please," he instructed.

Jonathan did so.

"Keeping in shape, I see," Felix remarked as he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Jonathan's arm. The two men looked into each other's eyes as Felix pumped the cuff and listened for Jonathan's blood pressure numbers. His eyebrows rose.

"So how am I doing?" Jonathan asked quickly.

"Very good. One-ten over eighty-nine. Considering the agitated state you're in, your traveling and all, that's good. Pulse is an athlete's pulse, too. Have you had any difficulty falling asleep?"

"No," Jonathan Thomas Lewis said sharply. It was as if Felix had asked him a very personal question, one beyond the realm of medical doctor-patient relations.

Felix simply nodded. "How about your digestion? Any difficulties?"

"Considering the crap I get, remarkably, no," Jonathan replied. Felix permitted himself a longer, wider smile.

He then began to give Jonathan a closer exam, inspecting his neck, feeling for swollen glands, checking behind his ears, under his scalp, behind his ears, and around his eyes, exploring for infections. Satisfied, he stepped away, returned his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff to his bag and closed it.

"You look pretty damn good, Mr. Lewis. I think you're one of my best, if I might brag." He turned to the small mirror over the dresser and looked at Jonathan's reflection. "A damned masterpiece."

"They brought you all the way out here just for this?" Jonathan asked.

"It's part of the package, Mr. Lewis. However, I believe I can safely say we're about finished. I doubt that you and I will see each other again," he concluded.

Neither man seemed particularly upset about that.

Jonathan shrugged. "What about exercise, physical exertion, that sort of thing?" he asked. "Do I have to worry about it anymore?"

"No reason to restrict you anymore. Do whatever you're used to doing, and push yourself to whatever limits you wish."

"Then I'm back to myself," Jonathan Thomas Lewis said proudly.

"I wouldn't say that, Mr. Lewis. I wouldn't ever say that," Felix Lawler replied. He lifted his bag and smiled. "Well, then . . ."

"Yeah," Jonathan said. "Well, then."

Felix nodded, turned, and walked out. Jonathan rose and went to the window to lift the shade and look out at the darkness. A short while later Pepper entered.

"You got an A-plus report from the doc. Good for you, Mr. Lewis," she said. She lifted the suitcases with ease and dropped them on the bed.

"Can I go down and get something to drink, or do I have to wait for someone to give me permission and lay out new orders?"

"The kitchen is stocked with all the things you like, Mr. Lewis. We aim to please," Pepper said and laughed. "Go on. Indulge your appetites."

She opened his suitcases and began taking out his clothing. He walked out and down the stairs quickly, turning left at the foot of the stairs. It took him past the small dining room, which was more like a kitchenette, really, and into the kitchen. Don and Phil were at the table with open cans of beer before them. Mr. Faraday sat with a cup of tea. They all looked up at him.

"Wanna beer?" Don asked quickly.

"Anything stronger here?"

"You can have it?" Phil asked.

"The doctor says I'm back to my old self," Jonathan replied firmly to indicate there'd be no denying him anything.

"There's vodka, gin, tequila, and mixers in that cabinet," Phil said nodding to the left of the refrigerator. Jonathan found the vodka and tonic and a glass. He took some ice from the freezer and made himself a stiff drink, mixing it vigorously. He licked the mixer and closed his eyes. It had been a while—too long a while, he thought. Then he contemplated his two bodyguards and Faraday.

"What the hell are we supposed to do here?" he asked them.

"You and I will work for a few hours every morning and a few each afternoon," Faraday said.

"And then what?"

"There's a dune buggy to ride, a rowboat down at the pond. You can go horseback riding too, I suppose," Phil said, "as long as Pepper says it's okay and as long as you remain inside the fence."

"Regular summer camp," Jonathan quipped and sipped his drink. Then he walked into the living room.

The side window looked toward the ranch house. He saw a pickup truck come bouncing up the driveway and stop in front of the house. A rather hefty woman got out. She had a Dolly Parton bust, emphatic against the flannel shirt even from this distance. She lifted what looked like bags of groceries from the rear of the truck and went into the house.

Jonathan heard Pepper come down the stairs and turned as she paused in the living room doorway.

"Who lives there?" he asked nodding toward the house.

"Your hosts, George and Brenda Meredith," she replied. He raised his eyebrows at how freely she had given the information.

"Are you sure you should be telling me that?"

"Those aren't their real names, Mr. Lewis. I would expect you to figure that out, but they are real farmer types. They keep to themselves, but they'll provide everything we require."

"No children, then?" he asked, turning back to the window.

"No children. Just a farm couple, a few dozen cows, a few riding horses, some chickens, and a couple of pigs. It all comes right from central casting and special effects," she added.

He looked at her. She wasn't kidding.

"You certainly provide variety. I'm impressed," he said nodding at the house.

"Finally," Pepper said, "I sense some appreciation. Maybe there is hope for you, Mr. Lewis."

"Oh, there's hope for me," he said.

"Then there's hope for anybody," she continued.

He smirked and turned to show her his disdain, but she was gone. He stood there a moment longer, gazing at the house and sipping his drink. Then he turned on the television set and found what he thought was the most comfortable chair in the room.

Moments later what he had suspected occurred: rain began to fall, hard and cold, sounding like fingers drumming on the windows, fingers of someone or something that wanted to get at him.

He hadn't told the doctor. He didn't want to say anything that might prolong this interminable transition, but he didn't sleep that well. He was haunted by nightmares. Someone was after him. She would always be after him. Even now, even here.

He would have to do something about that. In fact, he had already begun to lay the groundwork. None of them knew about it, and he was pleased that he could still do something on his own, without their damn approval.

He sipped his drink and nodded at the television set.

He kept it to himself, but he was confident. Yes, he would do something as soon as he could.

Then, and only then, would he feel safe.

The private jet that had brought Jonathan Thomas Lewis to the farm was waiting for Dr. Felix Lawler. The same limousine delivered him to the plane, and he hurried up the steps and into the passenger cabin. He buckled up and sat back, eager to get home. Tomorrow he and Jenny would go to their new Palm Springs vacation house and begin planning the decorations and furnishings. It was rather exciting, he thought.

He heard the engines start up and felt the plane begin to move. Minutes later they were lifting off. He closed his eyes and folded his hands over his stomach, hoping to doze off.

"Excuse me, Dr. Lawler."

The copilot had come out of the cockpit and was standing in the aisle, a phone in his hand. "You have a call, sir."

"Oh? Thank you," he said and took the receiver. "This is Felix Lawler." He listened. "Yes, sir. Everything is fine. He is fully recuperated physically. I am prepared to close the file . . . Yes, sir, I am very pleased with my work, and I'm confident you will be too."

He listened, smiling at the copilot, who stood far enough away to grant him privacy. "Well, thank you, sir. And good luck to you too," Felix added. He nodded at the copilot, who moved quickly to retrieve the phone and returned to the cockpit.

Felix closed his eyes again. He felt no remorse. All governments, all systems, everything was corrupt. He was simply looking out for number one and that was what everyone else was doing.

Morality, he concluded, was something the weak had created to protect themselves. Nothing more.

He gazed out the window as the jet rose above the rain clouds and streaked against a background of cold but dazzling stars.

"NO MATCHUPS WITH MISSING persons on the computer," Billy Powell declared. Billy was the cybernerd at the Los Angeles FBI field office. Although he was fully trained and had achieved some of the highest scores at Quantico, he favored working on the computer in the capacity of a support person. Sometimes Special Agent Ted Andrews thought the young black agent had a Pentium chip instead of a heart. He seemed to reach the same level of excitement over a computer challenge as other men his age reached in pursuing a beautiful woman. "But here's her life story," he added, giving Andrews a printout.

The report from Montana had arrived in the morning. The FBI Identification Division had matched the print off a woman's thumb and established her identity: Irene Lester, a forty-four-year-old unmarried nurse.

"So, Billy," Ted said as he gazed down at the information on his desk, "our mission, should we accept it, is to find out why a nurse from Los Angeles was found smoking in a fifty-five-gallon oil drum in Montana."

"Huh?" Billy replied.

Ted Andrews looked up and smiled. His disarming smile usually left his subjects relaxed and unwary. He was one of the most successful agents in the Bureau, trim and good-looking, so handsome, in fact, that his fellow agents jokingly called him Redford. He had the same cinematic eyes and blond hair.

Ted was taller that Robert Redford, though, nearly six feet four, lean and long-armed. He looked more like an athlete uncomfortably stuffed in a suit than a law enforcement agent. He had in fact been a second-string quarterback at USC and had played in more than half the games during his senior year, but the forty-one-year-old agent had many strengths. The one his superiors admired the most was his perceptive questioning ability, his instinctive sense of where to go and how to get there with a suspect or a witness. He had been an integral part of a number of serial-killer investigations and had helped bring down two major drug enterprises the previous year.

Ted's father had been a Secret Service agent, serving five presidents before retiring. Consequently, Ted and his younger sister, Annette, had grown up in the Washington, D.C., area, and Ted hadn't left until he won an athletic scholarship to USC. It was there that he'd met his wife, Toni, a psych major who now worked part-time for a marriage counselor. Whenever he and Toni got into an argument, he always joked about the shoemaker without shoes and usually brought the conflict to a quick halt. Toni had a temper and found it easier to give advice than to accept it, especially from herself.

Their marriage was solid, though. They had two children: Melissa, nine and Erik, seven. They owned a nice house on the border between Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. Toni's office was only ten minutes away.

Like every other law enforcement agency in the country, the FBI had too much to do, but Ted Andrews hated neglecting any case and often took on too much work. He laughed to himself often, recalling Toni's analysis, but he recognized he was laughing because he didn't want to face the fact that she was probably right. She described him as an obsessive personality.

"Everything you do, Ted, you do intensely. I call it the shark complex. You fix your teeth on something, and you don't stop until you've consumed it. One day it could consume you," she warned.

"Does that apply to my love for you as well?"

"I hope so," she admitted, and they laughed, but she was worried about him. He knew it because his father had been the same way, and his father was eventually brought down by a heart attack.

Once again he had no time to dwell on himself. The FBI office in Montana had no leads. They hadn't been able to tie the victim to anyone or anything in the vicinity. A preliminary investigation had resulted in the conclusion that she had no connection with anyone or anything that had to do with the Crow Indian Reservation located near Billings, Montana.

"Okay," Ted said, sitting back and assuming his most serious demeanor, "what do you have for me, Billy? I know you've been working those magic fingers on that keyboard."

Billy Powell smiled and looked at his pad. He was pretty much a self-made kid, brought up by his maternal grandmother. In high school he had shown an affinity for computers and had actually helped design the system for the math department. Later he had won a college scholarship and then turned to law enforcement. He was intrigued with the possibilities cyberspace held for police agencies, and he had won acclaim for a project he'd developed for the LAPD during his last year in college.

"She didn't take any commercial airline anywhere for the last six months, specifically not to Montana. Her last credit-card entry was at a boutique in West L.A. at the Pavilion Mall, and that was months ago. These past few months, her utility bills were all paid through electronic transfer at her bank." Billy raised his eyebrows.

"However, a deposit of five thousand dollars a week has been put in her money-market account at the same bank for the past two months."

"How?"

"Someone just brought it to a window. She banks at one of those impersonal money-supermarkets. The tellers were different, and none I spoke with remember her very well."

"Were the deposits made by check or cash?"

"Cash."

"Who pays anyone in cash these days except. . . our favorite people?" Ted remarked. "Besides, I didn't think nurses made that much."

"Last year she declared eighty-two thousand dollars in gross income. She did a great deal of special nursing, referrals mainly from a cosmetic surgery practice in Beverly Hills run by a Dr. Felix Lawler."

"How did you find that out, Billy?" Like many computer illiterates, Ted fascinated by the magic of

electronic mail and cyberspace.

"I tracked down her last few assignments through her checking account, accessed the hospital records of her patients, and read the reports," Billy said, shrugging as if that task had been as simple as buying a newspaper.

"Here's her educational record, her previous work experience, her surviving family, her current address, phone number, license number, and the make of her car—"

"You have her blood type?" Ted interrupted.

"Sure," Billy said, and then saw that Ted was kidding. He smiled. "You want the results of her last gynecological visit?"

"Very good, Billy. You're getting a personality," Ted said, laughing. "Okay, let me have that stuff and I'll get started on it," he added.

Billy handed him the printouts. Ted perused them a moment and then got up. He paused and looked at the younger man, suddenly feeling sorry for him. It was almost as if Billy Powell had been sentenced to look at the world through a computer monitor, his only contacts with the rest of humanity coming through wires. It was a self-imposed confinement, but many times, Ted thought, we make choices for ourselves that are sensible but that we wish we hadn't made. At least we have doubts once in a while, he thought, thinking about himself.

"How would you like to come along on this one, Billy?" he asked.

"Come along? You mean go into the field with you?"

"Sure. I think the change might do you some good, make you better at what you do for us most of the time. You know, see your work put to actual use. Something like that. What do you think?"

"Yeah," Billy said, nodding. "I think I might like that. Thanks. I'll get my jacket."

"And arm yourself, Billy. We're going out there," Ted said, nodding toward the door as if it opened to bedlam.

"Yeah, right," Billy said. "Right."

He hurried away. Ted laughed and then began reading the material to prepare himself and plan his strategy.

They began by visiting Irene Lester's apartment complex, a pink stucco structure in West Hollywood, one of those tired complexes in desperate need of paint, repairs to the chipped and broken walkways, and new landscaping to replace dead and sickly bushes. The pool looked poorly maintained, some of the lounges torn, the pool itself long overdue for an acid wash. They found the superintendent's apartment in the rear.

His name was Walter Kantor. He was only in his early forties, but he looked as worn and tired as the building he supposedly supervised. His hair was nearly all gray and very thin. He had poor teeth and a bad foot; he claimed he was suffering from gout. The apartment was cluttered and dirty. The man was obviously a bachelor, Ted concluded. No woman would have him.

"Irene Lester? Yeah, I know her. So what?" he said after Ted and Billy had shown their identification. "She a spy or something?" Kantor laughed by pressing his lips together and snorting. "I thought she was a nurse."

"We're interested in when you last saw her," Ted said. Kantor thought a moment and shook his head. "I don't know. A while. Her car's in the garage," he offered. "It's caked with dust, so she ain't used it for some time. Yeah. Now that you mention it, I remember seeing that and thinking it was odd. I wanted to see if it had broke down or something."

"Does she pay her rent?"

"I don't know. I don't collect rent. The tenants send it into the office that manages the place—Beck, Levy and Taylor."

"Got their address and phone number?" Ted asked.

"Sure." Kantor got it from the kitchen and gave it to him. "So what's up?"

"When you last saw Irene Lester, was she with anyone? Did she have close friends here?"

"I don't know. I don't remember seeing her with anyone, if you mean a boyfriend," he added, smiling. "I don't poke my nose in their personal lives. I got gays, lesbos, even a transvestite living here, but it's no skin off my teeth as long as they don't make trouble for anyone else. We don't discriminate," he added as if he had just remembered he had better state that.

"I'd like to see her apartment," Ted said.

"Can you do that? I mean, don't you need a warrant or her permission or something?"

"Can't get her permission," Ted said.

Kantor's eyes widened. "Why not?"

"She's been murdered. In Montana."

"The nurse? Jeez."

"That's why anything you can tell us about her is important," Ted said.

Kantor nodded, seriousness settling into his face like a toothache. "Well, she lived here about three years, but as far as I know, she kept to herself. I never seen her at the pool, and she never made a single complaint. Oh, once I had to go up and fix the refrigerator for her. It just needed a belt. She seemed very nice, pleasant. Jeez. She once gave me advice about a skin rash on my cheek. She told me about some medicine, and it took the rash away. Murdered. Jeeze."

"Show us her car first," Ted said.

"Okay. The murder happened in Montana, you say? Why the hell Montana?"

"We'd like to know that, too. Did she know anyone there, mention anyone?"

"Not to me."

"Think a little harder, Mr. Kantor. When exactly did you see her last?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't swear to it, but I'd say it's been more than a month. Yeah, maybe even two," he replied.

"I just thought of something," Billy said. "I'll be right back."

Ted watched him hurry toward their car. Then he turned to Kantor. "Let's go to the garage," he said.

Ted inspected the car and confirmed what Kantor had said. It looked as if it hadn't been used for some time. As they were leaving to go up to the apartment, Billy came sauntering along, a wide grin on his face.

"What?" Ted asked.

"We don't appreciate the U.S. Postal Service enough."

Ted smiled. "Go on."

"I realized, that if she had intended to be away for a considerable period of time, her mail—"

"Right, she'd have had it stopped."

"Which she did, two months and five days ago exactly," Billy said. "However . . ."

"What?"

"No forwarding address. Everything important was taken care of electronically. Everything else . . ." He shrugged.

"Now, that's weird," Kantor remarked.

They both looked at him.

"If she left no forwarding address, how could she get new jobs?"

The two agents smiled at each other.

"Let's go look at her apartment, Mr. Kantor," Ted said.

Kantor led them out of the garage and around the corner of the building to a concrete and metal stairway leading to a side entrance.

"She's on the second floor," Kantor explained. "Just up here."

As they started down the second-floor corridor, a door opened and a slim man in dungarees and a T-shirt appeared. He had his back to them.

"Hey," Kantor cried. "That's the nurse's apartment."

"Just a minute, there," Ted called out. The man, who looked to be in his twenties, glanced their way and then bolted for the stairway at the opposite side of the building.

"What the—" Ted charged forward, Billy right behind him.

"Stop!" Ted cried, but the man swung himself over the banister and practically flew down the short stairway, hitting the door like a linebacker and driving it open. Ted reached the foot of the stairs as the doors closed. He hit them hard, too, and shot out onto the walkway. He looked right and then left toward the street. Billy was right behind him, puffing, his face flushed.

"That way." Ted nodded at the fence. They hurried down the walk and turned just as the young man leaped over the fence, bounced on the sidewalk, and broke into a run toward the corner of Kings Row and Santa Monica, a very busy street.

He was fast. By the time Ted and Billy got to the sidewalk, the young man had disappeared around the corner.

"We're going to lose him in that," Ted remarked, nodding toward the heavy traffic. Nevertheless, they ran up to the corner. When they got there, the man was nowhere in sight.

"He could have stepped into any of those stores or gotten into a car or turned down the next side street," Billy offered.

"All right, let's go back and see what he was doing in that apartment," Ted suggested.

Kantor was waiting at the door. "Catch him?"

"No, he got away. She had no roommate, right?" Ted asked. "No live-in boyfriend?"

"Not that I knew," Kantor replied and led them back up the stairs and into the apartment.

Inside, drawers had been pulled out of cabinets and dressers, their contents spilled. The closet had been savaged, all the clothing cast on the floor, the shelf pulled down, shoe boxes emptied. In the kitchen, the drawer by the telephone had been pulled out and dumped, all the papers, payment slips, and notes dumped out.

"What the hell was he looking for?" Kantor wondered aloud and then brightened with what he thought was the answer. "Drugs? I bet it was drugs. She was a nurse, huh?"

"Maybe," Ted said. He turned to Billy. "Call for a forensics team. I want the place fingerprinted."

"Right." He went to the phone on the wall.

"Wow!" Kantor said gazing around. "This whole thing's like a television show or something."

After Billy made his call, he sat on the kitchen floor and carefully sifted through the papers and slips. Ted told Kantor to go back to his apartment and call if he thought of anything else. Ted perused the rest of the apartment, including the bathroom and the second bedroom. Here, too, the drawers had been pulled out, but these drawers had been empty.

"Bingo," he heard Billy Powell call from the kitchen. He hurried back.

"What?"

Billy held up a billing statement. "Second credit card," he said and smiled. "And it's under another name. Maybe, just maybe, we'll track this one to someone or someplace in Montana."

"Another name? She had another identity," Ted said nodding. He looked at Billy. "She had to have some help setting that up."

"Yeah, but I don't think it's that hard nowadays. You get on the computer, break into some addresses, create a new Social Security number, get a new driver's license . . . There was nothing wrong with her credit. I saw her TRW," Billy concluded. "So she simply wanted to hide her real identity."

"Which you don't do unless you don't want anyone to know what you're doing," Ted said.

"And whatever that was, she was doing it in Montana," Billy said.

Ted nodded. "Stay here, make sure no one touches anything, and wait for forensics. After they arrive, nose around a bit and see what some of the other tenants have to say. I'm going to pay a visit to that doctor."

"Okay," Billy said, grateful for the assignment and the fact that Ted trusted him alone with it.

"You'll find it's easier to get information off the Internet than from real people," Ted warned.

"I know. Some of my best friends are people," Billy quipped.

"YOU'RE A QUICK STUDY, Mr. Lewis. That's good," Faraday said after working with Jonathan for more than three hours straight once again. "We're making significant progress faster than I anticipated. Now, I have prepared these audiotapes for you. It would be very beneficial if you would spend some of your free time listening to them and repeating what you hear."

"Free time? All I have now is free time," Jonathan replied sternly.

"Whatever," Faraday said with a wave of his chubby fingers. "The reinforcement will help a great deal. You've got to do a lot more on your own."

"Homework, huh?" Jonathan said.

"Exactly."

The little man slapped his knees and stood up. For the past two weeks he and Jonathan Lewis had been practically inseparable, taking all their meals together, walking and talking, Faraday guiding him into his new accent, fitting him for the vowels and consonants like a verbal tailor, pinching syllables when Jonathan was too emphatic and exaggerated, and getting him to stretch out sounds when Jonathan was too quick, too clipped.

A few times Jonathan lost his patience with the interminably patient teacher. The man seemed incapable of becoming frustrated. He would simply close his eyes, take a breath, and start again, insisting that Jonathan could get it right if he only concentrated more.

"This is stupid," Jonathan insisted at one point. "Who thinks before he speaks every time, all the time?"

"Not many people, and that's why they get into trouble," Faraday said, smiling, his cheeks blowing out and his small teeth gleaming.

Jonathan thought he looked like someone whose growth had been impeded by a giant, powerful hand placed on his head, squashing him down. He recalled a short fat boy in grade school the other kids nicknamed Four-by-Four.

"Speech reflects personality, even more than it does region and location. There's a distinct difference in the way people with self-confidence talk and the way nervous, insecure people talk. I assume you never want to look nervous or insecure, Mr. Lewis. Believe me, in time you will speak in your new voice without having to think hard first," he added. He flashed that smile again and left Jonathan in the small living room.

It was nearly five o'clock, but the heavy overcast made it look later. Jonathan rose and went to the window to gaze out at the farmhouse. He had had only glimpses here and there of the couple, who kept to themselves, but whenever he saw them, he noticed that the wife worked almost as hard as the husband.

How could they enjoy this? he wondered. To him they were like mules.

Besides Phil and Don with whom he played cards occasionally, he saw only Pepper and Faraday. Pepper came and went, but she brought very little news from the outside world, as he now referred to it. She seemed to take pleasure in giving him cryptic or abstract answers to his questions about his future, sometimes completely ignoring him. He began to believe she hated him almost as much as he hated her.

The lack of any real company, the restricted movements, the concentrated work on his speech, and the vagueness concerning his prospects were beginning to take a toll. Jonathan didn't sleep well, he hated the food, he lost his enthusiasm for exercise, and he was bored by everything he saw on television.

What I need, he thought, is to get laid. Only, he wasn't sure how to bring up the subject with Pepper. Maybe it was cowardly of him, but he told Phil and Don to mention it to her. The doctor had given him a clean bill of health. It was time to have some fun.

"She can bring someone around, some party girl. They're discreet," he told his bodyguards.

Don and Phil looked at each other as if he were speaking a foreign language.

"Girls, sex, getting fucked! You guys forget all about that or didn't you ever do it?"

They laughed and said they would mention it.

Apparently they did. A day later Pepper pulled open the shower stall door while he was taking a shower. He was outraged at the invasion of privacy.

"I thought I might catch you jacking off," she said and laughed. "You want some female companionship, I hear. What the hell got you here in the first place?" she fired at him before he could respond. "Just tie it in a knot," she added and closed the stall door.

He went into a rage and nearly slipped and fell. He got out of the shower, wrapped himself in a towel and went looking for her, but she was already outside, getting into her car and driving off. He pulled open the front door and waved his fist, shouting, "You son of a bitch!"

"What's up, Mr. Lewis?" Phil asked.

Jonathan spun on him. "That bitch," he said. "She's a sadistic Nazi."

Phil laughed.

"Where did she go?"

"She said she was going to see a man about a horse," Phil replied and shrugged.

"Christ," Jonathan Lewis said, pressing his hands to his temples. "I'm going out of my mind. No real information, just orders. I might as well be . . ."

Don stepped up beside Phil, waiting for Jonathan to finish his sentence. He looked from one to the other. They were just waiting for him to make such a mistake, let something like that slip, he thought. They'd tell, and he'd be kept under house arrest for another six months.

"Fuck it," he said. He waved his arms and went back upstairs to get dressed for another dreary dinner, taking lessons from Faraday on how to pronounce each item of food.

Thousands of miles away Dr. Felix Lawler lay naked on a lounge beside his Palm Springs pool. Without interfering urban lights, the desert night sky was blazing with more stars than he had ever seen. The clear sight of constellations, the occasional shooting star, the vivid path of the Milky Way, and the dry warm night air were seductive. This was truly what they meant by being a laid-back Californian. He didn't even think of his practice, business, investments, anything. Could life ever be more beautiful?

Jenny had gone inside to prepare dinner in her new kitchen. She had gotten her Jenn-Air range and was in domestic heaven. She was a very good cook. Her favorite was Italian. She worked up sauces that rivaled some of the finest gourmet restaurants in Los Angeles, and she wanted to have many dinner parties in their new luxury home.

"It's a great entertainment house, Felix. We'll invite friends down from L.A. and have fun weekends. We'll have someone different every few weeks," she declared. "Soon an invitation from the Lawlers will be valuable," she added with a note of arrogance.

He laughed at her childlike excitement. This house, the new money, the power it gave him, seemed to be a better remedy for age than even the magic he worked with his artistic hands, he thought.

They wouldn't have to do much work anymore, not that he had come to dislike what he did. He still enjoyed the reactions of his patients after surgery when they saw their new noses, implanted breasts, hip and butt tucks, and tight eyelids. After the collagen craze with lips, the eyes had become the next big fashion surgery for his patients.

Life was short, he had realized. He wanted to play five days and work two, and Jenny was all for it. She wanted to travel, attend the theater and fashion shows, and go on mad shopping sprees.

"We'll spoil ourselves to death," she declared. "Why not? We deserve it, don't we, Felix?"

"Sure," he said.

Later he thought, Everyone says that. Everyone thinks he or she deserves it. Why does anyone deserve it? Nothing is coming to anyone who doesn't go out and seize it like I did, he concluded.

Maybe he didn't exactly go out and seize it, but the opportunity arose and he had sense enough to secure it. It amounted to the same thing. Others—in fact, most others he knew, he conceded—would not have agreed. Their morality would have driven them back. That was they; this was he. He had put his morality into a blender and churned out a new sense of right and wrong, one that was based in reality and not in someone else's philosophical musing.

He smiled at a blinking star. Was that Venus? This was like being in the Griffith Observatory or the Hayden Planetarium. The universe was putting on a private show just for him, because he was so special! He laughed at the idea and leaned over to pick up his tumbler filled with rum punch. The ice had melted, but it was still cold enough. He finished it in a gulp and looked back at Jenny working away in the kitchen. She was nude too.

The nudity was her idea. They were completely walled in, and it was fun to pretend they were at a nudist colony. They had titillated each other enough earlier to make love under these stars. It was better than usual. Afterward they had jumped into the pool and splashed each other like teenagers. It made them feel as if they had drunk from the fountain of youth and were starting all over.

The warm night air had evaporated all the water on his body since he had lain down on the lounge again. Maybe it was the rum, but he was feeling very hot. Another dip, he thought, before dinner. He considered calling her out to join him, but he was also getting hungry. He didn't want to postpone dinner by dragging her away from the kitchen. They would go for a swim together after dinner, he concluded.

In fact, they would do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted from now on. He felt as if he owned the world; he was limited only by his own imagination.

He rose, looked around, and then ran to the edge of the pool and dived in. The cool water felt silvery smooth. He moaned with pleasure as he slipped through it, touched the bottom of the pool, and then rose to the top, bursting into the air with a laugh. He decided to do some laps on his back. In college he had been on the swim team. He wasn't a record breaker, but he was decent, he thought. Those memories made him concentrate more on technique. He completed each stroke gracefully, turning and sweeping his hands along in what he considered a good rhythm for a guy his age.

He touched the end of the pool and started toward the other side.

"Felix!" Jenny called.

"Yeah?" he shouted, still swimming.

"Come in and eat your salad."

"Be right there. I just want to finish another lap," he replied, hitting the other side, and speeding up to complete the lap. When his hand touched the concrete again, he relaxed and took a deep breath, feeling proud. He was far from being a senior citizen. That was for sure.

Suddenly something seized his wrist. It came as such a surprise that he thought he was imagining it at first. Then he turned, expecting to see Jenny, who he assumed had sneaked up on him and was fooling around. As he rolled over, however, he heard a splash and felt a pair of hands on his shoulders. They gripped with fingers that felt like claws.

"Wha—"

Down he went under the water, struggling against the force pushing him, but it was very powerful and then, surprise of surprises, something grabbed his ankles and held him. His lungs began to burn. He reached up and back, but the arms that held him were like pipes of steel. They wouldn't budge, and no matter how hard he kicked, he couldn't throw off the grip around his ankles.

Desperate, his eyes bulging, he continued to flail about, twisting his hips, trying to raise his legs, but it was as if he had been locked in chains. He gave it one last effort and then surrendered to the force and the need to open his mouth to let out the air. The water came rushing in. He gasped, choked, and turned his head just a little to look toward the wonderful night sky, which rapidly faded out of focus until it went completely black and those stars, like embers, died.

His body bounced on the bottom of the pool, his head and his arms hanging down. The shadowy figures lifted themselves out of the pool and moved toward the wall as swiftly and silently as shadows cast by clouds. In moments they were over the wall and gone.

Dr. Felix Lawler remained underwater, his eyes wide open in a death stare.

Jenny stood in the doorway gazing out at the pool. She didn't hear Felix swimming, and she didn't see him moving about. The night was so quiet, barely a breeze.

"Felix, dinner's ready. Felix!" she called, frustrated, her hands on her hips.

She waited, and then she felt a chill that put a small butterfly in her stomach. It came from some instinctive fear at the base of her abdomen, expanding until it radiated to her heart and started it pounding.

"Felix!"

The silence that she got in response made her heart pound even faster. She brought her hand to her throat and moved forward very slowly.

"Damn you if you're kidding around with me, Felix Lawler. I mean it," she said and then marched toward the pool. She was only a few feet away from the edge when she saw him in the water, his back and rear end looking like chalk. "Felix? Felix!"

She lowered herself into the water. My God, he's not moving, she thought and swam to him, nudging him. He didn't move. She pulled him to the side of the pool, crying and screaming his name. He was too heavy to lift out at that end. She had to tow him down to the shallow end and dip her arms under his, then back up the steps, dragging him until she reached the side of the deck and sat down hard, Felix's body falling over her lap.

She looked at his face, the eyes wide, the mouth open like a fish that had died out of water. What should she do? Why hadn't she taken that CPR course when she had the opportunity? She moved her hands over his chest, pressing everywhere, and then she realized he was dying, if he wasn't already dead.

And she screamed and screamed.

Vaguely she thought, How could this be? They were just about to start life all over again! He had no right to die!

"YOU'RE NOT VERY TALKATIVE this morning," Faraday said as he crunched his beaver teeth into a crisp doughnut. "If you don't talk, we can't practice," he added, chomping away.

Everything about the man had begun to disgust Jonathan Lewis. He glared at him, hating the way the muscles in Faraday's face worked his jaw, despising the tiny beads of sweat on his brow. "I don't have anything to say," Jonathan muttered.

"That wasn't bad," Faraday said, nodding. "Really."

Jonathan smirked and turned to the sports pages of the newspaper as he sat back to sip his coffee. Pepper had not returned during the evening. He had had sat up waiting for her, looking forward to some sort of confrontation. Even now he was listening for the sound of a car or the opening of the front door.

The quiet, the lack of challenging activity and excitement, the same monotonous routine, and the same faces were wearing on him. His nerve endings felt like fuses, sizzling, threatening to move right to his spine and then up to his brain until his head exploded.

"Why don't you read me something from the newspaper?" Faraday suggested. "Anything."

Jonathan gazed at him over the top of the paper and saw he was dead serious, his face frozen in anticipation.

"How about the baseball scores? I used to follow the Cubs," Faraday continued. "What's your team?" he added, like someone desperate to make conversation on a train or a plane.

Actually they were on a journey of sorts, Jonathan Lewis thought, and he hoped it would soon come to an end.

"I have no favorite team now."

"Ah," Faraday said, nodding and eating again.

Jonathan folded the paper and looked at him. "You ever do anything like this before?" he asked.

Faraday smiled. "Now, Mr. Lewis, you know the ground rules. It's better if we don't know anything personal about each other. I'll come and go in your life, and most likely we'll never set eyes on each other again, but should we, it's essential we show no recognition."

"Cloak-and-dagger," Jonathan mumbled.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. I'm going out," he said. Just as he stood up, the front door opened, and he turned, hoping to see Pepper.

However, it was Phil and Don, coming in from their morning hunt. Don held a good-size rabbit by its tail to display it. There was a bloody hole in its neck. "Well? What do you think of this?"

"Terrific," Jonathan Lewis said.

"We told you to come along," Phil said. "It's really nice out there in the morning."

"Yeah, nothing I would like to do more than plod over the fields hunting Bugs Bunny," Jonathan muttered.

"The farm lady promised to prepare a stew if we got her a good-size rabbit. Well, we did," Phil said proudly.

"Rabbit stew? That's not my favorite idea," Faraday said. "Actually, they remind me of rodents. It would be like eating a rat."

"Fuck you," Phil said, annoyed.

Jonathan laughed.

They all looked at him.

"I'm going for a walk."

"Good," Faraday said, rising and wiping his lips with his napkin.

"Alone," Jonathan emphasized. His eyes were killer cold, his face stone.

"But. . . that's a waste, Mr. Lewis. I'm here at great expense and—"

"Jesus, I need a fucking break! Lay off, will you?" Jonathan snapped.

The rage in his face was enough to terrify Faraday. It even caused Phil and Don to step back from the doorway. Faraday lowered himself to his seat like a balloon losing air. He pressed his soft lips together as if to be sure his tongue wouldn't betray him and speak up again.

Jonathan charged past his bodyguards, who separated quickly to make way for him. He practically pulled the handle off the front door and then slammed it behind him after he stepped out onto the small porch. He stood there for a moment, his heart pounding with a heavy drumbeat that turned his bones into chimes, which echoed in his head.

"Fuck!" he screamed at the quiet country scene before him. Except for the flutter of some sparrows fleeing the tree in front of the guesthouse, nothing moved or responded. He heard another door close, however, and gazed at the farmhouse. The stout woman came down her porch steps quickly, her hefty breasts bouncing like two small pillows filled with sand.

She wore jeans that Jonathan Lewis imagined were pulled up over her thighs with the same difficulty anyone would have pulling on a pair of tight-fitting boots. She had her hair tied in a ponytail, and she wore a man's flannel shirt tucked into those jeans. She didn't look his way. It was as if he, this house, and all that occurred in and around it didn't exist in her time zone. He didn't even notice a glance of curiosity. She made her way to the barn and disappeared inside.

Pepper had made his talking to the farm couple a strict no-no, but he was tired of her damn rules, tired of the oppressive feel of her foot over his face. Enjoying his defiance, he marched down the steps and toward the barn. He glanced back only once to be sure Phil and Don or Faraday hadn't come out after him. None had, probably all deciding it was better to give him some breathing room.

He stood outside the barn for a moment, hesitant and also disgusted with himself. It had come to this, he thought. I'm so desperate I would find it interesting and exciting to talk to an overweight farm woman.

Beggars can't be choosers, he told himself and entered the barn.

At first he didn't see her. Then he heard the water being run into a trough for some milk cows. She was bent over, her sizable rear end facing him. The air was redolent of manure, feed, hay, and animals. Cows turned their bulging, dumb eyes at him and chewed with disinterest. A field mouse scampered under some hay and then shot out and into a dark corner.

The woman straightened up, turned off the water, and then looked up with surprise as Jonathan drew closer. The top three buttons of her flannel shirt were undone, and the deep, long cut of her cleavage was clearly revealed. His eyes went to it like the eyes of a starving man coveting a loaf of bread.

"Hello," he said and reluctantly shifted his gaze to the surroundings. "This looks like hard work."

For a moment it appeared she wouldn't respond; she would ignore him and go on with her chores, but she finally nodded slightly.

"It's not easy to make a go of it," she replied. She had an English accent, which made him think about his own imposed Bostonian inflections.

"You're from England?"

"Originally, yes. I thought I had lost my accent," she replied.

She had friendly eyes—nice, soft blue eyes—and a pretty face. He wasn't just thinking that out of desperation, he told himself. If she lost about forty pounds.. .

"Actually, I was surprised to see a family farm. I thought all farms were corporate owned these days."

"There aren't many of us," she agreed. "George and me are hanging in there."

"George is your husband?"

"Yes."

She began distributing feed.

"Can I help you with anything?" he asked.

She turned and looked at him as if he had asked the most ridiculous question. It brought a small smile to her face. "No, thank you. I don't have much to do here. I've got to get out to the north field. We're harvesting hay today."

"Peachy keen," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Sounds like terrific, healthy, honest work."

She raised her untrimmed eyebrows and widened her small smile so that her lips thinned. When she moved, he watched her bosom rub against the flannel, pressuring the remaining buttons. She wore no bra, and he imagined she had the biggest, juiciest nipples. He envisioned himself spending a half hour nibbling and licking around them. It brought a delicious twinge to his limp and lonely dick.

"They told us not to have anything to do with the people in the guesthouse," she said. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I run the whole operation, and I make the decisions and give the orders here."

"Oh? I thought—"

"The rest of them work for me. So," he added with a smile, "I guess you work for me too."

She simply stared. A cow on his left started to urinate.

Christ, what the hell am I doing here? he thought.

"What do you do for fun out here, besides watch the paint dry?" he asked.

"What?"

"You relax sometimes, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. We have satellite television. The satellite's behind the house."

"Get the Playboy channel?"

"Playboy. Yes, but we don't watch that," she said, blushing. Her flush started at the base of her neck and moved up and over her jawbone and into her cheeks so vividly that he thought he saw the blood moving through her veins. The base darkened more. He stepped closer.

"You're too pretty to be stuck out here like this. Don't you ever get itchy?"

"Itchy? No," she said with a small nervous laugh. She tried not to look at him.

"George must be quite a guy."

"Oh, he is."

"I'm quite a guy too," Jonathan said, taking another step and then another until he was only inches from her. "You look like a woman who needs more than one."

"More than one what?" she asked, tilting her head a bit. His eyes went to that valley between her breasts again.

She saw his gaze and quickly buttoned up.

"Don't do that," he said. "Please."

She stepped back, against the railing.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to. . .You're making a nice piece of change here because of us, right?" he said quickly. "I bet it's more than you make all year working your ass off. You and wonderful Georgie boy, huh? You could make more."

"I have to go," she said nervously. "George is waiting for me in the—"

"North field. I know. The hay's not going anywhere. You have some pair of headlights. I bet they help George find his way in the dark," he added, thinking he was very clever. He smiled, but she looked even more terrified.

"Please," she said, eyeing an avenue of escape to his right. He quickly stepped into it.

"I tell you what," he said. "I'll give you five hundred bucks just for two minutes."

She shook her head.

He stepped closer.

"Please," she pleaded.

"Five hundred bucks. I bet you won't make that working all day today, will you? Huh?"

"I have to go," she said.

"It's no big deal. It's easy," he said raising his fingers to her shirt. "All I do is unbutton these." He started to do it. She put her hand on his wrist, but not with much pressure behind it to stop him. He got another button undone and then another while his other hand pushed under her left breast, lifting it so the cleavage deepened.

His tongue moved over his lips. His breathing quickened.

"Don't," she said weakly, fear freezing her.

"It's all right. Five hundred bucks," he muttered and peeled the shirt away until her full breasts were exposed, the nipples as big as he had imagined.

Just as he brought his hands under her breasts, the barn door was thrust open.

She screamed and cowered away from him, clutching the shirt closed. He turned to confront his nemesis, Pepper herself, her hands on her hips, her mouth twisted in a smirk of disgust.

"Mr. L.," she said with a deep, angry smile, "we were looking for you everywhere."

She continued toward him. She wore a light leather jacket, dungarees, and black boots.

The farmer's wife scurried behind him and moved quickly toward the barn door. Pepper smiled at her and nodded, and she left quickly. As soon as she was gone, Pepper turned to him, the smile of anger now a mask of rage.

"You go and you risk all of what's been done—for that?" she said. She had her right hand clenched into a small mallet. "Do you know how many people are involved, how much money has been spent?"

"Fuck you," he said, even though he felt more fear than defiance. He started to walk past her, but she stepped in his way. "What are you going to do, hit me in the face?" he said with a smirk.

Without the slightest hint, telegraphing nothing, she jabbed her knee into his groin. The pain shot through him like a knife slicing its way from his balls through his stomach and into his heart. His legs crumpled, and he sat with his arms wrapped around himself, his face contorted into a grimace.

She reached down and seized his hair, pulling on the strands so hard that some began to give up their roots. Her face was only inches from his. He saw the yellow between her teeth, smelled the garlic on her breath, and even saw the tiniest blood vessels in her eyes.

"I don't need to hit you in the face, Mr. Lewis," she said, "but if you ever do anything like this again, I'll castrate you with my bare hands."

She clutched him under the chin, her fingers tightening like lobster claws, closing his windpipe. He felt his face heat up, and he began to gag. She held on as if she wasn't going to release him, as if she meant to kill him then and there, the madness, fury, and raw rage in her overwhelming any possible caution. Fear for his very life exploded in his chest. His eyes were full of pleading.

She smiled and slowly eased up. He fell to his side, gasping. She stood over him, her hands on her hips, her lips twisted so that they put a dimple in her right cheek. Then she leaned toward him.

"Get up and go back into the house. You'll work with Faraday. He's expensive, and his time can't be wasted. Then go into your room and jack off and never approach that woman again, understand?"

"Bitch," he muttered.

"Excuse me, Mr. Lewis? Did you have something you wanted to say?"

He held back. She was capable of killing him. They had put an insane person in charge of him, and he couldn't complain; he couldn't get word out to anyone. She controlled his life.

"So has the pressure in your prick eased off a bit? Did I help calm the little mole?" She laughed. "Get to your feet, Mr. Lewis."

She's a dyke, he thought. She's enjoying this. She would castrate me.

"Get up," she ordered firmly.

He felt the pain ease and sat upright, still taking deep breaths.

"Do I have to pull you up by your hair?" she threatened.

He gazed up at her. She glared down at him until he shook his head.

"Good. Now we're getting cooperation again. That's the old Mr. Lewis we love and cherish so well," she said with her cold smile.

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. She gave him a look of disgust and then turned and started toward the barn door.

His eyes went to the pitchfork. It was almost automatic, as automatic as it had been before. He scooped it up, turned, and lunged at her, driving the long, rusty metal teeth into the back of her neck, the one tooth separating her cerebellum from her spinal cord in one cold slice.

Her arms flew up, and for a moment he held her upright with the pitchfork. Then her body became heavy, and he let go of the handle. She folded to the straw, her head striking the wooden slats and bouncing once before she tipped to her side. The pitchfork, still embedded in her neck, kept her from turning completely onto her back.

Her eyes were wide, her mouth moving without sound.

"Consider yourself fired," he said. Her eyes rolled back, and she died with short bursts of air pushing into her cheeks.

"It's a wet drowning," the Riverside County medical examiner reported to Ted Andrews on the phone. "His lungs were quite full. He had a 1.2 alcohol count."

"So what do you think? Got drunk and accidentally drowned?"

"As you know, Agent Andrews, drowning is a diagnosis of exclusion, based on the circumstances of the death. Usually, it's pretty hard to determine whether it was accidental or deliberate, but in this case I have something more to put on the table of conjecture," the official-sounding medical examiner said.

"Go on, please, Doctor."

"There is definite trauma around the ankles. Someone or something put great pressure there."

"To hold him under the water?"

"Possibly," the medical examiner said. "I have no other evidence of blows. However, his wife can't account for any trauma about his ankles."

"I see. When did this happen?"

"About eight-twenty p.m."

"Okay, thank you," Ted said and cradled the phone. The news of Dr. Felix Lawler's death had come into the office late in the evening and was the first thing that Billy Powell had greeted him with when he came to work.

Dr. Lawler's receptionist had informed him that Felix Lawler had gone to his new Palm Springs home for an extended weekend, and Ted had been considering a trip to the desert. The forensics team at Irene Lester's apartment had picked up plenty of prints, but so far they had provided no useful information, and Billy hadn't learned anything significant from Irene Lester's neighbors. According to them she had kept to herself.

"In fact," the tenant across the hall from Lester's apartment had told Billy, "she made us all feel as if we carried the AIDS virus, know what I mean?"

Apparently, Irene Lester hadn't had much contact with her family, either. She had a sister in New York who said she and Irene hadn't spoken for months and they wouldn't have spoken then if she hadn't called Irene. Both parents were dead, and there were no old boyfriends, no new boyfriends, and no children in the rafters.

Irene Lester had been one of those urban nonentities, people with anonymous faces who moved through the city streets like bodies without souls, Ted thought.

After Ted had made the call to the medical examiner, Billy handed him his second piece of information.

"I tracked the credit card with the phony name to a department store in Billings, Montana," he said.

"That's the first thing that makes sense," Ted said.

"Nothing's turned up at any of the motels, hotels, or bed-and-breakfasts . . . and there's no transportation trail. She was either driven to Montana or flown there in a private plane."

"And ended up smoldering on the Indian reservation. What did she buy at the department store?"

Billy looked at his sheet. "Underwear, a dozen pairs of stockings, a hairbrush, five blouses, five skirts, and two pairs of shoes."

"Sounds like she didn't go out there with much," Ted mused.

"Those closets and dresser drawers looked full at the apartment," Billy agreed.

"Maybe she didn't expect to stay long."

"Long enough to put a hold on her mail but not on the rest of her life, I bet," Billy said.

Ted laughed. He was getting to like Billy Powell more and more. Everyone else had written this guy off as some electronic mystic, lost in cyberspace, filling his head with megabytes, but Ted saw a real person.

"So what do we have? A nurse who worked for a cosmetic surgeon is murdered, and her body is set on fire in a metal drum at a dump on an Indian reservation in Montana."

"Where she had gone under an assumed name," Billy added.

"And the doctor she worked for drowns in his swimming pool, and that might be murder as well," Ted said and relayed what the medical examiner had told him.

"Someone didn't like the results of plastic surgery?" Billy suggested, half in jest.

Ted sat back, his hands folded behind his head, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. When he had first heard about this case, he thought it might just be part of some primitive Indian ritual. He chastised himself for the stupid stereotype reaction. If anything, the Indians were victims here. Their land was used as a hiding place, a graveyard for a murdered white woman. No, this was a lot more sinister than a ritual killing, he concluded.

"I remember this movie where the plastic surgeon changes the killer's face. Now he's the only one who knows who the guy is. The killer knows that and murders him," Ted said.

"I like your theory better than mine," Billy said, "and I know what your next question is going to be."

"Yeah? What?"

"Can I draw up a list of Dr. Lawler's recent cases involving face-lifts—right?" Billy replied. Ted nodded.

"Yeah, but I'm also wondering if he performed one that's not on record."

"I found something that might help." He handed Ted another printout.

"Wire transfers. From Switzerland. And pretty hefty amounts, too!" Ted said, looking at the numbers.

"I just thought of something," Billy said. He waited, as if they were playing Simon Says.

"Go ahead."

"Maybe the nurse was taken to Montana to assist in the operation there. Think that might be a possibility?"

"At this stage of the investigation, for sure. So?"

"So let me do some surfing on the Internet and see what facilities are available in the Billings area. You just don't do face-lifts on the kitchen table."

Ted smiled. "And let's see if Dr. Lawler made any trips to Billings or the surrounding area."

"Give me a few hours to work my magic fingers " Billy said.

Ted sat back again with his hands folded behind his head. Computers did make things a lot easier. These older guys who complained about the impersonality of the modern world just didn't appreciate the time and expense that the new technology saved Of course, computers didn't reach conclusions. Too bad Ted thought. If they did, he could spend more time at home, and his wife would be happier.

JONATHAN LEWIS STOOD OVER Pepper, actually enjoying her final moments and her eyes filling with death, the quick metamorphosis to pupils of glass. When it was over, he knelt down and searched the pockets of her leather jacket for her car keys. After he located them, he dragged her body toward the cows and rolled it into the stalls, deliberately turning her face into the manure.

"Now you're with your own kind," he quipped and laughed. Then he walked out of the barn.

There was no one around. He supposed Phil and Don were inside starting up their card game. Most likely, Mr. Faraday was waiting for him in the living room. There was nothing he wanted from that guesthouse anyway, he thought. There was no point in lingering.

He got into Pepper's car, started the engine, looked back once in the rearview mirror, and then drove off, speeding up once he left the property, the cloud of dust behind him looking like a trail of brown smoke emanating from the car's exhaust pipe.

Fortunately, he had stuffed his wallet into his pants pocket this morning. He had all his identification, his new credit cards, and his ATM card. Money was never a problem; it wouldn't be a problem now. As he approached a major highway, it occurred to him that he really didn't know where the fuck he was. The first road sign didn't help, either. He had no idea where Lancaster was until he turned onto an interstate highway and remembered he was in Ohio. He headed for Columbus. He had been in Columbus, but it was some time ago.

As he continued to accelerate and put distance between himself and the farm, he began to experience a delightful joie de vivre, something he hadn't felt for a long time. He enjoyed the sense of abandon, the feeling of freedom. He could go anywhere he wanted and do anything he wanted now. There was no one riding herd on him, no orders to take from anyone but himself. It was as if the world had become a great department store; every city, every village, every hamlet, was a place to explore and from which he could take whatever he wanted.

He felt larger than himself. He had become gigantic, immortal, invulnerable. How easy it had been to kill Pepper. He should never have let her put fear in him; he should have never stopped staring her down, defying her. She deserved what she got because she had dared to challenge and condemn him as if she were some sort of saint and he was some sort of animal. Who the hell was she to judge him?

When he arrived at the airport, he put the car in the long-term parking lot and took the shuttle back to the terminal. He searched for the earliest flight to Los Angeles, found it, and bought himself a first-class ticket.

It would all be first class from now on, just the way it used to be.

Before he boarded, he made a phone call. It felt so good just doing something as simple as going to a phone and making a call without having to hide it or worry about them finding out.

"It's me," he said as soon as the man answered. There was a moment of hesitation. "Jonathan," he added.

"Oh, yes. I almost gave up on you. It's been so long since you called."

"So?"

"I told you it wouldn't be hard finding out what you wanted."

"I didn't expect it would be hard. I just wanted it all done before I. . ." He had almost said, "got out." "Before I was ready. Now I'm ready."

"All right. Hold on." He heard a file drawer being opened. "Okay, here's her New York address. She's living alone. Walks to school. From what I could tell, she doesn't have any special boyfriend. That might have changed. I haven't gone back."

"That's all right. I'll find that out for myself. Go on," he said and listened to the remaining details.

"It was a piece of cake."

"I'm glad for you," Jonathan said. "You got your money?"

"Yes, thank you. Nice girl," he added.

"That's because you don't know her like I do," Jonathan said and hung up.

He hurried along to the gate.

When he had shown his picture identification and boarded the plane, he felt some twinges of fear. Would it work? Was there any possibility of it not working? Could he be recognized?

He used the Boston accent, taking pains not to exaggerate but thinking about what he said before he said it. Faraday would have been proud of him, he thought.

"Good evening, Mr. Lewis," the flight attendant said. She wasn't as pretty as she was cute. Someone's little sister. "Would you like something to drink?"

"I'll have a vodka and tonic with a twist of lime," he said flashing his new smile. Her face brightened as she went to get his drink.

He turned and gazed at his reflection in the glass. In some ways he was better looking now. His nose was straighter, and the tightness around his jawbone gave him a stronger, more manly appearance. He wasn't a pretty boy so much as he was handsome now, he concluded. Besides, it wasn't what you looked like so much as what you did with what you had. He still had sexy eyes, and he knew how to use them, didn't he?

He couldn't wait to get into action. He actually felt like a prizefighter who had been out of the ring too long. He wouldn't need much practice to get his timing back. It was like riding a bike. It would all just return.

The flight attendant handed him his drink and a coaster. She gave him the menu too.

"Filet mignon. That sounds good," he said.

"It is good," she said and leaned down to add, "for airplane food."

He laughed, licked the mixer suggestively, and then toasted her before taking his first sip. There was a twinkle in her eyes. She would pamper him all the way to Los Angeles. He was positive of that. He might even hit on her. Maybe spend the night with her.

Then he thought, No, I'd better be careful about the new people I meet. I'd better not do too much to draw attention just yet.

He was sure they would come after him, and not because of what he had done to Pepper. She was replaceable. Nobody was going to shed many tears over her. They'd come after him because they didn't think he was ready. He had jumped ship, but he couldn't take it anymore. If he hadn't left, he would have gone mad, and what good would all the effort and the expense have been then, huh? They would understand, and they'd see that he could make it out here, and then they'd back off.

He relaxed, closed his eyes, and sat back to enjoy the flight and the meal and the flirtatious eyes of the young flight attendant. It was like the preliminaries. Soon he'd be in there fighting for the title again, and he'd win it. He was sure of that.

When he arrived at LAX, he went directly to a pay phone and punched out Carla Morgan's number, hoping she'd had no reason to change it, and praying she was still single. Carla would always be single, he told himself as her phone rang and rang. When her answering machine came on, his chest felt as if it had been punctured. He blew air out of his lips in disappointment while the message played. At least it was her voice. She hadn't changed the number, and she didn't mention anyone else—no man, no roommate.

"Hello, Carla," he said, hitting those vowels perfectly. "I'm a friend of a good friend of yours. We spent a lot of time together, and he told me all about you before he left. I was especially intrigued by what you and he did on the roof behind the pigeon cote. Anyway—"

She picked up. "Who the hell is this?"

"Carla? Is that you?"

"Who the hell is this?" she demanded again.

He pictured her furious eyes. There were few women he had enjoyed fucking more than Carla. She always put up a little resistance, insisting that she had sworn off him, but in the end, she succumbed and gladly too.

"My name's Jonathan Lewis. I've brought a letter for you. It's quite valuable, actually. You're the only one he cared to write to. Would it be convenient for me to drop by in, say, an hour or so?"

"Is this a joke? Because if it is, it's a pretty fucking sick one," she said.

"Only you can tell if it's a joke, Carla, but let me describe another night, at a hotel in Washington, D.C. You put on his underwear, filling it with that sock. What was in it? Bread from the room service dinner?"

"Who are you?" she said in a thin, breathless voice, obviously impressed.

"A messenger from the dead," he replied. "About an hour, okay?"

She was silent.

"I really don't have much time in Los Angeles," he said. "I'm just passing through."

"You say you have a letter?"

"Written in his hand, not typed. Very special. He even said you can sell it if you want to."

"Jesus. Okay. I'm home," she said. "I live—"

"I know your address, Carla. I know more about you than you can imagine." He hung up.

This was going to be fun, he thought. I truly am . . . invincible.

Through the open front window in the living room, Phil, Don, and Faraday had heard the tires of the black Lincoln Town Car crunch the gravel in front of the guesthouse. An hour or so into their card game, Phil and Don had responded to Faraday's concern about Jonathan Lewis's whereabouts.

"He's nowhere in the house," Faraday declared. "I'm just wasting my time sitting in there. Can't you find him and see what he's doing?" the annoying little man asked.

Reluctantly the two got up from the table and went outside. They saw no one, but they did notice that the barn door was open.

"Maybe he's milking a cow," Phil said. Don laughed, and the two headed for the barn.

They saw nothing unusual inside the barn and were about to leave when Don noticed what looked like blood on the hay. He approached it, knelt down, touched it, smelled it, and then his eyes fixed on Pepper's body in the stall. "Holy shit," he declared.

The two bodyguards stared down at her body, her face smeared with manure.

"What the hell did he do to her?" Phil asked.

They dragged her out of the stall, turned her over and saw the gaping wounds in the back of her neck. Don found the pitchfork and the blood on the teeth of it. "He used this."

"Why?"

"Who the hell knows? They never got along," Don said. "We'd better go make a phone call. Her car's not out there. He's gone."

"Christ, we're going to be blamed."

"How could we know this had happened? We couldn't hold his hand all day and night, and I didn't even know Pepper had come back, did you?" Don whined.

"No."

"So, how can it be our fault? He's fucked up. It's their fault," Don insisted, though he and Phil would never dare express such a thought to anyone else.

Phil looked at Pepper once more and then left with Don to make the call. Then, with Faraday shivering in his shoes across from them, the three sat patiently and waited where they were told to wait.

Car doors slammed. The two bodyguards looked at each other fearfully. They heard the footsteps on the porch floor, and then the door opened and two tall, stout men, both at least as big as Phil and Don, stood in the living room doorway. One of the men was a light-skinned black with frosty emerald eyes and hair the color of India ink. He wore a silver-blue suit. The other man, in a dark blue suit, had light brown hair cut in a military style. He had military posture as well, and his face looked cut in granite.

"Where's Pepper's body?" the light-skinned black man asked.

"She's in the barn, Mr. Washington," Phil said quickly.

"Get a sheet and go wrap her up," the other man ordered. "Then put her in your car trunk."

"Right," Phil said, rising. Don got up quickly, but neither of them moved, because the two men did not make space for them to pass through the doorway.

"How did he drive away in her car without either of you fuckheads knowing?" Mr. Washington asked.

"We were in the house. We didn't even know she had come back. She never came in here. She must have seen him go into the barn and gone after him," Phil explained quickly.

"She should have come to get us to find him," Don added.

"Why should she have to come to get you? Why weren't you with him at all times?" the man with the military posture asked in a cool, calm manner.

"We were. He just. . . snuck out on us, Mr. Adams," Phil whined. "He wasn't easy. He was always complaining, looking to break the rules," he added and gazed at Don for confirmation.

Don nodded quickly. "Yeah."

"If you couldn't handle the job, you should have told us," Mr. Adams said. He glared for a moment, his eyes burning with anger. Then his eyes went to Faraday. "Weren't you working with him day and night?"

"I was sitting here waiting for him. If I hadn't asked them to go find him, we'd still be sitting here waiting," he replied quickly, obviously having prepared a statement in his mind.

Don and Phil felt the blood in their faces and necks boil. It was as if Faraday had driven spikes through their foreheads. They stared daggers at him, but Faraday kept his eyes fixed on the two men in the doorway.

"Go get the body," Mr. Washington said and stepped aside to indicate that Phil and Don should move their asses now.

"How much progress had you made with him?" Mr. Adams asked Faraday.

"He was doing well—exceptionally well, actually. If I had another week or two—"

"When he's returned, we'll bring you back to the case," Mr. Washington told him.

Faraday nodded. "Should I wait here, then?" he asked.

"We'll see." Mr. Washington looked at Mr. Adams, who then went to the phone on the table by the window. He punched out some numbers, gazing out the window at Don and Phil hurrying across the gravel road toward the barn, Phil carrying a sheet.

"We're here," he said into the phone. "It's just as bad as you thought." He listened, his eyes and the eyes of Mr. Washington fixed on each other. "Understood," he said. Then he cradled the phone. "We're to wait here," he said. "They'll know in less than an hour."

"What about Mr. . . ." Mr. Washington paused and glanced at Faraday, realizing he couldn't continue in front of him. Mr. Adams understood.

"They don't want to inform him unless it becomes absolutely necessary," Adams said.

"Okay. Let's have some coffee," Mr. Washington suggested. "Mr. Faraday?"

"Fine," Faraday said, jumping to his feet. "I would like some myself. I warned them," he continued as he walked out of the room. "I told them the man was restless and that they should keep a closer eye on him."

He looked at the two for approval, but they were expressionless. It was as if they were tuned in to another dimension and no longer heard or saw him. At the moment he thought that was good.

BILLY POWELL, ALWAYS TRUE TO his word, returned a few hours later to make his report.

"This Dr. Lawler did not take any commercial flight to Montana or anywhere else these past few months. Here's a list of his patients. The ones who had surgery done on their faces have an asterisk next to their names and addresses, but as you can see, only one was from outside Los Angeles—Beverly Hills, for that matter—and she came from Phoenix."

"Right," Ted said perusing the list.

"I have a list of possible facilities in Billings."

Ted took it. "A veterinary clinic?"

"It would work. They've got to be concerned with a clean operating environment too."

"Very thorough, Billy. Good."

Ted picked up something from the glint in Billy Powell's eyes. "You've got something, haven't you, Megabyte Man?"

"Yes, sir, I believe so. When I couldn't find any evidence of Dr. Felix Lawler being transported on a commercial flight, I checked his address with taxi companies. I came up with nothing using his home address, but using his office address . . ."

"What?"

Billy handed him another slip of paper.

"He went to the Santa Monica airport? That's a small airport."

"Mainly private single-engine planes and such, but that includes private jets. So I checked that date against registered flight plans."

"I feel as if you're dealing out playing cards," Ted said, taking the next slip of paper. He read it quickly. "The Rainback Corporation? What the hell's that?"

"Investment firm, providing money management, retirement plans, and personal management for the megarich all over the United States, which accounts for their use of a private jet."

"You think Felix Lawler was on this jet?" Ted asked.

"Pilot filed a flight plan that took his plane to San Francisco on that date," Billy said.

"San Francisco? So what's that got to do with—"

"He filed another flight plan four days later—to Billings, Montana," Billy added, handing Ted another slip of paper and stepping back, his arms folded across his chest.

Ted nodded slowly. "Great. Good work, Billy. I'll put you in for a raise."

"Better double that," Billy said and whipped another slip of paper out of his shirt pocket.

Ted shook his head and took the paper. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Billy said. "I realized that if the nurse left her car at the apartment complex, there was a chance that she also took a taxi."

"Irene Lester was driven to Santa Monica Airport the same day as Dr. Lawler. So she could have boarded the same jet, flown to San Francisco with Lawler, and then gone on to Billings four days later."

Billy nodded.

Ted sat back. "We'd better learn more about this Rainback Corporation," he said.

"I'm already on that. I'll have their corporate documents within the hour, their board of directors, banking facilities, headquarters . . ."

"I'm going to visit with Lawler's receptionist and see what I can get," Ted said, standing. "Be back in a few hours."

"More than enough time for me to get what we need," Billy said confidently.

"I expected no less," Ted replied.

"That's a line from Casablanca," Billy shot back. "Major Strasser to Captain Renaud."

"You know Casablanca? It's my wife's favorite movie. How do you know Casablanca?"

"Movie dot com," Billy said. "Film trivia on the Internet. I play it during my spare time."

"During your spare time you take a busman's holiday, huh?"

Billy shrugged.

"Watch those obsessions, Billy," Ted said, waving his forefinger. "My wife says they're insidious."

Billy shrugged. "When my hard disc is filled, I stop," he said. Ted had another good laugh. He really liked this kid.

"See you in a while," he said and left.

Lawler's office was off Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. The waiting room was plush with real leather sofas and chairs, a glass table with a Lalique centerpiece, beautiful artificial flowers in vases, contemporary art on the walls.

When Ted entered, he found the receptionist and a nurse sitting quietly in the office, drinking coffee and looking glum. The receptionist remembered him, of course, but she rose reluctantly to greet him. He thought she even looked a bit frightened.

She was a woman of about thirty-five, brunette, attractive, with a nose that advertised a plastic surgeon's practice. He couldn't forget her name: Mario Andrews. He had joked about being a relative. At the time she had a good sense of humor, but for now laughter seemed to be a vague memory.

The nurse, who hadn't been there the first time Ted stopped by, was also in her thirties, with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a figure that wouldn't be hidden even under an unflatteringly loose uniform. Her name tag read Diane Wilson.

Mario paused after standing and leaned toward Diane. In an audible whisper she said, "He's from the FBI." Then she turned back to Ted. "The police were just here," she said sharply. "I told them about Irene Lester. They didn't seem to know," she added with a suspicious glint in her eyes.

"We're handling the Irene Lester matter exclusively. As I told you before, it's an FBI investigation because her body was discovered on an Indian reservation. That puts the crime in the jurisdiction of the Bureau."

"Do you think Irene Lester's death is connected to Dr. Lawler's?" Diane Wilson asked quickly, rising.

"I don't know."

"Was Dr. Lawler murdered for sure?" Mario Andrews asked. "The police wouldn't say."

The two stood side by side, looking to him for answers.

"We can't confirm that yet," he told them, "but we have reason to be suspicious." Ted produced the list of patients and put it on the counter before the receptionist.

"To your knowledge, do any of these people have a home or second residence in the state of Montana?"

Mario looked down, with Diane looking over her shoulder.

"How did you get this? I didn't give you this," she said, fear opening like a flower blossom in her face.

"We're the FBI, ma'am," Ted said softly as if that was enough of an explanation.

It was enough for her. She seemed relieved, nodded, and looked at the list.

"I don't know for sure, of course, but no one here ever mentioned Montana. Why are there asterisks next to some names?"

"Work was done on their faces."

"Why should that matter?" Diane asked.

"It's just something we're checking," Ted said quickly. "Do you know why Dr. Lawler and Irene Lester would have gone to San Francisco and then to Montana?"

"You asked me about Irene Lester before," Mario said. "I told you I had no knowledge of her travels or other assignments." She recited her answer, almost as if the words had become a knee-jerk reaction. "She had no assignment for us that involved traveling to San Francisco and Montana," she concluded. The statement resonated like the end of a prepared statement.

"And Dr. Lawler?"

"Not that I know," Mario said.

She looked at Diane Wilson, who then looked at him and shook her head. "He never mentioned any trip to either place to me," she said. "Occasionally, he went to San Francisco, but for pleasure mostly, not business."

"Did you know Irene Lester?" Ted asked her.

"Not very well. We saw each other only in this office," she replied.

"Did she ever mention anyone in Montana to you?"

"No. She was . . ." She looked at Mario Andrews.

"What?" Ted asked.

"Not an overly friendly person. I didn't think she had the personality for this kind of work. She always reminded me of one of those clerks you find working in the Motor Vehicle Bureau," she added, and Ted laughed.

"All right, let me ask you this. To your knowledge is there anyone living or practicing medicine in Montana—in and around Billings, especially—whom Dr. Lawler knew or was friendly with? Specifically do you have any letters or documents from a doctor or medical facility in Montana?"

Mario Andrews stared at him for a moment. "Are we required to answer these questions?"

Ted smiled. "No, but I don't see any reason why you wouldn't. I'm conducting an official FBI investigation concerning an act of violence that occurred on an Indian reservation in Montana. Some of the leads have brought us here, and now there's been a possible second violent death. Why should you be reluctant to give me information?"

The receptionist shifted her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "I don't want to be uncooperative, but Dr. Lawler's attorney, Lawrence Klugger called first thing this morning and told me I was not to give any information or documents to anyone without a subpoena. That's why I was nervous when you showed me this list of patients." She bit down on her lower lip, tears clouding her eyes.

"It's all right, Mario. I'll get all the subpoenas I need, and you won't have to be nervous about it."

"Thank you," she said. "I'm keeping the office open today and tomorrow to inform all of the doctor's patients, and I'll come in again next week to organize the files."

"Has Mr. Klugger asked for any?"

"No. He just told me to keep everything under lock and key unless I'm ordered to release them by way of subpoena," she said, parroting the lawyer. "He said patient files especially are highly confidential. He doesn't want us getting into any lawsuits."

"An ounce of caution is worth a pound of cure," Diane Wilson said.

"Who better to say that than a nurse?" Ted smiled and left them. His beeper went off as he was leaving the building, and he called Billy from the car.

"I got two things of interest off the doctor's phone bill a month before the first trip to the Santa Monica airport."

"Yeah?"

"First is a phone number in Oakland. This is weird," Billy added.

"Oh?"

"Don't laugh. It's for the Elysian Fields Mortuary."

Ted did laugh. "Did someone leave instructions in his will to have a plastic surgeon work on his corpse?"

"I don't know," Billy replied.

"What's the second interesting thing on the phone bill?"

"Now it's my turn to laugh," Billy said. "A call from the Big Sky Animal Clinic in Billings."

"You're kidding."

"No, sir, I'm not joking about this."

"I guess it's time for me to make a trip to San Francisco and then to Montana," he said. "I mean for us to make a trip. Pack a bag, Billy. We might be away awhile."

"Right."

"And don't forget your portable computer," he added.

"I never go anywhere without it," Billy replied.

Ted laughed.

As long as I have Billy with me, he thought, I'll never need a subpoena.

Jonathan Lewis emerged from the taxicab and looked up at the apartment complex in Westwood. It had been a long time, he thought, a lifetime. He went to the main entrance. This complex didn't have a security guard, but visitors had to be buzzed in. He found Carla's name quickly on the directory and pressed the button. The camera above the directory lit, sending his image to Carla's monitor. He smiled.

"Yes?" she said.

"I'm Jonathan Lewis. We spoke a little while ago about a letter I was bringing?"

The door buzzed, and he entered and walked through the small lobby to the elevator. After he got in, he pulled the envelope out of his pocket and looked at the letter. He had written it during the taxi ride in from the airport. Actually, it wasn't bad, he thought. It's very credible, and . . . it really might be worth something to one of those rag magazines or newspapers.

When the elevator doors opened, he stepped out and saw the door to Carla's apartment open. She peered out at him as he sauntered down the hallway. She had her ebony hair pinned up, wore some rouge and lipstick as well as eyeliner and a ruby Oriental silk robe without slippers.

Just like her, he thought, putting makeup on at this hour.

Carla was a receptionist at Aston, Hershfield and Godden, a public relations firm in the Valley, or at least she was when he had first met her. She was attractive and intelligent, but a bit too much on the cynical and seedy side to interest most men. To most she was threatening. She was interested in having a good time, but she lacked the stability to sustain a long-term relationship. He knew she had been engaged twice and twice had broken the engagements herself, and it wasn't because she was one of those career-minded women, either. She simply wanted her independence, and the men she had been with had become too demanding.

In some ways, she reminded him of himself, and maybe that was why he liked being with her. She was discreet, uncomplicated, expected and asked for little, and yet was lots of fun. He thought she was perfect.

"Hi," he said.

She held the door partly open and scrutinized him. "I don't know you," she said.

"You wouldn't," he replied. "We never met, and I just got into town. I brought this," he added, holding up the envelope. She looked at it and then, after a moment, opened the door and let him enter. She took the envelope and closed the door.

He stood there on the brown marble entryway floor, recalling the apartment. Carla had made few changes if any. That same Nagel picture hung above the long beige sofa in the living room. On the center glass table, he saw the Lladro he had brought back from Scotland one year. He had actually bought it for Farah, but at the last moment he had impulsively given it to Carla.

She stood there, reading the letter. He thought she looked pretty good, but then, any attractive woman would stir his chops these days. He had been drawn to her eyes, those deep black Eurasian eyes; her father had been English and her mother was Vietnamese. He recalled her breasts, small but perky, and that wonderful rear that looked like alabaster and felt as smooth when he ran the palm of his hand over it repeatedly, mesmerized by the warm, softly inviting curve to the back of her thighs and the promise of the pleasure that awaited him.

"I don't understand," she said after perusing the letter. "How did you get this? Why did it take so long for you to deliver it?"

"Can I have a drink?" he replied instead of answering. He tried that new smile.

She went to the bar and turned. "What do you want?"

"Vodka and tonic with a twist of lime."

She stared for a moment and then went behind the bar and made his drink. He sat on the stool and continued to gaze around the apartment.

"Nice place," he said nodding. "Just the way he described it to me."

"Really?" she said dryly, placing the drink in front of him. She leaned against the wall and folded her arms under her breasts. "He never commented about it when he was here. I'm surprised he mentioned it to you."

"You'd be surprised at the sort of details that are exchanged under those circumstances." He licked the mixer and took a sip.

Her eyebrows lifted, and a new suspicion and nervousness entered her face. "What circumstances? Who the hell are you?" she demanded.

"Take it easy, Carla. All in good time," he said. "Give me a chance to enjoy a little of this. I haven't had a drink for a long time." He took another sip of the drink and closed his eyes.

"You were in prison, then?"

"So to speak," he said. She unfolded her arms, losing patience, so he quickly added, "As a guard."

"A guard? A prison guard?"

He nodded.

"So why wouldn't you have had a drink for a long time? Prison guards can drink, travel. . ."

"I had something happen to me, and I had to spend a long time in recuperation," he said.

"Oh. What happened to you?"

"An accident," he said, "but I'm fine now. In fact, I'm better than ever."

She considered his reply a moment and then looked at the letter.

"I didn't read it," he said. He waited as she read. "Is it worth anything?"

"There's nothing in it that he hadn't said before," she replied, putting the letter on the bar. "He never called; he never wrote, and I was glad," she said. "Who the hell wanted to be involved in that?"

"I understand."

"Do you? That's nice, because I don't," she said, lifting the corner of her upper lip.

He laughed. "Nothing's easy to understand these days," he said with a philosophical air.

She made herself a short gin and tonic and then came around the bar and sat on the stool beside him. He caught a whiff of that familiar cologne, the Gautier he had sent her from Paris. He liked the fact that she was still wearing it, that she hadn't given away things he had given her or turned away from anything. Then again, she was too practical and unemotional to do something that stupid, he thought.

It was such a pleasure just to look at her now. She had a small mouth, perfectly shaped. He always felt there was something exotic about her high cheekbones and those eyes that moved suspiciously over his face, looking for the lies and then unwrapping them slowly, drawing the truth out of him like a lab technician drawing blood until he threw up his hands and confessed. It was always in bed, always when she held back and made him beg for sexual satisfaction. He enjoyed the exquisite torment, however, and let her do it.

She once told him he was just the sort of bastard she believed lived under the skin of every man, the only difference being he didn't pretend not to be. How she could make him laugh, he thought.

"So what are you doing now, making the rounds on his behalf?" she asked.

"The rounds?"

"I'm sure there were more like me," she said. She sipped her drink.

"Oh, I bet there aren't many like you," he said. "At least, he never told me of any others."

"Right. I spoke to his wife once, you know," she continued softly. "I actually felt sorry for her. I was afraid they would find out about that phone conversation and drag me into that courtroom, but somehow, some way, I slipped by. I guess she didn't phone me from her house, so there was no record of the call."

"No kidding, she called you? Why?" He smiled, amused by the thought. "What did she want?"

"She wanted to confirm his infidelity, I guess. She sounded like a woman who wanted to wallow in her own misery. I told her to cut him out of her life like a cancer, and then he goes and does it to her. Literally," she added.

"Then you don't believe what he wrote in his letter?" he asked nodding at the envelope.

"You said you hadn't read it," she shot back.

He smiled. "You just told me it was full of the same old things, so I just assumed . . ."

"No, I don't believe what he wrote or said. I never believed much of what he said."

"You never felt sorry for him?" he asked.

She laughed. "I can't think of any man I would feel sorry for, him the least of all," she concluded, downed her drink, and then stood. "I have to go to sleep," she said. "I'm a working girl."

"Still at that public relations firm, then?"

"Sure." She put her hands on her hips. "What didn't he tell you about me?"

"I don't know. I'll have to find out for myself," he said with a flirtatious glint in his eyes.

"Not tonight or tomorrow. Thanks for bringing the letter, even though you're late with it." She started toward the front door. He didn't move. "In case you didn't get it, I'm asking you to go now," she said.

"Okay. I would just like to look at the scene of the memories." He got up with his glass in hand and walked toward the bedroom. "I heard so much detail so often, I feel as if I were here myself," he said.

He opened the bedroom door and looked in at the king-size dark oak bed with its matching dressers. He smiled at the vanity table, envisioning her sitting there naked, brushing her hair, her back perfectly shaped and smooth.

"Satisfied?" she asked from the front door.

"No, but I guess it will have to do."

"You guessed right," she said.

He went to the bar and set his glass down.

"Mr. Lewis?" she said when he lingered.

"Call me Jonathan," he said, smiling.

"I'll call you Mr. Lewis," she said and opened the door. She stepped back.

He walked toward it, remembering her opening it many times before and standing there in that same Oriental robe, her eyes full of passion and desire. Once he had simply scooped her up and carried her into the bedroom with barely a word between them. They had made especially passionate love that time, exhausting each other. What a delicious memory and how arousing, he thought.

He paused and looked at her, looked into those eyes. She stared back, her expression of firmness wilting with a tinge of fear that trickled down her spine like a drop from an icicle. She saw something dark and unsettling in those eyes, and something eerily familiar.

He saw her imagination going wild, the recognition taking shape.

"Didn't he say, 'Our mouths are a perfect fit'? Didn't you laugh and agree? Didn't you press your tongue against his and dig your fingernails so hard into his ass that he screamed in pain?"

"Please . . . leave," she said weakly, feeling a trembling start in her stomach and vibrate down her legs.

"Didn't he like to press that small birthmark under your right breast and pretend it was the button that turned you on? You always behaved as if it did."

"I can't believe he told you those things," she said in a hoarse whisper. "He must have gone completely mad."

"I can go on and on with the details he told me," he said, "but I'd rather relive it. For him," he said. She shook her head. "It's the least I can do, we can do."

"I want you to go," she said as firmly as she could. Her heart was pounding now. She debated whether or not she should start to shout or maybe run out of her apartment and pound on some neighbor's door.

He ended the debate by slamming the door closed before she could take action. She started to protest when he scooped her up, burying his face in her bosom, and, laughing, charged across the apartment to the bedroom.

"Please," she cried softly.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "I've come back to you."

She shook her head. "You can't be—"

"Oh, but I am," he said smiling.

Once he dropped her on her bed, she knew her shouts would do no good. She only hoped he would let her live.

DR. MICHAEL BYRON AND HIS wife, Julia, stepped out of their Pacific Heights home in San Francisco and paused for a moment on the steps before descending to the waiting limousine that their son and daughter, Charles and Amanda, had hired to take them to his retirement celebration. It was a particularly beautiful night. More stars than usual were visible; the air felt clean, clear.

Michael took a deep breath, like a diver who had just broken the water's surface. It was not that he had felt trapped inside the house. On the contrary, he and Julia had lived in this house for nearly thirty of the thirty-five years of their marriage. They had raised their kids here. In fact, he had nearly delivered Charles in the master bedroom. The kids called the house the castle because of its centrally hipped roof hidden by gables and a tower. The house, built at the end of the nineteenth century, was a truly unique piece of architecture. It was just that Michael felt finally free from responsibility and worry. Retirement for him was a true emancipation.

Julia squeezed his hand affectionately and smiled. Although, at fifty-five, she was only five years younger than her husband, she looked no more than forty-five. Like her mother, she had remarkable skin, wrinkle-free, the color of French vanilla. Every one of their friends suspected plastic surgery, but Julia had never had a cosmetic thing done to her body. Despite her beautiful face and fine figure, she was simply not vain enough to worry. None of their contemporaries were as comfortable as Julia was when it came to aging. Perhaps that was why she aged so slowly, Michael concluded with delightful irony.

He had begun his practice as a family doctor, eventually specialized in cardiology, and then, through political favors, accepted the position at the California penal institution better known as San Quentin. The appointment had come at a propitious time in his career and his life, when he was being sued for malpractice. Somehow he had misread a patient's EKG and prescribed treatment that had not only sped up the man's next cardiac arrest but more than likely caused it.

The damage to Michael Byron's reputation was irreparable. He had thought about leaving San Francisco, but their children were both married and living with their families here. He went into a deep depression, and his practice suffered even more. Then came the political favors through some powerful friends, the appointment, and the easiest solution. Of course, his income became relatively limited, but he was always comfortable enough to maintain their upper-middle-class lifestyle.

Nevertheless, Michael always felt he had been dealt a cruel, unfair blow. He especially believed he had been victimized by unscrupulous, greedy malpractice attorneys who saw him as prey and went after him ruthlessly. His faith in the entire judicial system was challenged. Might, power, truly made things right. Idealism was for the young, the naive, those who had time to waste. It wasn't for him.

Julia smiled at him and tugged his hand like an impatient child. "Having second thoughts, Michael?"

"Hell, no," he said.

"Then no more delays, Dr. Byron. We don't want to be late," she said with that youthful twinkle in her eyes. It was a gleam of innocent joy, the sort of wonderment that warmed his heart and turned him into a young man again. Julia had always been so good for him. She was truly his reason for living. She had stood by him faithfully, almost idolizing him. In the presence of such devotion, he had to be strong. He had to rebound from his defeats and disasters and make her happy.

And that he would do beyond her wildest imaginings, he thought gleefully.

"Shall we, my dear?" he said, offering his arm to lead her to the limousine.

Michael had always been at war with his weight. At five feet nine, he was a good twenty pounds too heavy. He had gained most of his weight after his malpractice loss, mainly because of his depression, and he had never been able to shed it. Julia did her best to keep him away from fat and calories, but he didn't practice what he preached. Of course, he didn't have to preach weight loss to inmates as much as he used to preach it to his patients on the outside.

The driver held the door open. "Good evening, Doctor, Mrs. Byron."

"Good evening," he said. "Where's this restaurant they've dragged everyone to?"

"The North Beach, sir," the driver said.

"It's to be a surprise, Michael," Julia reminded him.

"Oh, yes, right. I'm not supposed to know how many people are there. How many?" he asked with a sly smile.

"Just get in, Michael Byron," Julia said. She got in, and he followed, laughing.

"Ice is in the bucket, sir. Wines, champagne, and whiskey on the right," the driver informed them.

"Thank you," Michael said. "Would you like a cocktail, Julia?"

"I'll just have some Chardonnay, Michael. I want to have my wits about me when you make a fool of yourself tonight," she said.

"Oh, what an unkind cut!" he exclaimed with feigned indignation.

"Never mind. I know how long you've been waiting for this night, Michael. I watched you cross the days off that calendar like a schoolboy anticipating Christmas."

"Yes," he said pouring her a glass of wine. He nodded, smiling. "It will be like Christmas." He handed her the wine and then made himself a Scotch and soda. "Let's have our first toast in private," he said. "To our new life, our rebirth," he declared.

Julia tilted her head a bit. "New life? Rebirth? What's that all about, Dr. Byron?" She focused harder on him. "You look like the one with all the secrets and someone having trouble holding them as well. Do you have some surprise up your sleeve, Michael?"

"I promise you, Julia. There will be a surprise a day from now on," he pledged. Then he took a nice long sip of his drink.

She hesitated and then drank. "What's the first surprise?" she asked.

He dug into his inside pocket and came out with a packet of airline tickets.

"I wasn't going to show you these until later this evening, but now that I think about it, this is better, because we're alone."

She took the packet and opened to the itinerary. "Paris?" She flipped the slips. "Then Rome? Then Athens!"

"Where we pick up the cruise," he said.

"The cruise? To where?"

"Turkey, the Middle East, Malta, ending up on the French Riviera. We'll fly home from Nice," he said.

"Michael this will cost . . . thousands!"

He shrugged.

"Michael?"

"I had a little nest egg that grew into a dinosaur egg," he said. "Money is not a problem, Julia. Trust me."

She stared and then looked at the tickets and shook her head. "I don't understand."

"We're staying at five-star properties everywhere," he continued, thinking he might as well give it all to her now.

"How long will we be away?" she wondered and looked at the itinerary again. "Five weeks!"

"Can't do it right in much less, Julia."

"Michael, how much will this trip cost?" she demanded, thinking about the pension, their savings, the IRAs."

"Julia, I want you to make me a promise," he said, his lips firm. "I want you to promise not to ask questions about money, not to worry about money, not to stint on anything, deny yourself anything or else . . ."

"Or else?"

"I won't retire," he threatened. "I'll go to work at one of the city clinics. So help me," he said raising his right hand.

"Are you blackmailing me, Michael Anthony Byron?" she asked with her eyes narrowed and her mouth tight.

"Of course," he said, and he laughed.

She looked at the tickets, shook her head in disbelief, and then handed them back to him. "You're a madman," she said.

He laughed. She sipped her wine and sat back in anticipation of the festivities their children had planned.

As they rode on, Michael gazed out the tinted windows, but he didn't see anything. He was already lost in the maze of his own imagination and his own thoughts. He had done exactly what they had demanded. He hadn't spent much of the money. He had done nothing to attract attention to his lifestyle. Except for the interviews they had approved, he hadn't talked publicly about the execution of Dirk Stoner.

Julia never asked him anything about it, either, and the children liked to pretend he had nothing to do with known criminals, least of all a man who was to suffer capital punishment. He had been present at five executions, all by lethal injection, preparing the pancurium bromide, potassium chloride, and sodium pentothal and then, after the execution, reading the EKG to declare the time of death.

His sister Eleanor, who was against the death penalty, was the only one in the family who openly gave him grief, telling him on more than one occasion, "A doctor should be involved in saving life, not taking life."

It did no good to explain that a licensed physician had to be present at an execution. In her way of thinking, the whole institution was wrong, and for him to be part of it was just as wrong.

One time when their discussion grew very hot, Julia had to intercede and beg Eleanor to ease up. "Don't you think it bothers Michael too?" she asked. "Then why does he do it?" Eleanor fired back. "We all do things we would rather not do," Julia said firmly. She wasn't a fighter, his wife; she wasn't aggressive or contradictory. She would rather sidestep, ignore, smile, and change the subject. She was a woman at peace, gentle, loving, a woman who thought nothing of sacrificing and compromising in order for other people, people she loved, to be happy. That was what made her happy.

Well, that was all over. From now on, as long as he lived, he would see to it that everyone who touched them lived only for Julia's happiness. That in itself almost justified what he had done.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"You haven't said a word for quite a while. You're not feeling low about tonight, are you? It was your decision to retire at sixty."

"Absolutely not," he declared. Of course, he couldn't tell her that his age of retirement had all been planned and agreed upon nearly two years ago.

"Good," she said.

He put his arm around her and squeezed her tightly. "Just as I told you, I'm feeling reborn. Julia, I think we're about to drink from the fountain of youth," he added and finished his cocktail in one gulp.

"Take it easy, Mr. Big Shot, or you'll be drinking from the fountain of hangovers tomorrow morning," she warned.

He laughed, feeling defiant, truly feeling like a kid again. Then he kissed the look of worry off her face and smiled at his own anticipation of the events that lay ahead.

The Elysian Fields Mortuary, located just outside of Oakland, was a two-story gray structure built in the late nineteenth century. Ted thought it truly looked like a mortuary. The building combined Romantic and Victorian architectural styles, with its gabled roof and steeply pitched, front-facing gables. The bracketed cornice and the windows with heavy rounded crowns were Italianate. It had a small entry porch with an overhang that kept it in shadows. A simple gold and brown shingle on the small lawn read Elysian Fields Mortuary.

He and Billy pulled into the driveway and stepped out of their car. The northern California sky was almost completely overcast, the clouds ominously dark, rolling in from the Pacific. The air was cool with a continually building wind. As they walked up the cobblestone path to the short flight of stone steps, they glanced at the hearse parked near a door on the east side of the building.

"The one business that won't go out of style, huh, Billy?" Ted said.

"I guess not. I don't hear about too many bankrupt undertakers," he replied.

They entered the mortuary.

"These places all have the same odor," Ted whispered.

"Same flowers, probably," Billy said.

When they entered, a bell had rung in the rear of the building. They heard a door open in the rear, and a moment later a man just under six feet tall and no more than forty came out. He had a full head of wavy light brown hair and wore a dark blue jacket and a blue-and-white striped tie. As he drew closer, Ted saw that he had cerulean blue eyes and a rich tan complexion. Far from the stereotypical undertaker, Ted thought.

The young man's smile was gentle, friendly. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said softly. He paused and looked at Billy. Ted supposed that on first glance, he and Billy made an unusual couple, but in the San Francisco area, maybe less so.

"Good afternoon," Ted said. "Are you the owner . . . manager. . . ?"

"Owner's son," he said. "Lee McDouglas. How can I be of assistance?"

Ted showed his I.D.

Lee McDouglas simply nodded. Absent was the typical surprised reaction Ted usually experienced when people he confronted learned he was a special agent for the FBI. There was certainly no hint of paranoia, fear, or guilt.

"Why don't we step into the parlor?" Lee McDouglas suggested and indicated the room on the right.

It was plush with a thick brown carpet, soft Victorian furnishings, elaborate lamps, and velvet draperies sashed in gold. Early Renaissance prints hung on the walls, all in gaudy frames. The room itself was dimly lit. McDouglas snapped on another lamp and nodded at the settee. Billy and Ted sat down and McDouglas took the seat across from them, folded his hands against his stomach, and smiled. There was an air of calm about him, a gentleness that was religious, a beatitude that suggested someone totally in harmony with everything spiritual.

"So what brings the Federal Bureau of Investigation to a mortuary?" he asked.

"We're interested in finding out what your association is with a Dr. Felix Lawler in Los Angeles," Ted said.

The young man's expression didn't change. He sat back, pressed the tips of his fingers into a cathedral, and thought. Then he shook his head. "Offhand, I can't recall anyone by that name."

"We have evidence that at least one phone call was made from this location to Dr. Lawler," Ted said. "He was flown to Oakland shortly afterward."

Lee McDouglas nodded. "I have no reason to doubt you, Agent Andrews. I'll go into my office and search our records. Like everyone else these days, we keep all our records on the computer. It'll be only a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink while you wait. . . a soft drink, juice?"

"We're fine," Ted said. "You said you were the owner's son. Is your father here?"

"It's my mother," Lee said with a wider smile. "My father left the business to her. He died a year ago."

"Oh. Is she here?"

"No, she doesn't really spend any time here. She's actually in Saint Moritz at the moment. Why don't I see what I can find for you?" he said rising.

"Thank you," Ted said. They watched him leave.

Billy turned to Ted and widened his eyes. "Gay?"

"Asexual," Ted replied. "There's a monk hidden under that attractive facade."

Billy laughed. Then he rose and looked over the books in the bookcase. He took one out and examined it. "Some of this looks like collector's loot. This was published in 1840 and it's in terrific shape."

"A gold mine," Ted said. "People are just dying to get in here."

Billy laughed and returned to the shelves of books. Ten minutes later Lee McDouglas returned. He had a small packet of perforated paper in his hands. As he entered, he shook his head. "Sorry to say, he's not in our records. Here is a printout of our clients for the last five years, their names and addresses."

"The call was definitely made from your phone," Billy said.

"Maybe someone just used our phone, someone who was part of a party of mourners," Lee suggested.

"It was quite a lengthy call. Wouldn't you have noticed someone tying up your line?" Ted asked.

"I can't recall anything like that. Sorry."

"Who else is employed here?"

"Mr. Lucy who does our embalming. Gerry Langer and Bob Thorton who drive our hearses. Mrs. Matthews who has been our bookkeeper for twenty-four years."

"How long has Mr. Lucy been doing your embalming?"

"Ten, eleven years."

"Is he here?" Ted asked.

"Yes, he's in the embalming room working on a dearly departed."

"Are any of the others present at the moment?" Ted asked.

"Just Mr. Lucy, I'm afraid."

"We'd like to see him," Ted insisted.

Lee raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Right this way," he said and led them down the corridor to a door on the right.

Lee McDouglas stepped back and opened the door for them. It was as if they passed from the nineteenth to the twentieth century by entering the embalming room. It was brightly lit. The walls were stark, and the floor was concrete, painted white.

Sheldon Lucy, a man in his late fifties, five feet six, nearly bald with some patches of dark gray hair, turned from the porcelain embalming table upon which an elderly woman's corpse lay face up. Lucy wore a surgical mask and rubber gloves. He had a sponge in his hand and was in the process of washing down the body with a germicidal solution. His light but bushy eyebrows were hoisted by his folding forehead when he saw them enter.

"Excuse us for a moment, Mr. Lucy," Lee said coming around Billy and Ted. "This is Special Agent Ted Andrews from the FBI and . . . I'm sorry. I never got your name," he said to Billy.

"Agent Powell," Billy said.

Sheldon Lucy stepped back from the table and lowered his mask. He had a narrow face that looked chinless because of the way his neck joined his jaw.

"They would like to ask you some questions."

Sheldon looked for a place to put his sponge and just deposited it on the corpse's swollen abdomen.

Billy's dark complexion began to whiten. Lucy had inserted cotton into the elderly lady's nostrils, but some of it was still visible. The odor of the disinfectant was strong. It made his stomach churn. He lingered in the doorway.

"We're interested to know if the name Dr. Felix Lawler rings a bell," Ted said quickly.

Sheldon Lucy looked at Lee McDouglas and then at Ted.

"No," he said. "I don't really remember names," he added. "There have been so many."

"He wasn't. . . what would you call it, a patient?"

"Dearly departed," Lee suggested.

"He wasn't one of those. Do you have any recollection of any business with a plastic surgeon out of Los Angeles?"

"A plastic surgeon?" Lucy thought a moment. "We had an automobile victim a while back whose family wanted his face restored."

"Do you recall the family name, dates?"

"Sorry," he said shaking his head. "I don't, but maybe it's in the records, Lee."

"Nothing mentions a Dr. Lawler," Lee said.

Sheldon Lucy thought a moment and shook his head. "I don't like thinking of them too personally, so I don't pay attention to names," he added.

"Okay, thanks," Ted said.

Sheldon Lucy nodded, replaced his surgical mask, and returned to the corpse.

Billy was glad to step back into the nineteenth century.

"If someone had employed a plastic surgeon for the reasons Mr. Lucy described, wouldn't that be in your records?" Ted asked Lee McDouglas.

"Not if they contracted directly. Let's look at that date again," he suggested and Billy gave it to him. Then he flipped the printout sheets and ran his finger down a page. He shook his head. "No, I don't have anybody that week, and the week before looks like a heart attack victim in his eighties. Not a candidate for plastic surgery. Here, you can check it all out yourselves," he added, handing Billy the printouts.

"Okay, thanks," Ted said. "If anything comes to mind . . ." He gave Lee McDouglas his card.

"I'll let you know," Lee said.

Billy looked at Ted, who could see his discomfort growing.

"Thanks again," he said and they started out.

Not a moment too soon, either, because Billy let lunch see the light of day before they reached the car.

HE WOKE BESIDE A CORPSE. SHE wasn't anything else to him now. Her identity was already gone, as far as he was concerned. That was something he had taken from her. Why shouldn't he? His had been taken from him.

When he sat up, his head began to ache. It was as if there was a bowling alley inside his skull and the balls were rumbling down the lanes, crashing into pins, and then rolling again. He grimaced and choked on a dry throat. No question, he had drunk too much the night before, but it had been a while since he could have as much as he wanted without someone looking over his shoulder. Maybe he would end up abusing his newfound freedom. So what? What else was there to do with the rest of his life but abuse all the pleasures?

He tried to laugh, but the pain under his eyes was too severe. He had to get some aspirin. Rising with great effort from the bed, he kept his eyes closed all the way to the bathroom. There, he nearly ripped the medicine cabinet door off its hinges and then flung everything off the shelves until he seized a bottle of aspirin and swallowed a couple. He washed them down with tap water and nearly puked at the aftertaste.

"I need something good to drink," he declared and, still naked, walked out to the kitchen. He prepared some coffee, poured some grapefruit juice, and found a fairly fresh Danish. The coffee had just begun to percolate when he heard the door open. He froze and listened.

"Hey, I'm here," he heard a man call out.

As quietly as he could, he went to the kitchen doorway and peeked out.

A man who appeared to be at least fifty—salt-and-pepper hair, tie and jacket, as well put together as an advertisement for a Wall Street brokerage—stood just inside the apartment door. He carried a small gift wrapped in glitzy paper.

"I have a little surprise for you," he added.

So you were holding out on me, Carla. You never told me you had a lover who had a key to your place. Bad girl, bad, bad girl, he thought as he went to a kitchen drawer, opened it quietly, and took out a good-size bread knife. Then he deliberately knocked a pan against the range top.

"Hey, beautiful," the gentleman said, starting for the kitchen. "What the hell are you doing? Didn't you hear me come in?"

Jonathan took up a position just inside the kitchen doorway. Cronin had taught him the art of using a shiv. They had talked about it during yard time. Cronin had committed each of his four murders with a knife. A six-foot, four-inch Neanderthal with eyes that not only made you cringe but caused your intestines to twist around themselves, Cronin had been on death row longer than anyone else at San Quentin. Unfortunately for the state, he had been convicted on circumstantial evidence with witnesses for the prosecution who were no better than he was. His constant difficulty finding legal representation kept him and the state buried in paperwork, but even he admitted that the end of the line was in sight.

"Before they get me, I'm going get one of them," he vowed. "I'm just waitin' on it." Somehow he had managed to fashion a sharp weapon out of the metal used to form the arch in his shoe.

"You don't just jab someone," he explained. "You could miss a vital organ. Make entry here or here," he said, demonstrating with his long, bony forefinger and poking so hard, it hurt. "Then lift and turn so you catch the artery. Get it?"

He talked about murder as if it were a newly discovered art form or a sport that should be entered in the Olympics.

Jonathan took his stance. The gentleman hesitated just outside the kitchen.

"Carla? What's the joke?" he asked, then pushed open the swinging kitchen doors and stepped forward. When Jonathan saw the man's feet, he stepped out. The gentleman turned and reacted with shocked surprise at the sight of a naked man waiting. Before he could react, Jonathan thrust the knife under his heart, practically reciting Cronin's instructions as he lifted and twisted the blade. The man's eyes nearly popped. His scream was thin and hollow. Using his left hand, open-fisted, Jonathan struck him in the face with the base of his palm, and the man fell backward, his head bouncing once on the tile. He took only moments to die. "Thanks, Cronin," Jonathan said. He knelt at the dead man's side to search his pockets. He found the wallet.

"I'll be damned," he said. "Carla's come up in the world."

The man, Frank Goldsborough, was the vice president of a California bank. From the pictures inside the wallet, Jonathan deducted that he was married and the father of three teenage children. His wife looked older than he did.

"Which is probably why you were dippin' into Carla, huh, Frank? Now, how you going to explain this to Saint Peter? Jesus," Jonathan said to the face locked in shock and death beneath him.

"And the thing of it is, a guy like you could have ended up on a jury deciding whether another man lives or dies."

He took out the cash and left the wallet on Frank's chest. Then he stepped out of the kitchen and gazed around the apartment.

"I really did miss this place," he muttered. "Oh, well." He shrugged. "Time to go home."

He got dressed quickly and left the apartment. There was no one else in the elevator, which was fortunate. There wasn't anyone in the lobby either. He knew all too well what it meant to run into a potential witness after committing a crime.

He left the building and turned right, walking at a brisk pace. It occurred to him that nobody walked very far in Los Angeles, and he wasn't about to ride a bus. He would either have to rent a car or go someplace and call a taxi.

Rent a car, he decided. I got a lot of places to go.

"With age," Julia Byron declared, standing at the foot of the bed, "supposedly comes wisdom."

Michael groaned and turned, pulling the pillow over his head.

"Not to mention the fact that you're a doctor, that you should have known what too much alcohol would do to you," she continued.

He held the pillow down tighter over his face to shut out her chastisement.

"I couldn't reprimand you last night, Michael, because you were so far gone you wouldn't have heard a word anyway."

He turned slowly and lowered the pillow. "Don't you have any pity? Where's that famous Julia Byron compassion?"

She laughed. "I wonder if you remember some of the things you did and said, Michael. For one thing, you made the mistake of showing our itinerary to Diedre Logan. It was all over the room before you crossed to the bar for another drink."

"It was?"

"Yes, and since when did you put our house on the market?"

"Well, I haven't actually done it yet, but. . ."

"You want us to start looking for something new now? You know how real estate costs have gone up since we bought this place. We'll never get what we want if we sell it now," she lectured.

"Julia," he said speaking with forced control, "I asked you not to think about money, not to worry about it."

"Why not, Michael? You've never kept anything from me in all the years we've been married. Why are you suddenly behaving as if we were millionaires?"

He groaned and put the pillow over his face.

"All right, Michael. All right. When you're ready to talk to me sensibly, I'll be ready to listen. Don't forget the children are coming over for dinner tonight. I'm going to do some shopping. I suggest you stand under a cold shower for twenty minutes."

"Now who's acting like she has a medical degree?" he muttered.

"Physician, heal thyself," she ordered and left the room. He waited a moment, then took the pillow off his face and turned over. In moments he was asleep.

When he woke again, he thought some time had passed. He rubbed his eyes and gazed at the clock, confused. Had it stopped? On closer inspection, he saw that the second hand was moving. Yet he could have sworn he heard Julia come in and move around the house. He sat up, listened, and then shrugged when he heard nothing.

I must have dreamed it, he thought and stretched.

Moments later he heard the siren. It grew louder and louder. Curious, he leaned over, pulled the curtain away from the window and looked down at the street. An ambulance was slowing near the house. Had something happened to the people next door? Was there an accident out in front?

Julia! He panicked and got out of bed. Still in pajamas and barefoot, he hurried out of the room and down the stairs. He was halfway to the door when he heard someone say, "How very considerate."

He spun around. A stout Chinese man a few inches shorter but with a thick neck stood there smiling. He carried what looked like a physician's bag. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and had a prominent birthmark under his right eye.

"Now we don't have to go up and get you," he added.

"Who the hell are you?" Michael Byron demanded when he regained his composure.

Before the Chinese man responded, the door opened. Two ambulance attendants rolled a stretcher into the house. The first attendant was a tall, muscular-looking man with sandy red hair and freckles on his forehead. He had a long, pointed nose and a drooping jaw that pulled his lower lip away from his yellow, nicotine-stained teeth.

"What the hell is this?" Michael demanded. "No one called for an ambulance here!"

Instead of responding, the attendant moved forward and seized him. Michael was surprised at the painful pressure of his fingers on his arm as the attendant pushed him back from the doorway. With his other hand, he pulled the rolling stretcher in, the second attendant guiding it and closing the door behind him. The second attendant was a shorter, thinner man, with thin dark hair that fell wildly over his forehead and temples.

The first attendant seized Byron's wrists.

"What is this? What's wrong?"

"Relax, Dr. Byron," the Chinese man said. "You'll be all right."

Michael turned and saw that he had a syringe in hand.

"What the hell is this!"

The second attendant wrapped his arms around Michael and held him while the Chinese man approached, pulled away his pajama top, and jabbed the needle into Michael's arm.

Michael screamed and struggled against the powerful arms that held him as if he had been wrapped in iron pipes. The first attendant scooped up his feet, and the two dropped him on the stretcher.

Although he continued to resist, it was as if he were completely cooperative. Their strength was that great.

"It'll be all right soon, Dr. Byron," the Chinese man said.

"What. . . wait! It's a mistake!"

"Try to stay calm," the Chinese man replied coolly.

"What did you give me?" Michael demanded. He tried to sit up, but the red-haired attendant had his hands on Michael's shoulders immediately and pushed him down as the other attendant strapped him in.

"No! There's nothing the matter with me. I tell you this is a mistake!" he shouted at them.

The red-haired attendant kept the pressure on his shoulders, forcing him to lie back. Straps were tightened over Michael's ankles.

They tucked his arms in against his sides and fastened the second strap. Tightly secured, he could offer no more resistance. Both attendants relaxed.

"Don't you listen? It's a mistake!" he screamed so hard his face turned dark with the blood that rose to its surface. The corners of his lips were as white as milk, however.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to catch his breath. His heart was pounding, the thump reverberating though his body.

"Please be calm, Dr. Byron," the Chinese man said. He was standing over him now, looking down. His face began to go in and out of focus, his voice distorting. Michael felt sweat on his forehead and recognized the symptoms as they began to set in.

He was having a heart attack!

"What did you give me?" he cried.

The Chinese man smiled. "Just potassium chloride, Doctor. Ironic, isn't it? How many times have you administered it in lethal-injection executions?"

The red-haired man knelt down and pressed his right palm against Michael's left cheek. "Kinda clammy," he told his partner.

"Yeah? I guess it was lucky we got here so fast, huh?"

The three of them laughed.

Michael swallowed and forced out his words. "Why are you . . . doing this?"

"It's better for you, Dr. Byron. This way your family will be safe," the Chinese man said.

Michael felt the intense pain and grimaced. His eyes rolled.

"He's passing out," the red-haired man said and smiled. "Better give him some oxygen fast."

Michael thought he screamed although he didn't hear himself just before the mask was placed firmly on his face. The pain was excruciating. He was gasping.

But I did everything you asked me to do, he thought.

It was his last thought.

The front door was opened, and they began to move the stretcher out. The attendants loaded it into the rear of the ambulance. They nodded at the Chinese man, who hurried away to a late-model Mercedes parked on the street.

The attendants got into the ambulance, turned on the lights and siren, and started away.

The Chinese man watched the ambulance disappear around a corner below the hill. Then he reached for his car phone, dialed, and waited.

"It's all taken care of cleanly," he reported. "Dr. Byron has begun his retirement." He laughed at something he heard and then cradled the car phone, started his engine, looked once in the rearview mirror, and drove off, thinking that house looked like a castle.

Jonathan got out of the rental car at a corner on Montana two streets away from the Santa Monica apartment. It was where he had parked years ago, only now it seemed like yesterday. Time was foggy, blurred. Not much had changed. He had never really looked at the surroundings anyway, so he wasn't sure if that restaurant had been here or if that store was new. None of it mattered.

He paused a moment to see if he had attracted any undue attention. Then he walked quietly down the street, a pleasant smile of contentment on his face. People, especially women, who passed him, nodded. Some even said hello as if they knew him. It amused him how people wanted so much to be friendly, wanted to trust strangers. They wanted it so much they made themselves vulnerable and stupidly put themselves into danger.

That's their problem, not mine, he thought and turned down the familiar street. Houses and apartment buildings here looked so perfect, so quiet and safe. It looked as if it should be called America's number one neighborhood, he thought. He saw children's toys in yards, swings in the rear yards, clean, sparkling automobiles in the driveways, flowers bright and full, little patches of lawn shaped and richly green, cobblestone and flagstone walkways bright, everything neat, picture perfect, the opening sequence of a movie about the good old days.

He laughed and then he stopped in front of the apartment. It wasn't an apartment building as such. It was a set of four town houses, one made notorious. It all looked the same, but it wasn't until he started down the common entryway that he suddenly realized how much time had gone by and the real possibility that there were strangers living there. Why in hell hadn't he thought of that before?

He stopped, gazed at the mailboxes, and saw the name Sherman next to Unit 1. Why had he returned to this place anyway? Did he expect to find her living here, waiting for him? Did he hope it had all been a long nightmare?

It seemed important to be here, important to look at the place. He desperately wanted to gain entry.

The garage door for the unit next to what had been hers opened and a black Mazda Miata convertible emerged, driven by a young redhead he didn't recognize. She paused at the entrance to the street, gazed at him curiously, and then accelerated and turned right, looking at him as she pulled away.

Did anyone still live here who had lived here before? he wondered. The name Carden seemed familiar. How did he expect to do this? Still without an idea in his mind, he walked slowly to the front door of Unit 1. This wasn't the way he had entered that night, he remembered.

To the left was a narrow pathway walled by trimmed and tall oleander bushes. It was on that side of the unit that the air conditioner was located and where the outside electric box and meter could be found. The path went to the rear of the complex. There wasn't a pool, but there was a small rear patio for common use. The two ground-floor units had rear entrances through patio doors, and the upper units had decks with short staircases down to the patio. He had entered through the rear that night.

As inconspicuously as he could, he slipped around the building and walked quickly past the air conditioner to the back, where he saw the lounges on the patio. They looked worn and faded by the sun. No one was there; all was quiet. He stood a moment, his heart pounding. He felt like a voyeur who had done time travel. He was about to look through a window and see events that had transpired years ago.

Quietly, as smoothly as once before, he went to the patio door that opened into the living room of the unit. There were curtains drawn, darker curtains with a gaudy design in light orange. He touched the handle of the door, took a breath, and pushed. Of course it was locked now, but it hadn't been that night.

He pressed his face to the glass so he could peer through the narrow opening between the curtains. The sun in its movement from east to west was behind him now. That was probably why his silhouette was so vivid. He didn't know that. He stood there, peering, studying the new furnishings, but not seeing them as new. He saw the old. She would cross the room and go toward the kitchen soon. He would enter the living room, stay to the left, and then enter the kitchen from the front. She would turn, surprised, and he would stab her with the screwdriver before she had a chance to scream.

It was almost as if he believed he would see a reenactment and confirm that it had all happened. That was why he had come, he thought, to relive the scene and make it real again.

Suddenly the curtain was pulled open, and a man about his height but stouter, with his stomach protruding from under his T-shirt and over his sweatpants, looked at him. His face was filled with rage.

"Who the fuck are you?" he shouted through the glass.

Jonathan backed up, smiling.

"Get the fuck out of here, you perverted bastard."

Jonathan raised his arms and shrugged. "I was looking for someone else," he said.

The man reached to the right and produced a small baseball bat. He clutched it like a caveman as he opened the patio door.

Behind him, in the living room doorway, a short woman with dark brown hair and glasses suddenly appeared. "Who is it?" she cried, her face twisting in fear.

"One of those perverts. I thought we were finished with your type. Go on, get the hell outta here before we call the police." He waved the bat.

Jonathan stared at him, blinking rapidly. "You don't belong in there," he said pointing his forefinger at the man.

"What?"

"I'm calling the police," the woman said and disappeared.

The man didn't step forward. Something in Jonathan's eyes made him hesitate. Instead he closed the patio door between them.

"You don't belong in there!" Jonathan screamed and rushed the door. He pounded it once, so hard the vibration made his arm sing down to the elbow and then to his shoulder.

"Jesus Christ," he heard the man say.

Then Jonathan retreated. He hurried around the building, down the side path, and onto the street.

Once there, he walked quickly to the corner and back up the street to where he had parked the rental.

He got in quickly, caught his breath, and closed his eyes. From the south he could hear the sound of a police siren. He started the engine and drove away, made a turn, and headed east.

It really was time to go home.

SPECIAL AGENT JAMES REYNOLDS met Ted and Billy at the Billings airport. He was a six-foot two-inch brown-haired man in his mid-forties with a gung-ho air of Bureau efficiency about him that made Ted conscious of his own posture and appearance. Billy, as usual, seemed less interested in the people he met than in the technical apparatus at the airport. After the introductions, they all got into Reynolds's car. It was 4:45 p.m., but there was lots of daylight left in the summer sky.

"The Big Sky Animal Clinic seems legitimate," Reynolds began. "It's been owned and operated by a fifty-one-year-old vet named Herbert Gerson for a little more than fifteen years. Before that, he practiced in Jackson, Wyoming.

"However," Reynolds continued as he sped up, "Gerson recently purchased—not leased: purchased— a Mercedes 520 convertible. We have been unable to track the money; it smells like a cash deal."

"That doesn't sound legitimate," Ted said.

"People still keep money in mattresses around here."

"Not an educated man," Ted insisted. "Why lose the interest you can earn?"

"You don't pay taxes on it if the government can't track it," Billy quipped. He kept gazing out the window.

Reynolds looked at Ted, and they both smiled.

"What else can you tell us about him?" Ted asked.

"He's married, has two children. One, a twenty-six-year-old son, happens to be seriously epileptic and lives at home. The other, a daughter, is in her first year of graduate studies at Antioch."

"And Gerson's wife?"

"Works at the clinic, keeps the books, runs the office, serves as receptionist. They're a respected family. Nothing on the rap sheet for anyone."

"Who stays with the son when they're at work?" Ted asked.

"Herbert's older sister, a widow. So what makes you suspect that a Los Angeles plastic surgeon came out here and used an animal clinic?" Reynolds asked.

"I know," Ted replied. "Who the hell would think to track an operation on a human being to a pet clinic—except Billy, that is." He nodded at his younger associate.

Reynolds gazed at him in the rearview mirror.

Billy shrugged. "I remembered the operation on my mother's golden retriever," he said.

When they arrived at the Big Sky Animal Clinic, Ted thought its location made it desirable for anyone who wanted to do something clandestine. It was located on a wooded road with no other structures nearby, and it looked more like a home than a veterinary facility. "Sort of off the beaten path," he remarked.

"Everything out here is," Reynolds said.

The new Mercedes was parked in front, as were two far less costly cars and a pickup truck. The three agents got out and entered the clinic. It was what it appeared to be, a residence that had been turned into offices, a lab, and two operating rooms. Behind the house there were kennels for the animals kept overnight, and the rear of the house contained kennels for animals that had to be kept indoors. The good-size lobby contained three small sofas, a scale to weigh animals, a long table covered with magazines, including many on pet care, and three chairs. Charts and information about pet care hung on the walls. To the right of a window, behind which sat Glenna Gerson, was a display of recommended pet products and foods.

An elderly man in coveralls with a German shepherd resting at his feet was the only one in the waiting room. He looked up with curiosity as the three approached the window. Billy was the only one who smiled and nodded at him.

Glenna Gerson slid open the window. "May I help you?" she asked with a pleasant smile. She looked to be in her late forties, with dark coffee-colored hair cut neatly just below her ears. She wore a white uniform that was a bit too tight and revealed where she was losing the battle around her hips.

Ted and James produced their identification. Her eyes widened, the light green and brown speckled irises darkening with surprise and what the agents had come to recognize as normal anxiety whenever they showed their badges.

"How can I help you?" she asked.

"We would like to speak to Dr. Gerson," Ted said.

"He's with a patient."

Ted smiled at the use of the word "patient" for an animal.

"Let me see how much longer he will be." She left the office.

The elderly man now grimaced with unhappiness at the prospect of a longer wait because of whatever these official-looking men had shown Mrs. Gerson. Billy started to make small talk with him, talking about dogs, shepherds in particular. Ted shook his head, amazed at how much knowledge was stored in that electric brain of his associate.

Glenna Gerson returned, her smile still in place but looking more plastic now. "My husband says it will be only another five minutes. He suggested I show you into his office," she added and opened the door.

The three agents followed her down a corridor. She paused at another door and stepped back for them to enter.

The office was almost as large as the waiting room, all done in dark walnut panels and richly carpeted in Berber, the bookshelves on one side filled with textbooks on veterinary medicine and animal psychology. Behind the large cherry wood desk hung Dr. Gerson's diplomas, awards, and citations. There were pictures of him with prize animals, including pigs as well as dogs and horses.

From the photographs, Ted saw that Herbert Gerson was a well-built, athletic-looking, handsome man who had the photogenic charisma of a male model. He had hair the color of dry hay, and he wore it long and full. Comparing him to the other people in some of the photographs, Ted imagined Gerson to be at least six feet one.

"Please make yourselves comfortable, gentleman," Glenna Gerson said. "My husband will be in as soon as possible."

"Thank you," James Reynolds said.

"Can I get anyone anything? Coffee? A cold drink?"

"No, thank you, ma'am," Reynolds replied for everyone.

Glenna Gerson looked more uncomfortable now and more nervous. Ted and James exchanged a look just before she left them. Billy was already scrutinizing the computer.

"Gateway Tower," he said. The monitor was on. He looked at Ted and then he hit a key and then another. "Networking," he reported.

"Better lay off for now, Billy," Ted said, seeing that James Reynolds was uncomfortable with his tinkering.

Billy nodded and went over to the bookshelves. James sat in the soft leather chair to the right of the desk, and Ted sat on the sofa.

Less than a minute went by before Dr. Gerson appeared. He looked a little older than he appeared in his pictures, but the bulge of his biceps under the sleeve of his white tunic and the firmness of his chest and waist revealed that he was still fit. He wore a look of surprise and innocent curiosity.

"Gentlemen," he said. "I'm Dr. Gerson. How can I help you?"

Glenna Gerson remained in the doorway after he entered.

James and Ted stood. "We're investigating a complicated murder," Ted began. "The victim's body was discovered on the Crow reservation. She was a nurse who did some work for a cosmetic surgeon, Doctor Lawler, whose offices are in Los Angeles."

Dr. Gerson nodded and then walked around his desk.

"Please, sit down," he said. "Glenna, please tell Mark to administer the inoculations and check Hawk-eye's right hip," he told his wife, who looked disappointed at being sent away. James and Ted sat. Billy continued to stand.

"So," Dr. Gerson continued, leaning back in his chair, "how does this involve me?"

"How long have you known Dr. Lawler?" Ted asked quickly. It was often effective to skip a few steps in questioning. People assumed you knew things and didn't challenge you.

"Dr. Lawler? I don't recall anyone by that name, and," he added with a smile, "neither my wife nor I have ever had cosmetic surgery."

"We know that Dr. Lawler called you a few months ago and apparently had a lengthy conversation," Ted said. "It's a matter of record," he added firmly.

"Called me?" Herman Gerson turned his chair a little to the right and looked as if he was thinking. He shook his head. "I really don't remember any such call. Why would he call me?"

"That's what we're here to find out, Dr. Gerson. We also know for a fact that Dr. Lawler came to Billings by way of San Francisco shortly after that phone call. Are you telling us now that you don't know Felix Lawler?" Ted asked, his tone more aggressive and legal.

"Felix Lawler," he repeated. "Now that you added Felix, that name does sound familiar. Felix Lawler.

Yes." His eyes brightened as he nodded. "However, he never said he was a doctor," Herman Gerson continued, somewhat more animated. "Someone recommended he call me. It's coming back to me now. He said he and his wife had a poodle, about seven years old, that was unable to hold down any food. His veterinarian had recommended putting the dog down, and Felix Lawler and his wife were very upset."

Dr. Gerson smiled. "Someone told him I was one of the best veterinarians in the country, so he called me. I couldn't do much with the information he gave me over the phone, but I did recommend another veterinarian, a man I went to college with, Charles Brooker, who has a practice in Woodland Hills, California."

"Why did Dr. Lawler come here, then?" James Reynolds asked.

"I don't know. I never saw the man in person," Dr. Gerson said. His wife returned. "Glenna, do you recall speaking with someone named Felix Lawler?"

She thought a moment and then shook her head.

"What does Dr. Lawler say about his conversation with me?" Dr. Gerson asked.

"Nothing. He was murdered recently too," Ted said dryly.

"Wow," Herman Gerson muttered. He looked as if he'd just taken a blow to the stomach. He lowered his eyes and lost some color in his face. He tried to recuperate quickly, but his gaze went to his wife, and Ted thought he looked concerned.

"There is the possibility that someone is trying to cover up facts and actions that might have occurred here, Dr. Gerson. If you know anything about these people or have had any contact with them, you should tell us. You might be another potential target. We haven't much to go on yet, and we can't even begin to suggest we could protect anyone," Ted said. He waited a moment and then added, "Whoever is involved is obviously someone with significant capabilities."

Herman Gerson stared at him a moment and then shook his head. "I really can't add anything else. That's all I know."

"You never met a nurse named Irene Lester?" James fired the question at him.

"No, I didn't." Gerson shook his head for emphasis.

"And Dr. Felix Lawler never came to this office?" Ted added.

"I have no recollection or record of such a visit. Honey?" he asked his wife.

She shook her head. "No," she said, her face full of concern.

There was a long pause. Ted looked at Billy, who seemed to have his thoughts on another subject entirely.

"Dr. Gerson, have you ever heard of the Rainback Corporation?"

Glenna made a tiny mouselike sound and brought her hand to her mouth. Ted thought he saw Dr. Gerson give her a reprimanding glance before turning to him.

"Yes, I have," Gerson said. "The Rainback Corporation manages money for me, mainly my pension plan. How are they involved in this?"

"They may not be. We're just following up leads," Ted said, sounding casual. "Could Dr. Lawler have learned about you through someone at that company?"

"I don't see how or why. I've never discussed veterinary medicine with my pension managers, except as it relates to investments. Besides, I already told you—"

"Who's your pension representative at Rainback?" James Reynolds asked.

Gerson hesitated. "I'm not comfortable giving out people's names. I don't mean to appear uncooperative, but in this day and age, when lawsuits are commonplace, it's always wise to confer with one's attorney first," he said.

"That's a matter of public record," Billy inserted. "It's not hard to get that information, sir."

"Then go on and get it," Dr. Gerson said, his eyes full of defiance.

A moment of deafening silence followed.

"This is my card," Reynolds said, finally standing. "If you remember something you don't feel is too sensitive or something you've checked with your attorney, please call us."

Gerson took the card, gazed at it, then nodded and stood up. "I'm sorry I can't be of any help, but that's all I can recall."

"Who suggested your name to Felix Lawler?" Ted asked after he stood. "Surely that's not sensitive material."

Dr. Gerson thought a moment.

"You know, it was so long ago that I don't recall," he replied.

"Wouldn't it have to have been someone in California?" Ted continued.

"I have a number of pet owners who have homes in Jackson Hole but who live in California, too. Perhaps it was one of those people. Maybe the Kettlemans or perhaps Don Taylor. Can you think of anyone offhand, Glenna?"

"Gene and Mary Kaiser live in Beverly Hills, don't they?"

"Right. It might have been they," he said.

Billy was busy copying the names.

"Okay, thank you, Doctor," Ted said.

The three of them left the office, followed by Glenna Gerson. She nodded when Ted smiled back at her.

"What do you think?" Ted asked as the three of them got into Reynolds's automobile.

James stared at the building a moment. "I think he must be one helluva vet," he said, and Ted laughed. "There's something going on. I have no idea what, but something," Reynolds added in a serious tone.

They all nodded and looked at each other. Then Billy's face brightened. "Get me to a computer," he said. "I have some ideas."

Harry Ross sat on the patio of the Montego Bay Paradise Club and watched the sunset. Lil was still in the shower. They had arrived, checked in, and gone right to the beach. After squeezing in a few hours of sunbathing and a few pina coladas, they had returned to their suite and made love. The drinks, the exotic location, and the excitement of travel made it all better than it had been, but it was still not as good as it once was.

Lil had sensed that too, but she said nothing. After they had made love, she turned over, napped for a while, and then got up and went into the shower. Harry had poured himself a rum and Coke, put on his robe, and sat out on the patio. In the growing twilight the ocean looked like mocha icing spread over a cake. It was that smooth. He saw no sailboats now, but against the horizon a tanker seemed planted, unmoving. As the sun dipped, the tiny lights on the ship brightened and then, off to his right, Harry saw another cargo vessel beginning its slide across the increasingly inky ocean.

Below, on the beach, couples, mostly younger than he and Lil, strolled lazily, holding hands, laughing so lightly they seemed to be made of soap bubbles and at any moment might pop and disappear into the sea spray. He couldn't recall when he and Lil were that carefree. Maybe they never were. Maybe they were always serious, concerned, responsible. There was a delicious joy in being spontaneous, adventuresome. He recognized it, even longed for it, but couldn't remember enjoying it.

Have I finally grown too old? he wondered. Events aged us faster than time. Time was like this ocean, something we passed through, but it was the experiences, the obstacles, that took the toll, not the ocean, not the minutes and hours.

How many loving couples down there on the beach, he mused, would have children or husbands and wives who would die tragically? If any of them stopped for a moment to consider all the dark possibilities that threatened their future, how many of them would turn away from it all and retreat to some lonely but safe existence? Would he have done so if he'd known?

"My God, this is beautiful," Lil said, coming up behind him. She too was in her robe now. She was drying her hair with a towel and then letting it fall free. She paused and looked over the railing at the sea. "It's as if we stepped into a picture postcard, isn't it, Harry?"

"Yes," he said. He sipped his drink.

She turned and looked at him. "Getting hungry?"

"A little," he said.

She took a deep breath and looked out at the horizon. "We should take a picture of that," she said nodding at the quickly descending ball of bright banana-skin yellow.

"We have a dozen photos from places like this," he said.

She lowered her head. "It's sad when something like this is taken for granted."

"Oh, I'm not taking it for granted. I'd just like to get some original shots this trip," he said quickly, covering his blunder.

She didn't turn. A long moment of silence passed.

"You want a drink?" he asked.

"Soon. I'll get dressed first." She turned and smiled at him.

He took a deep breath and sighed. Right below them on the hotel's main patio, the reggae band and singer began. The rhythms traveled through the floor of their deck and into her feet.

Lil started to sway. "What?" she asked with a hopeful smile when his face seemed to brighten.

"I was just thinking about . . . times when we took the girls on holidays like this."

"I was thinking about our honeymoon," she fired back. It felt like a slap, designed to snap him out of a depression. She twisted her shoulder a bit, permitting more of the robe to fall away.

In the subdued light of twilight, Lil did look younger to him, her eyes electric with passion and excitement. The memories began to rush back, busting through the corked openings in his mind, flooding him with images of smiles, laughter, promises. For reasons he didn't understand, he felt guilty and looked away.

She stepped forward, refusing to be neglected, and he turned back to her.

"I have needs too, Harry. You brought me here with high expectations. I'm not ashamed to admit I need your love and attention, and I'm willing and eager to compete with my daughter's memory for it. I don't know why it is that I'm alive and she isn't, but that's the way it is. I want you to love me again, Harry, to love me the way you did before."

"Nothing can be as it was before," he said. "But I'm trying. That's why I wanted us to come here."

"It would have been better to stay home, Harry. It's easier for me to accept being ignored at home. But here, in this romantic setting . . ." Her eyes filled with glassy tears so that they looked as if she wore large contact lenses.

It suddenly dawned on him that Lil still had a young woman's hungers and needs, that she craved his full attention, almost as much as she had when they first met, maybe even more. Could they ever feel pleasure again without feeling pain? Nothing she said was wrong or cruel. Nothing was disrespectful to his daughter's memory. It was a matter of his letting go, stepping out of his state of mourning and permitting his eyes to fill with desire, his lips to enjoy the touch of hers, his loins to ache with passion, freely, honestly.

He smiled at her. "I'm sorry, Lil," he said.

Then he turned his smile into more of a leer and put his glass down. He opened his own robe and reached for her. She was happily surprised as he drew her down to his lap, opening her robe more and more until he could run his hands up over her ribs, onto her breasts, cupping them as his thumbs strummed her nipples and then as he leaned in to kiss those nipples. She moaned and his hardness climbed into her. The reggae music seemed to get louder with their passion.

There on the patio they made love again, this time with abandon. The freedom and the spontaneity turned them up quite a few notches. As they moved, groped, kissed, and nibbled gently on each other, they were both driven to a higher pitch of excitement by the realization that this was good, this was better even than it had been before the tragedy. This was the way it had started.

She screamed her pleasure and then smothered her moans by pressing her mouth to his head as the craving and hunger exploded in both of them. For a long, delicious moment they remained entwined. Then she lifted her face from him and laughed.

"I hope our neighbors aren't out on their decks too," she said.

"I bet they are, and I bet we put some ideas into their heads, if they didn't have them already."

"If they didn't, they don't belong here," she said. Harry laughed.

"Now," he said, nodding emphatically, "I'm hungry."

PHILIP STONER WASN'T EXACTLY a self-made man. His father had left him a little more than a million dollars, but Philip was more of a risk-taker than his father, who usually erred on the side of caution and missed opportunities because he had a tendency to see the potential disaster in investments more than he saw the potential success. He was a cynic, and Philip always said a cynic had no place in the market, in real estate, or in development. The best place for a cynic was the funeral business.

Not that Philip was a true gambler. He never went into anything unless 70 to 80 percent of the factors involved favored him. The difference between him and other entrepreneurs was that he worked at getting the 70 to 80 percent first. He did the preparation, set up his shots with a long view. Before he bought land for development, he helped establish the factory that would attract home buyers, merchants, and service providers who would need the land he owned.

Philip had begun networking long before it became fashionable. He didn't need complex computers; he made personal contacts. If he supported a congressman now, he did it because he knew that he would someday need that congressman's vote for the project that was already in his imagination.

Other businessmen wanted to be part of whatever Philip was contemplating. Some trusted him blindly and provided funds without question whenever he requested them. Philip used these investors wisely, moved them around like pieces on a chessboard, plotting, planning, visualizing the events that would make him richer, more powerful, and give him even greater control of the network. His appetite for business success was insatiable. To be satisfied, he once told a reporter, is to die.

Dirk was his only child. His wife, Natasha, a beautiful brunette he had met in London and courted long-distance until she married him, was killed in a small-plane crash when Dirk was barely six. It was only because she didn't want to take Dirk out of school for two days that he wasn't in the plane as well.

Natasha had been the only really soft and lovely thing in Philip's life. He had loved her so passionately that in medieval times he would have been found guilty of uxoriousness—an excessive love for one's wife, a love that was willing to put anything else below it, including respect for and worship of any deity, not that Philip was ever a religious man. If anyone questioned him, he called himself a deist. He believed that God had made the world and then gone on a permanent vacation because he realized that he had made it too quickly and felt it would only be an embarrassment.

Morality, rules for behavior, came from what was basic and necessary to conduct business, not from religious beliefs, anyway. Business was the reason for government, for police, for improving roads and bridges, for creating health care, Social Security, pensions, even religions themselves. When before in the history of man had religion become as big an enterprise as it was now? Huge amounts of money were being raised in the electronic churches.

However, he wasn't critical of religions for being money machines. They put people to work, raised taxes, generated development, created countries and power, and gave him and everyone else the only reason he could see for taking another breath.

Philip hadn't become a doting father until after Natasha was killed. He knew how much she had loved their little boy, and he felt his strongest bonds with his dead wife only through his devotion to their child. Something of her still lived in Dirk, and he wanted to cherish and nourish him more than ever because of that.

After Natasha's death, women became simply another commodity for Philip Stoner. The truth was, he resented every beautiful woman he saw and every woman who made love to him. He resented them for living. He had been hurt too deeply to ever invest his affection and love in any human being other than his son. The risk of being hurt that seriously again was too great.

Philip knew he wasn't a good father in the traditional sense. He rarely took his son to ball games, helped him with his homework, or had sensitive father-son talks. Instead, he surrounded him with the best tutors, the best caregivers. When it became clear that Dirk was a gifted athlete, Philip didn't resent it or belittle it. He recognized it was going to be his son's way of making money, and he thought that was good.

Philip taught him how to invest his winnings and turned him into a millionaire in his own right before he was twenty-one.

He knew Dirk was a womanizer. In the beginning he thought little of it; it actually amused him. Then, as Dirk began to degenerate, Philip stepped in and lectured him on waste.

"It's destroying your concentration," Philip told him. "You won't be the success you can be, and you will lose opportunities. Think about settling down. Women aren't that important."

Dirk was always impressed by his father. He feared and respected him, but he didn't hold a deep affection for him. His father was too much of a mystery, too controlled and focused to be someone he could love. He was almost unreal. When Dirk introduced Farah to him and told him she was the woman he thought he would marry, his father seemed to approve, and above everything, he wanted his father's approval. It was like having what he did stamped by God.

Philip Stoner felt no responsibility for his son's eventual violent behavior. The only concession he would make—and would make only to himself—was that he should have spent a little more time on what was happening to Dirk's marriage. When he spoke with Dirk afterward, he heard another side of the story anyway. Dirk told him that Farah had tormented him, betrayed him, teased him, and now wanted to take advantage of him. Philip found himself sympathizing with his son. He thought he heard his dead wife's voice, pleading with him to help their son. In time he came to believe Dirk was being given a raw deal, was being made a sacrificial lamb, and he decided to do his best to prevent the execution. When that attempt failed, he did the next best thing. He made it all go away.

Or at least he thought he had.

After Dirk was convicted and sentenced, and after the sentence was carried out, Philip had Dirk's home in Beverly Hills sold. He also sold Dirk's cars and most of his possessions. What he couldn't sell, he gave away or put in storage. Then, as if he could lift a page out of his book of life and start over, he sold his own Bel Air home and bought a house in Palos Verdes with a view of the ocean, a house high enough and far enough from other homes to be secluded and private. To enforce his privacy he had a wall built around the property and kept at least one security man working day and night.

Because there was relatively little for a security man to do, however, the four men who rotated the assignment had grown lackadaisical about it. They put on a good act for Philip whenever he was home, but most of the time they slept, watched television, and talked on the phone. One of them said it was like babysitting for a dead child.

Stoner had a cook, a butler, and two maids as well as a full-time gardener. He was used to a solitary life and brought people around only when his boredom grew burdensome enough for him to require some amusement. He did host impressive dinner parties attended by politicians, movie stars, millionaire and billionaire businessmen, media people, and an occasional diplomat. Twice, before Dirk's problems began, Philip had hosted gala fund-raisers.

There was a time when his home was an exciting place, a center for entertainment, a stop on the gossip columnists' list of places frequented by the rich and famous. Now that was gone. Philip missed it, but he was not a man to mourn his losses for long. Defeat for him was merely a catalyst for finding another solution. It was a challenge, a test of sorts, and challenge was practically the only thing left to give his life meaning. He sought competition, welcomed antagonists, even did things deliberately to create them.

Often now, when he returned to his home from his office, he would spend a philosophical hour at twilight sitting on his rear patio, gazing out at the dark ocean, which he thought resembled dried blood. The lights of small vessels and the occasional large ships filled him with a deep sense of loneliness. He would sip his cocktail and wonder if this meant God himself was a terribly lonely entity. He never thought it was arrogant to compare himself to God.

Tonight was a night full of that sort of introspection. He had gotten a disturbing phone call earlier, and he waited, feeling like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop. It came in the form of a dark silhouette that made its way behind the house, hovering in the shadows and then taking shape in the dim light cast through the windows by the lamps inside the house.

When the shape made itself visible to him, Philip merely stared and nodded slightly as if he had known all along that it was there, lingering in the darkness, waiting for the right opportunity.

"Hello, Dad," Jonathan Lewis said.

"You're a bigger fool than I thought," Philip replied without anger. It sounded as flat as a mere statement of fact. "Do you know how much you are putting at risk? And I don't mean in terms of money."

"I couldn't take it anymore, and I was ready. I proved it over the past two days, Dad. No one had even the slightest suspicion. I'm all right. It's going to be fine."

"You are not ready," Philip said. "It was all just beginning. You have a great deal left to learn, to do, to practice. And you agreed to every aspect, especially the therapy."

"I don't need therapy."

"Of course you do. I want you to go back," Philip said. "I insist you go back."

"I'm not going back, Dad."

"Just the mere fact that you continue to call me Dad illustrates my point that you have a long way to travel yet. Mr. Lewis's parents are both dead," he reminded him.

Dirk laughed. "Who the hell came up with that name anyway? Jonathan Lewis?"

"It's not a name someone came up with. It was a carefully chosen identity. It fit our needs, and your cavalier attitude toward it is another demonstration of how wrong you were to leave. I half expected you would come here. I actually hoped you had sense enough not to, but—"

"I was hoping you would be happy to see me. You're right. I am crazy."

Philip paused and focused on his son's new face. It was the first time he had seen the changes. He did look different. He could easily have walked past Dirk on the street and not known who he was. Felix Lawler was a magician, worth every cent, he thought, but not worth endless trust. His death had been necessary. In Philip's experience, such men always became greedy and reappeared with new demands, new blackmail. In a sense the decision was out of his hands, just part of the inevitability of things.

"I'll be happier to see you when it's safe to see you," he finally replied.

"It's safe now," Dirk insisted.

Philip Stoner shook his head. "I want you to go back," he said. "I'll have someone drive you to the airport and put you on a plane."

"I'm not going back. I have other things to do."

"What? Where are you going? You haven't given them a chance to set up your new life!"

"No matter what you do for me and how it all turns out, I'll be unable to go on as long as I know they're out there. They are the only real threat."

"Who?"

"Who wanted me dead more than anyone?" Dirk replied.

Philip stared a moment. He felt a cold wave wash over his feet and travel up his legs to settle around his heart. He'd had nightmares about this. In them, his son's escape from the Grim Reaper had left Dirk's mind twisted. He never had complete faith in that prison doctor and the drugs he claimed would have no aftereffect. What if the drugs had made him mad?

What if instead of taking advantage of his second chance and becoming a better person, Dirk was touched by the Grim Reaper and that touch had left him an even darker and more sinister person?

"No one will be a threat to you if you do as you are told and learn what you are taught," Philip said.

"I was hoping you'd had this taken care of for me," Dirk said.

"Taken care of? What are you talking about?"

"Never mind, Dad. I came here first to tell you to call off the dogs. Tell them to let me be," Dirk said. "I'll be Jonathan Lewis, and I'll start over, but tell them it's all on my terms now. I know they're probably after me, and we both know you can stop them. I'm hoping they can see they're not dealing with someone who can't defend himself."

"Then it's true. You did kill one of them. Why?"

"She was a monster. She would have killed me eventually."

"I want you to go back," Philip insisted.

"If you don't call them off, it won't be good for you or me," Dirk said coldly.

Philip felt the blood rise to his face. "Are you threatening me after all I've done for you?"

"I'm just telling you the way it is. I won't stay here. I know it'll make you nervous. Wish me luck," he said and retreated into the darkness.

"Wait! I can't stop them. They have their own agenda. Wait!"

Philip stood, gaping after him. He saw a shadow move, and then it was quiet and so still it seemed the conversation had all been manufactured by his imagination.

"Damn him," he said and hurried into the house. He went to the telephone on the bar. "He was just here," he told the voice that answered after one ring.

"Thought he might. We'll be there in seconds."

"Hurry. He's . . . dangerous," he added. "He's not ready to be out."

"We know. We tracked him to a rental car agency and then to a former acquaintance."

"What former acquaintance?"

"A woman, Carla Morgan. Our people just left. It was bad."

"What was bad? Is she . . ."

"Yes, sir, and so is someone who apparently came in at the wrong time. We did our best to cover it all up, make it look like a robbery."

"Jesus. Why would he. . . She must have recognized him somehow," he replied to his own aborted question. "He never mentioned a word of it. He's worse than I thought."

"We'll take care of it."

"You'd better," Philip said and hung up.

Then he turned and gazed at the photograph of his dead wife. She was never a big smiler. She had Mona Lisa-like softness in her lips, a mysteriously loving look in her eyes, a gentleness that turned him into a child.

What would our lives have been like if she hadn't been killed in that plane crash? he wondered.

And then he chastised himself for doing the very thing he thought weak in other men—regretting his mistakes, moaning.

This was merely another problem. It would be solved. His old confidence returned, and he strutted out of the house to bawl out his security man for not catching an intruder, while on a side street near his father's home, Dirk sat in his car and waited. He didn't want to run into anyone as he drove away. Sure enough, a black late-model Ford came racing up the hill toward his father's house.

"Can't even trust my own father," he muttered.

He pulled out slowly and drove off, thinking it would be better not to leave from LAX. Better to go to Ontario, he thought. They wouldn't expect that.

It was a little more than an hour later when he took the Ontario airport exit. He didn't return the car to the rental agency, because they could trace it to the airport and then they would get a head start on finding out where he was going. He put the car in the long-term parking area and shuttled back to get his ticket to New York City.

Where else would he go? That was where she was.

Late in the morning of his second day in Billings, Ted Andrews and Jim Reynolds returned to Reynolds's office from the dump on the Indian reservation. Billy was still busy on the computer. Maximilian didn't give them much more than he had given the first agents on the scene. He did reveal that a few days earlier he had seen an unfamiliar late-model black automobile. He thought it might have been a Lincoln. It was parked close to the dump, but he wasn't able to make out the driver and passenger, although he believed they were both men.

Ted noticed that there were other smoldering embers on the dump and Maximilian told him sometimes kids came by and started small fires.

"They're pretending to send smoke signals," Maximilian offered. "Kids often come down to shoot rats for fun. I chase them off. They might shoot into my trailer," he emphasized. However, he couldn't identify any of the Indian children.

Reynolds, who had been on the reservation before and had met the tribal leaders, said he would set up some visits and interviews with nearby families to see if any of the children had witnessed anything. He and James sat in his office talking, comparing agency experiences, until Billy knocked and entered.

"Got good news and bad news," he said. "What's first?"

"Good. It makes the bad seem less bad," Reynolds offered.

"Okay, I have been tracing medical supply distributors and finally located a delivery to Big Sky."

"So? It's an animal clinic," Reynolds said.

"I got the invoices and checked the materials. Actually, I scanned them and sent them up to the hospital. Most of the supplies are not what a veterinarian uses."

"Interesting. We'll have to get Gerson to explain that."

"What's the bad news?" Ted asked.

"I can't break into the records of the Rainback Corporation. I've never seen such a lockup in cyberspace. It's as if it's been set up to put anyone looking into it on wild-goose chases. It's full of deliberate dead ends, and it's fraught with computer viruses, one of which almost put your system into cyberspace for good," he added, looking at Reynolds. "No names, nothing. It's going to take more time, maybe lots more," he added.

"Interesting. Any luck tracking Felix Lawler to a motel or hotel nearby?"

"Nothing," Billy said.

"What about Dr. Gerson's personal phone calls? Any made back to Los Angeles?" Reynolds asked. "He could have stayed at his home," he told Ted, "and made calls."

"Right. Billy?"

"No calls to Los Angeles. Actually, no calls to California at all."

"Cellular?" Reynolds suggested.

Ted turned to Billy.

"Lawler didn't set up his cell phone for out-of-state use. Nothing there either."

"I'd like to have a little more information before we go back to Dr. Gerson," Reynolds said. "He could find some excuse for the medical supplies."

"I have a couple of other ideas," Billy said. Ted nodded, and Billy handed him the medical supplies invoices and left.

"He's good," Reynolds said. "Leave him here."

Ted laughed. "Doesn't matter where he is. He's in cyberspace."

"Right."

The phone rang, and Reynolds picked up the handset. He listened for a moment.

"Yeah, he's right here," he said, his eyes widening to reveal he was impressed. He handed the phone to Ted.

"Andrews," Ted said and listened. "I'm on my way," he said after a few moments and gave Reynolds the phone as he stood.

"What's up?" Reynolds asked. "Was that really Jack Bradley, the director's personal assistant?"

"Himself. I'm meeting him nearby," Ted said and started for the door.

"He's here? Where?"

"That's all I can say. In fact, I got the clear impression, I wasn't even supposed to say that much," Ted added and left.

Twenty-five minutes later he pulled into a space at the Black Bear Motel, a roadside resort that was somewhat more upscale than the typical ones. It had distinct cabins rather than attached rooms. He went to unit 4C, as he had been told. He knocked and a young blond agent with iguana-green eyes, jacketless with his issue showing, opened the door. He stepped back, and Ted entered the suite.

Jack Bradley, a forty-year-old man Ted had seen only for a few moments at the FBI Academy in Quantico, wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up to greet him. He had been eating from a bucket of fried chicken. The room reeked of it. Another agent, wearing a suit, stepped out of the bathroom as Ted shook Bradley's hand.

Bradley was an inch or so shorter than Ted. He looked older, more worn down by stress and responsibility than he had looked when Ted first met him, but he was still a man with an impressive build—wide-shouldered, muscular, with what Ted, from his own experience, called quarterback's hands. Bradley whipped his wiry fingers completely around the hand he shook and tightened his grip with authority, confidence. It was as if he could pick Ted up like a football and fling him across the room.

Bradley radiated arrogance with his eyes, which were dark, narrow, and penetrating at such close range. His smile was the smile of a classic politician— soft lips, lots of teeth, hinged for an extra beat at the corners. His face was lean, the jawbone taut. His dark brown hair was neatly cut but not military-short.

Ted couldn't help but be nervous and impressed with this private meeting. Bradley had the ear of the director, sat in on meetings with the president, coordinated major law enforcement activities, and had direct access to senators, congressmen, and even heads of state. What the hell did he want with Ted?

"Ted, thanks for coming so quickly. Want some chicken? A friend of mine who lives nearby recommended the place, and it's everything he claimed. My weak spot, real good southern fried chicken," Bradley continued.

Ted knew Bradley was from Alabama, but he was far from what would be called a good ole boy. He had been raised in and around Washington, D.C., too, and came from a family of career diplomats. The rumor was that he was really the director's illegitimate son, although no one dared to say so in front of another agent who might rat to ingratiate himself with the man who could shape his destiny.

"No, thank you, although I do love that stuff. I ate a big lunch," he explained.

"Yeah, well, our time clocks are fucked up. Is this breakfast or lunch, Ralph?" he asked the blond agent.

"Brunch," he replied.

"Have a seat, Ted," Bradley said and pointed to a chair by the table. He took the opposite one and then looked at his two young agents. Without comment, they left the suite.

"I've heard very good things about you, Ted," Bradley continued as soon as the door closed. "You're making a real impression on the right people out west. Are you happy there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Got family?"

"Yes. A wife and two children, a girl nine and a boy seven."

Bradley nodded. Ted knew Bradley was aware of all this. He was just making small talk, designed to ease them both into the hot bath. However, Bradley wasn't a patient man.

"I'll come right to the point, Ted. Got word a few hours ago that the office down here was using its computer access to tap on the doors of an outfit known as the Rainback Corporation."

"Yes, sir. My assistant is a cyberner . . . a genius, and he has been able to come up with some valuable information by letting his fingers do the walking," Ted explained.

"Why are you after information about the Rainback Corporation?"

Ted explained the case, how they had tracked Dr. Lawler and the nurse, Irene Lester, to the Santa Monica airport, researched the flight plans, and concluded they had traveled on the Rainback corporate jet to San Francisco and then to Billings.

"Through his phone records, we tracked Felix Lawler to a mortuary just outside of Oakland, the Elysian Fields Mortuary. It made no sense at the time, but my associate suggested that this plastic surgeon might have been brought up there to do some work and used the mortuary. My assistant is a film freak and remembered when Marlon Brando in The Godfather called on a mortician to fix up his shot-up son. We visited the place and learned nothing concrete from the owner's son. However, since we believe a nurse accompanied Lawler to Oakland, we both concluded the work was done on a living patient. We have no idea why it would be done in a mortuary unless it was something that someone didn't want tracked. So we continued following the trail through the phone records, and it led us here to a veterinary clinic, Big Sky. We interviewed the veterinarian yesterday and—"

"Good detective work," Bradley said impatiently.

"But my computer genius just told me he's run into a stone wall surrounding the Rainback Corporation," Ted added quickly.

"That's right. I don't expect he'll penetrate that wall and I don't want him to continue trying," Bradley said, smiling with firmness. Ted's expression pushed Bradley on. He was obviously a man who didn't feel it was necessary to explain his orders to underlings. "Information about the Rainback Corporation is on as strict a need-to-know basis as anything could be in our country, Ted, but since you and your computer whiz have put a few things together, I'm going to give you a top-secret flash, which I want to die in this room. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir, it is," Ted said firmly.

"Good. The Rainback Corporation is ours. It handles the federal government's witness protection program. End of story."

Ted stared and then nodded. "As I said, there was a murder that involved the Crow reservation, and the victim frequently worked as a nurse for this Dr. Lawler, who was then murdered in Palm Springs," Ted said, "so we've been following all our leads and—"

"And they took you to the Rainback Corporation. You have revealed that we have a problem," Bradley said, "a problem that we're going to solve. You've done good work. It will help us," Bradley said, standing. Ted rose quickly. "Go home. Enjoy your family, and drop this from your agenda."

"You mean drop the whole case?"

"Yes. It's been reassigned because it ties in with something else." Bradley extended his hand.

Ted shook it. "Do I say anything to agent Reynolds?"

"Explain nothing to anyone. As far as anyone has to know, you were given another assignment. You're on your way," Bradley said with that vintage politician's smile. He put his arm around Ted's shoulders as he walked him to the door. "The director will be informed of your cooperation and assistance, Ted. You'll hear from us soon, and you won't be unhappy. In fact, I'm instructing your office to give you an extra week off. Take a little vacation, on us. You deserve it."

"Thank you, sir."

"Sure you don't want a piece of that fried chicken? It's real good."

"No, thank you," Ted said.

Bradley opened the door, and to Ted's surprise, the two young agents were standing right outside like palace guards. They glanced at Bradley. Ted caught a look of approval, and the two agents relaxed.

"Okay. Say hello to Martin Selzer for me," he called as Ted went to his car.

"I will."

Bradley remained in his doorway, watching Ted start his engine and back out of the parking space. He waved, and then he looked at his two young agents, who moved quickly inside.

" 'We have a problem,'" Ted muttered to himself. " 'a problem that we're going to solve'? What the hell was all that about?"

At the moment he had no desire to find out.

STILL WEARING HER SHORT LAB coat over jeans and a light blue cotton sweater, Elaine Ross emerged from the building and hurried down the steps. She cradled two textbooks and a notebook in her arms. The early October evening was crisp and clear. The air felt good after being in the stuffy lab most of the day. It was the start of a three-day weekend. She had work to do, but she had also promised herself that this weekend, finally, she would assign some time just to herself. She would, she hoped, have fun.

For the first time in months, she had relented and agreed to meet Kathy Du Bois at the Underground, a dance club in SoHo. Kathy, who was from Lafayette, Louisiana, was the most interesting female she had met at school. Kathy came from a Cajun background and somehow managed to overcome a number of prejudices and obstacles to get her family to permit her to attend NYU. She said they had a distrust of everything northern and had wanted her to go to Tulane in New Orleans.

"They always believed I would do something in medicine, however," she told Elaine. "I was born left-handed and that's spiritual. My grandmother was a Traiteur, a faith healer. Don't laugh, either. Some of her traditional remedies and herbal medicines work! I wouldn't tell that to Professor Engleman, however," she added, and Elaine laughed.

Kathy was a striking dark-haired girl with break-your-heart ebony eyes set softly in a light caramel complexion. She had a small dimple in her left cheek that flashed on and off when she talked. Most northern men were fascinated by the lilt in her voice, that Cajun rhythm that made her speech more like song. She could have almost any man she wanted, Elaine thought, but Kathy was even more determined to have a career than Elaine was.

"We could be the Thelma and Louise of medical students, you know," Kathy said. "We've got the right attitude toward men right now: you can't live with them, you can't live without them, but you can live with them living without you. Does that make any sense?"

"No," Elaine said, but she laughed. Kathy was good for her. She was bubbly and alive and always cheerful.

Elaine had to confess that after Farah's death she had buried herself in her work, using it as a shield against depression and fear. Lately she had worked even harder so she would be too tired to think, too exhausted to remember. It was time, she concluded, to deal with this head-on. She was emerging, coming out of her self-assigned exile, crawling out of her shell, determined to breathe freely again.

She hurried down the sidewalk, ran across the street, and practically jogged the rest of the way to her apartment, oblivious to the traffic, the people, and the noise around her. There was no way she would have noticed she was being followed. No one spoke to her, called to her, or attracted her attention before she entered the apartment building and went to her one-bedroom walk-up on the third floor. It was one of the older town houses, but well maintained, quaint, and cozy, and the other tenants were mostly elderly. Her apartment was quiet here and safe.

Not until she sat before her vanity mirror in her bedroom and began to think about preparations for the night out did thoughts of Farah return. How many times had she sat on Farah's bed or sat at her feet and watched her sister make up her face while she talked about the importance of carefully applied cosmetics. Farah had treated her face as if it were a blank canvas each and every time. She had a way of looking at herself, scrutinizing, considering her own features, like someone who gazed upon herself for the first time, every time.

Elaine considered her own appearance. Maybe she wasn't all that plain. Maybe she had good features too. Maybe she looked more like her older sister than she had ever believed. She sat there, turning her shoulders, pursing her lips, rolling her eyes the way she had often caught Farah doing. Then she laughed before she grew sad.

"I miss you, big sister," she whispered beyond her image. "More than I ever thought I would."

She took a deep breath and then imagined Farah lecturing her about squinting or smirking.

"Fill your mind with candy canes," Farah would say. "If you think sweet, you'll look sweet. And don't be serious. Men hate women who are always serious."

"I hear you, Farah. Yes, yes, I really do," she whispered and began to work on her makeup.

When she went to the closet to find something to wear, her eyes, as if drawn magnetically, went to a dress of Farah's she had borrowed months before the murder. Normally they couldn't wear the same things, but this black knit took its shape from the one wearing it and was quite sexy because of the way it clung to her body. In fact, Elaine had yet to wear it in public. She had borrowed it, tried it on, and then lost her courage. Farah had bawled her out and told her to keep the dress in her closet until she wore it at least once.

It left little to the imagination, or rather, it stimulated male fantasies, Elaine thought. It had to; it stimulated her own. When she put it on over her bra and panties, however, it looked wrong. She couldn't wear a bra with it, and she had to wear those thong panties Farah had bought her. Her heart fluttered with just the thought of doing it. Why being sexy should frighten her, she did not know. She didn't care to have herself analyzed, and never told anyone about it, not even Kathy.

The closest to an explanation came from the fact that she had always been afraid of anything that took complete control out of her hands. She had never tried pot, wouldn't dream of doing cocaine, and restricted herself to one drink, no matter what the occasion. From the first time she had experienced an orgasm until now, she had an image of herself becoming helpless in the throes of passion.

Looking at it from a scientific viewpoint, she concluded that there was no biological drive as powerful as the sex drive. It overcame and consumed; it had its way, and in her own imagination, sex resembled some sleeping beast that, once nudged, roared through the blood, shook your very skeleton, and seized you so firmly that you could only submit to its hunger and thirst.

Consequently she was still a virgin, even though she had done and continued to do a good job of giving the impression she was worldly, sophisticated, experienced. Most men were turned off by her aloof, condescending manner. They thought she knew more than they did about romance, sex, all of it. None she had met understood that it was all a facade and that beneath it was a young girl, trembling, terrified of herself.

Even Farah believed that Elaine had had sexual experiences. She went so far as to ask Elaine's opinion, from an academic standpoint, always assuming Elaine knew from personal experience and could verbalize and explain it better. Elaine could quote textbooks, could dissect feelings, could resolve questions, but Elaine didn't know anything from her own experience.

Once again, rather than confront the problem, she buried herself in her work and in her studies. She rationalized, made promises, put off relationships, developing the concept that she had priorities and that, unlike most women her age, she was wise and completely in control.

I'm a career woman, she told herself, not just a woman who happens to have a career.

Yet more often now, she craved romance and wanted to be more like her sister.

The telephone snapped her out of her reverie.

"Hello," she said, surprised at how her voice cracked.

"It's only me making sure you're not going to stand me up," Kathy said.

"I'll be there." Elaine's heart pounded. "I said I would and I will, but I'm not expecting much."

"Good, then you won't be disappointed, but you will be grateful," Kathy said. "My grandfather always had that attitude when he went shrimpin'."

Elaine laughed. "See you soon," she said and went back to her preparations, a little more determined, a little more frenzied, and lot more frightened.

Across the street below, Jonathan Thomas Lewis as he was now known, leaned against a parked car and gazed up at what he knew to be Elaine Ross's apartment windows. It had taken no time to find her, thanks to the relatively cheap detective he had hired. Periodically, he caught sight of her moving in her bedroom, silhouetted against the fine lace curtains. He considered going up there, but something made him hesitate, some instinctive thing. He liked listening to his instincts these days. Move like an animal, think like an animal, react like an animal, he told himself. In times like these, knowing he was being pursued and knowing he was the predator as well, it paid to be primitive.

He clung to shadows, moved gracefully, slyly along, sleek and quick, constantly on guard for someone, anyone who looked as if he had been hunting for him. They all had that cold, calculating appearance, he thought. They won't be hard to recognize. The trick was to recognize them before they recognized him. Were they good enough to anticipate his every move, to know where he would go and what he wanted to do?

This was a quiet street, easy to notice anyone lurking. He remained very still, almost imperceptible, merging with the darkness around him. When her lights went out, his heart quickened and he grew tense, expecting a car to pull up. Surely, since it was the weekend, she had been preparing for a date. He wanted to learn as much as he could about her now, do his own detective work, breathe down her neck, as it were. How surprised but grateful he was to see her emerge and walk quickly to the corner. No date made his pursuit easier and put him ahead of schedule.

He was too far away to notice many details, but she looked dressed up, her hair styled. She wore a light overcoat opened enough for him to see her black dress, and she wore high heels. At the corner she paused and stepped off the curb to signal for a cab. He spotted one coming up the street and stepped out quickly himself, hailing it. It pulled to the side, and he got in.

"Where to, sir?" the driver, a Sikh in a turban, asked.

Jonathan shoved a hundred-dollar bill through the window. "See that girl waiting for a cab?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wait until she gets one and then follow it. There's another hundred for you if you succeed," he said.

The driver looked at the bill and then at him to see if he was serious.

"She's getting one. Get ready," Jonathan warned.

The driver took the first hundred and turned. When she got into her cab, he followed.

Jonathan sat back. Money gets honey, he thought. Always will.

Elaine never cared about money, he recalled. She was against me from the start and couldn't have been less impressed with my wealth. He remembered too well her sarcasm, her challenges, her damn feminist point of view about things. He had despised her then because she could see through him. Ironically, however, that had excited him more. She was not as beautiful as Farah, but Farah wasn't a challenge. A man like me likes a challenge, he had thought. He had flirted with Elaine, and once or twice he thought he had seen her blush or look back at him with some sexual interest, but as quickly as she permitted it to happen, she snuffed it out. He couldn't help fantasizing about her back then. She was forbidden, and anything forbidden was always enticing. Besides, what did he ever want that he didn't get some way or another in his life? Why should Elaine Ross be the exception just because he was married to her sister?

He laughed about all that now. This was his second time around, and he wouldn't fail. There was no place for failure. He wouldn't permit it.

His cab kept up with hers, and when hers came to a stop in front of a dance club, he told his driver to pull over about a hundred feet back. He gave him the second hundred and then watched with interest as Elaine entered the club.

He smiled to himself. It felt good to have a real sexual challenge again. He was pumped up, ready for this. With his signature arrogant gait and posture, he sauntered to the Underground and entered what he saw as the battlefield.

Elaine paused just inside the entrance of the Underground. Perfect name for this dance club, she thought disdainfully. The stairway descended a full flight below the sidewalk, the entryway was as dark as a cave, and the place had a musty odor: a mixture of dampness, cigarette smoke, and sweat.

She gazed ahead. The dance hall was an inferno—the blazing pink, blue, red, and yellow lights flickered over the crowd and up the stucco walls. The dance floor itself was a layer of glass beneath which a ruby-tinted liquid flowed, giving the revelers the sense that they were dancing on a stream of wine—or blood. Cigarette smoke twisted and knotted above and around them, spinning a web, trapping them in a sooty cloud of their own making.

Elaine had never been comfortable in bars and dance clubs, especially places like this. The loud music, the booze, the entire atmosphere, changed people or perhaps liberated the wildness and evil that had hitherto lain dormant in them. To Elaine, the people down here resembled moles and snakes. That tall, thin black-haired girl in the skintight mini wiggled like a rodent working its way toward scraps of food. Her eyes even bulged. And that buxom redhead who wore a push-up bra, her bosom undulating, hovered over her companion like a cat about to pounce, her fingers bent into small claws as she swung her arms above and around him.

Of course Elaine knew what Kathy would say: at least those girls were dancing; they had partners, and more than likely they would leave with someone. Unfortunately, Kathy was right, but little butterflies of panic circled in Elaine's stomach. She began to lose her nerve.

I don't know why I agreed to come here, she thought. She had merely set foot in the place, and her mind was already in turmoil. She assumed everyone was looking at her. Where was Kathy? She realized she couldn't just stand here forever. Her eyes went down; she sought out the darkest, most secluded spot by the bar and fumbled for her money nervously.

"Relax," she heard someone say. He came up behind her so quickly it was as if he had walked in with her. "Your money's no good here."

"Pardon me?"

He stepped out of the shadow. "I said, your money's no good here. What will you have?"

She stared at him, taken aback by his forwardness. Her first reaction was to be annoyed, angry at his audacity, but then she calmed herself and told herself to be less negative, to try to think what Farah would do. She would probably laugh and order a drink.

"You wanted something to drink, right?" he said, smiling. His sensuous lips made it more than merely a friendly smile. This was a very sexy, confident, handsome man, she thought. Maybe she would amuse herself while she waited for Kathy. Maybe she would toy with fire.

"Oh, yes. I'll have a glass of Chardonnay."

"A glass of Chardonnay. You must be from California," he said, taking the seat beside hers. "A glass of Chardonnay and an Absolut vodka and tonic with a twist of lime," he told the bartender sharply. Then he sat back, the shadows closing in around his face again.

"Thank you," she said. Actually, she had surprised and frightened herself with her impulsive action.

"No problem. You looked kind of lost for a moment, and I thought, there's someone who feels the way I do." He leaned forward again and smiled. "I'm a stranger in these parts," he added.

"Oh." She laughed, a thin, wispy sort of laugh, a laugh she hated because it sounded so forced. "Well, to be perfectly honest, I was indecisive about coming here tonight. Even after I had entered. A friend is meeting me here, and I expected her to be here before me," she added as if that would explain everything—her whole life, why she was alone, why she looked and felt the way she did.

"I'm glad you're meeting a she and not a he," he said with a short, nearly silent laugh. Dirk had that sort of laugh, she recalled, blowing air out of his nostrils.

The bartender brought her glass of Chardonnay and gave him his vodka and tonic. That had been Dirk's drink too, she thought and then chastised herself for finding similarities to Dirk Stoner in the first man she met. It was exactly what everyone thought she might do.

"Why did you say I must be from California?" she asked him. She didn't like the fact that he sat back so that a shadow fell over his face like a mask, hiding his eyes. She always felt at a disadvantage when she couldn't see someone's eyes while he or she spoke to her. Dirk had loved to wear mirrored sunglasses, even at night, she recalled. Probably to hide the lust and evil in him.

"I've been to California, and all the women I met there ordered Chardonnay," he said.

"I'm not a sheep," she replied. "I drink it because I like it, not because everyone else does."

"Whoa," he said. "No offense meant." He leaned forward. There was amused look around his eyes. His nose was too straight to be natural. His lips had a fullness, but there was something vaguely familiar about the way he tucked the right corner into his cheek. "I see you're the sensitive type."

"Not really," she said, sipping her drink and then turning to search the crowd for Kathy. She spotted her coming in and waved.

"Your girlfriend's here?"

"Yes," she said happily.

The music got louder. Kathy came rushing over, laughing, and they hugged. "Sorry, I'm late. I couldn't get a cab."

Her eyes went to Jonathan, who sat there, smiling at her. "Hi," he said. "We were worried about you."

"What?"

Elaine smiled. "I don't even know his name. He just bought me a glass of wine and then insulted me."

"I did not," he protested. "I merely commented that all the women I've met from California drink Chardonnay," he protested, pronouncing it as if it were some special champagne.

Kathy smiled and glanced at Elaine.

"Let me buy you a drink. Chardonnay?"

"No, I drink what they call iced tea."

"Oh, yeah," Jonathan said. "I know what that is." He signaled the bartender.

"So," Kathy said, glancing at Jonathan, "who is this generous man?"

"Yes, who are you?" Elaine asked.

"Jonathan Thomas Lewis," he said, holding out his hand. Elaine shook it and then he offered it to Kathy.

"Is it always this crowded here?" he asked.

"Yes," Kathy said. "Lately. You know how it is when a club becomes the place," she said twisting her shoulders.

"I know," he said.

There was something about the way he tilted his head after he spoke, something about that smirk, that intrigued Elaine. She told herself not to stare and to stop looking for resemblances. Clear your mind. Relax, she coached. Strike up something close to a normal conversation, for God's sake.

"So who are you?" she asked as the bartender brought Kathy her iced tea. "I mean, what do you do beside buy drinks for young women you don't know?"

"I sell sporting equipment. That's why I travel a lot. There's a convention in New York, but I like to get away from business and relax," he explained. He twirled his swizzle stick in his drink and then took it out and licked it.

A chill went down Elaine's spine.

Dirk used to do that—look as if he was making love to the swizzle stick, hold it between his lips, and swing his eyes at her suggestively.

"This afternoon I asked someone where the hottest place in town was, and he told me to come here," Jonathan continued. "I got here only a few minutes before you did," he added as if that was of some significance.

"Is that so?" Elaine turned to Kathy.

"I like what you chose to wear," Kathy said, nodding at what she could see of the black dress under Elaine's coat.

"Thanks. I borrowed it from my sister," she said softly.

Kathy nodded and took off her coat. She wore a skirt that was hemmed about two inches above her knees and a light blue cotton sweater.

The rhythm of the music made the floor vibrate.

"I don't know how anyone thinks in a place like this," Elaine said.

"They don't come here to think," Jonathan said. "They come here to dance and have a good time."

She nodded.

"How about it?" he asked.

"How about what?"

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

"Dance?"

"It does seem to be one of the main activities here," he kidded.

She looked at Kathy.

"Go for it," Kathy said.

Elaine hesitated. Kathy helped her take off her coat.

"I'm not too good," Elaine said.

"That, I can't believe," Jonathan said, sliding off the stool and taking her elbow.

She threw a look of panic back at Kathy, who smiled and then waved to someone she knew.

Elaine let him lead her onto the dance floor. She felt the firmness and confidence in the way he held her. He looked at her, fixing on her eyes with his, and then he started to move. She followed, trying to imitate him and look as good. He was very graceful and sexy, as sexy as . . . She pushed the comparison out of her mind and closed her eyes, letting the music take hold. She was positive she appeared awkward and gangly.

"You're good," he said, leaning toward her. He put his hand on her waist and swung around her, turning them both and urging her to pick up the pace. She began to move in synchronization with him, mirroring his movements, gaining confidence.

She lost track of time and even became oblivious to everyone else around them. Never had dancing been more exciting or had she felt so complete and fulfilled by it. They barely spoke, but she noticed how he never took his eyes off her. It made her self-conscious but also flattered her. After a while she felt as if she had slipped into a warm cocoon, a cocoon he had spun around her with his gaze, his movements, the wet sensuality of his lips.

They returned to the bar a number of times to refresh themselves with new drinks. Kathy had been discovered quickly and was dancing with two men, actually. She waved and smiled.

"Your friend looks as if she enjoys herself," he said at the bar during a break.

"Yes, she's got a wonderfully buoyant personality."

He nodded, looking toward her. Then he scowled. "And you, you're the more serious type, is that it?"

"I suppose I am. Why? Is it written on my face?"

"I'm a good judge of people. Got to be in order to succeed at sales," he said. "That's all right," he added. "Nothing wrong with being serious. I find serious women to be the most interesting anyway."

She smirked. "You're quite a charmer, Mr. Lewis."

"Please, call me Jonathan or just call me," he said.

She smiled. He had all the right lines, just like . . . Never mind, she thought. Stop comparing.

They returned to the dance floor, and as they moved to the music, she suddenly thought how odd it was that he didn't ask any her personal questions. He didn't ask her what she did or where she was from. It was as if. . .as if he knew her. Maybe it was just the way of things today, she thought. People didn't really want to know too much about each other. They were afraid of saying anything that could be construed as serious.

Finally, exhausted but strangely energized, she, Jonathan, Kathy, and a young man from school named Curt Kaplow ended up at a table far enough from the dance floor to be able to hear each other talk. Curt asked Jonathan more questions than Elaine had.

"I guess we can conclude from your accent that you're from New England," Curt said. "Where, exactly?"

"A small town near Boston," he replied quickly, looking down.

"I know the Boston area well," Curt said. "What's the name of the town?"

"You wouldn't know this one. It's just a hole in the wall," Jonathan replied.

"Sure I would. Try me."

Jonathan stared at him. "Philipsport," he said.

"You're right. Never heard of it," Curt said. "Is it east, toward the Cape?"

"It's south," Jonathan said. "Southwest." He turned away, irritated by the questions. Elaine noticed the way his anger brought small patches of whiteness to the corners of his mouth.

She looked at him more closely. His skin was so tight at his jawbone. In the light he occasionally looked almost transparent, his facial bones unnaturally emphatic. His gestures made her strangely uncomfortable—the way he curled his pinky when he put his hands on the table, the way he leaned forward and gazed around. He was fidgety, full of a nervous energy that she suddenly didn't like.

And then she saw it. In the better lighting, just under the strands of hair at the back of his head, that small birthmark, difficult to notice. She was sure she saw it. Or did she? Were the lights and the shadows playing tricks on her twisted imagination?

She looked at Kathy, who saw that she was uncomfortable.

"It's getting late," she said. Kathy nodded.

"How about we all go for coffee someplace?" Jonathan suggested. "My treat."

"No, I can't," Elaine said. "I'm exhausted."

"Where are you staying?" Curt asked him.

"The Waldorf," he replied sharply.

"Can I take you home?" Jonathan asked Elaine. "I'll hail a cab."

"No, that's all right."

"It's no trouble. After all, you've been sweet enough to stick with me through all this rock and roll," he added.

"Rock and roll?" Curt said. He laughed. "I haven't heard anyone call it that for a while."

"I'm just an old-fashion kind of guy," Jonathan said with a cutting edge to his voice.

Elaine's ears perked up. He seemed to lose his accent when he got a little annoyed, she noticed. How strange.

He fixed his gaze on her. "So?" he said. "I'll get a cab."

She looked to Kathy for help.

"No, that's all right," Kathy said. "Elaine and I are going to share a cab."

"Well, I hate to see a beautiful friendship come to so quick an end," he said. "Maybe I can call you tomorrow, take you to dinner?"

"I'm sorry. I'm busy tomorrow," Elaine said. She rose and Curt helped her into her coat. Jonathan sat there looking very displeased. The way he held his jaw put a trickle of tension and fear into her spine. She felt she had to get away.

"I guess I'll leave too," he said.

"I'm going to hang around awhile," Curt said. "Nice meeting you, Jonathan," he added and offered his hand. Jonathan took it and shook quickly, almost letting go as he grasped it. Curt turned to Elaine and raised his eyebrows before heading back to the dance floor.

She and Kathy started out with Jonathan right behind them.

"Sure I can't be permitted to do the chivalrous thing and get you your cab?" he asked Elaine.

"I'm fine. Thanks."

She and Kathy walked out to the corner, and Kathy looked up the street. When Elaine glanced back at him, he looked furious, his eyes so fixed on her that her heart began to thump.

"Well, here's hoping we meet again," Jonathan said. He offered his hand. Elaine reluctantly took it, and he held it tightly. "You did real well, E Lame," he said, and then he let go.

Her blood had turned to stone in her veins.

He didn't look back. He walked up the street quickly.

Kathy hailed a cab. She turned to Elaine as it pulled up. "What?" she said.

Elaine shook her head.

"What?" Kathy asked moving toward her.

"I . . . can't breathe," Elaine said.

THE DRIVER OPENED THE DOOR to Philip Stoner's limousine and Lamar Browne stepped in and sat across from him quickly. The door was closed. For a moment the two men simply contemplated each other.

Browne was twenty-five years younger than Philip if he was a day, but he didn't look that much younger. His dark brown hair was nearly all gray. He was only an inch or so shorter than Philip, but he was much stouter, with a small paunch. His face hadn't aged as well as Philip's either. The lines were cut deeper in Browne's forehead and crow's-feet turned down to reach the crests of his cheeks. His soft aqua-blue eyes were his saving grace, the feature that lent some youth and vigor to his visage.

Few knew who he was or what he did, where he lived or where he went. There wasn't a more secretive man in America.

"This is bad, Philip," Lamar said. "I don't think I have to tell you how bad."

"Your people dropped the ball, Lamar."

"I'm not here to lay blame, Philip, but your people, the amateurs you hired, made a nearly fatal blunder when they disposed of Dirk's nurse, putting her remains on the nearby Indian reservation. We could have told you that would bring in the FBI. Fortunately their investigation was aborted before it went too far, but it led to some exposure and at a bad time.

"As you know we've been under pressure for some time. We haven't had a complete audit of our program by Congress for over twenty years, and the last time a congressional committee charged with oversight had a public hearing on the Federal Witness Protection Program was 1982. Now there's all sorts of clamor.

"The whole program has been under attack by liberals screaming that we're out of control. I've got to contend with people complaining that we're placing criminals in their neighborhoods without informing anyone, even the local police. Imagine what the hell would go on if they found out about this! Things have really gotten out of hand."

"Meaning?"

"We can't bring him back into the program, Philip. I'm sorry. I'll be glad to return as much of the money as you deem proper." Browne gazed out the tinted window.

"I don't want any money returned, and you will bring him back into the program," Philip insisted.

Lamar shook his head. "You don't understand. Doing away with every person who could reveal this wasn't exactly wise, Philip. You nearly established a clear-cut pattern. You didn't tell me about plan B," he added. "If you had and I'd agreed, we might have discussed better methods and avoided such exposure.

"Those were my people. I did with them what had to be done. You had your own people, and they've fucked this up. Not returning him to the program is unacceptable. I expect to hear that you've located him and reestablished him within the next twenty-four hours," Stoner said firmly.

"You're not understanding me, Philip. There have been leaks to Congress from the FBI, who are jealous of our autonomy at the Justice Department Office of Enforcement Operations. It's a sensitive program as it is, striking lucrative deals with known organized criminals. You remember what happened after Marion Puett testified against the killer of his cell mate. After he was relocated he beat his common-law wife to death with a hammer. Members of the House Judiciary Committee wanted to end the entire program."

"I don't need to hear all this bullshit, Lamar. Your problems are your problems. We have a deal, and I don't reneg on deals or let anyone reneg on me."

"I don't have the power to do what you want. If fact, I'm considering retiring."

"Then get the hell out of my car," Stoner said, "so I can talk to the man who does have the power."

Lamar stared at him. "Listen to me, Philip—"

"You're wasting precious time," Philip Stoner said. "I told you I had fears about what his intentions are. While I'm sitting here listening to you moan and groan about your precious program, a greater disaster is taking shape. You won't be able to retire fast enough. And even you, the head of it all, won't be able to hide."

Philip Stoner paused and grimaced at the amazed look on Lamar Browne's face.

"How in hell did you let this happen?" Philip continued in a hoarse whisper. "You've protected and relocated the worst scum in our society successfully, and yet my son . . ." Stoner shook his head. "Get out."

"Listen to me. There's nothing you can do, no one you can call."

Stoner laughed. "There's always someone I can call, Lamar. Even you don't know how far I can reach," he replied, and as if to illustrate his reach, he leaned over and opened the limousine door. "Get out."

Lamar Browne stepped out of the limousine. The driver closed the door. Lamar stood there for a moment and watched the driver get into the front. When the limousine pulled away, he turned to his own car and his own man. "Give me the phone," he snapped. The driver reached in and found the cellular.

Lamar punched the numbers viciously. "As we discussed," he said as soon as the voice on the other end answered, "and as we concluded. It has to be today." He handed the phone to the driver.

Down at the end of the long, beautiful California street, Philip Stoner's limousine turned and was gone, while overhead, a Cessna 182 pulled a streamer advertising suntan lotion with a high UV protection.

Danger was lurking everywhere.

Elaine couldn't get rid of the shakes. Kathy escorted her home and went up to her apartment. She mixed her a strong drink of milk, butter, honey, and bourbon, which her grandmother had taught her and made sure Elaine drank it after she had gotten her to bed.

"I can stay the night," Kathy said.

"This is stupid. I don't need a baby-sitter," Elaine said through her chattering teeth.

"You know as well as I do that you're having a nervous reaction, Elaine. We've got to get you calmed. Come on, finish the drink. My grandmother swears by it. It cures everything from consumption to zits."

Elaine tried to laugh, but produced only a small smile. Then she shook her head. "No one else ever called me E Lame, Kathy. No one. Not even Farah. She knew I was sensitive about it."

"You're letting your imagination go wild. What do you think he is, a ghost, a reincarnation?" she asked. She put the empty glass on the night table and then held Elaine's hand.

Elaine closed her eyes and opened them. "I keep seeing his face, not the face of this . . . this Jonathan Lewis." She sat up. "I see Dirk!"

"Elaine, please. I want you to relax. Come on. Lie back, get some rest," Kathy said, her hands on Elaine's shoulders.

"But his eyes . . . and there were other small things," she said excitedly. "Gestures, movements in his lips, the way he held his head. He's about Dirk's size, you know. And I swear I saw that birthmark under his hair at the back of his head!"

Frustrated, Kathy stood back with her hands on her hips. "Elaine, what are you saying?"

"I don't know what I'm saying," she admitted.

"That's the first sensible thing you've said since we left the club. Close your eyes, meditate, and go to sleep. I'm staying here tonight, no matter how much you protest. I'll sleep on the couch."

"But—"

"It's over and done. We'll shower in the morning. I'll borrow one of your outfits that I've coveted, and we'll eat a great breakfast at the Country Kitchen. In the morning, with your wits back, you'll realize how silly all this was. Okay?"

She sat beside Elaine again and held her hand.

Elaine nodded and lay back. She closed her eyes. "No one else ever called me that," she muttered again. Her lips moved afterward, but she said nothing.

Kathy waited until Elaine's breathing grew lighter and more regular. Then she gently released her grip on Elaine's hand and rose. For a moment she stood there looking down at her, pitying her. She couldn't imagine the trauma of losing a sister under such violent circumstances with the circus that followed, the way it wrenched Elaine's family.

"I wouldn't be much better than you are, buddy," she muttered.

After another moment she went out to the kitchen and poured herself a stiff shot of bourbon. She found one of Elaine's nightgowns, went to the bathroom, and then set up the sofa with a blanket and pillow. Before she lay down, she paused, thinking, recalling the man, his arrogance and his strangeness. Her own imagination began to play games and some paranoia streaked through her heart.

"I'm no more clear-headed than she is," she murmured and went to the window facing the street. She looked down, perusing the sidewalk and the street. Her heart slowed and then began to pound. Wasn't that a man standing in front of the soaped-up storefront window?

She concentrated her gaze. It looked like the silhouette of a male figure just on the rim of the shadow created by the dim streetlight. Suddenly it moved back into the darkness and became indistinguishable.

Maybe all this wasn't just Elaine's imagination. Maybe there was some sort of psycho on her tail. Should she call the police? And tell them what? she wondered. That her girlfriend was spooked by a man at the dance club? That happened almost every night to some girl, but this guy might really be out there. She could tell them Elaine was being stalked. They'd pay some attention to that. She debated and then went to the phone.

She didn't want to call 911. She didn't think it was that kind of an emergency, at least at the moment, but it was impossible to get through to speak to a policeman at the precinct. A dispatcher kept putting her on hold and then transferring her to a detective who never picked up. Finally she dialed 911.

"My girlfriend and I are being stalked," she declared. She described the man at the club and said he was angry that they wouldn't continue the evening with him. "And now he's followed us home and he's lurking outside the apartment. It's frightening."

The dispatcher took down the address and promised to send a patrol car in minutes. Kathy went to the window and looked down, waiting. The patrol car appeared, and its searchlight washed the shadows from the corners and walls, revealing nothing, no one. The patrol car pulled over and parked. Minutes later the phone rang.

"Yes?" she answered. There was a silence. "Yes?"

"Oh, sorry, Miss Du Bois. The officers on the scene report no one loitering near your apartment."

"He was there," she insisted.

"Well, if you are bothered, call us," the dispatcher said.

"If we can," Kathy muttered and cradled the receiver. She returned to the window to watch the patrol car leave. She waited and waited, but the silhouette didn't return. Maybe it was only her imagination. Maybe Elaine had spooked her as well as herself.

"We both need a good night's sleep," she concluded and crawled under the blanket on the sofa. It took longer than she expected, but she finally fell asleep.

Almost as if it actually took its shape from the darkness, Jonathan's silhouette appeared and metamorphosed into his flesh and bones as it crossed out of the rim of the shadows and into the light. He walked down the street, turned the corner, and stopped in a dark entryway to gather his thoughts as his frustration continued to build.

He hadn't expected Kathy to accompany Elaine home and stay there. It messed up his plans. He had zero tolerance these days, no patience. He had exhausted his patience while he was in the slammer and immediately afterward, cooperating with the relocation team. It was time for action, unobstructed action.

The ache moved up his stomach to his chest, crawling like a mole toward his throat to interfere with his breathing. His chest heaved. He had experienced a similar physical reaction when he contemplated Farah seeing other men, defying him, casting him off like a wet paper towel. Everyone had been on her side; everyone had turned against him. To them she was another example of someone victimized by money and fame. No one had seen his suffering. Everyone expected he could buy away any pain.

"Bitch," he said through clenched teeth. He started walking again, and for a while, it was as though nothing had happened. He hadn't yet killed Farah, he hadn't been tried and convicted of the murder, and he hadn't been in prison. None of the aftermath had occurred either. All of it had been a nightmare, an ugly dream.

Now he would do it. He walked faster until some traffic and a red light stopped him and stopped his wild thoughts as well.

Where the hell was he going? He had to get hold of himself, get real.

He relaxed and walked more casually after the light changed, regaining his composure as he went along. Finally he hailed a cab and had himself dropped off at the small, nondescript hotel he had found. They took cash and asked no questions. The city was full of places like this, resorts for nonentities, hovels for the undead. Those who stayed there never let their eyes linger on anyone else. Everyone looked right through everyone else. For the time being, none of them existed.

He liked this place. It made him feel he was in limbo, between one world and another, one life and another, almost the way it had been planned. He would do this one thing, and then he would take the giant step into a new existence.

He entered the small, dimly lit lobby. The place didn't even have a secure front entrance. No one was at the counter, but he heard the sound of a television set in the room just behind it and saw the glow of the screen flickering on the opposite wall. It was a two-flight climb up to his closet of a room that smelled of disinfectant and insect poisons. He would sleep with the window wide open. As he started up, he realized that he was very tired. Perhaps the events of the evening were fortunate, after all. Perhaps he wouldn't have done a good job. He needed to be fresher, more alert.

He pulled himself around the railing on the third-floor landing and paused. He wasn't out of breath. He was in terrific shape. In fact, he couldn't recall being in better shape even when he was on the pro circuit. When you had little to do but exercise, you reaped certain benefits. He recalled some of the other inmates, people who were put into the penitentiary to suffer and age, but who had become like Adonis and Hercules, turning all their energies inward, not only to pass the time but to maintain their dignity and meaning. They were like Tom Sawyers, punished by being made to whitewash fences, only finding a way to enjoy their punishment and therefore defeating the system. He laughed, flexed his muscular arms as he stretched, and then crossed to the door of his room.

It was just a skeleton key lock. The instant he opened the door and entered, he knew they were in there, but like a kid being caught stealing candy, he didn't move; he didn't turn and run. He stood his ground to bluff his way out without turning on the light. The glow from a nearby neon sign advertising Joe Camel flowed through the open window, illuminating the room enough for him to see Phil and Don. Phil sat on the one chair by the small table in front of the window. Don was sprawled on the bed.

"Mr. Lewis," Phil said. "Welcome."

"How the fuck did you guys find me?" Jonathan asked, for the moment actually challenged intellectually by this event. What had he done wrong?

"You know we have our ways, Mr. Lewis," Phil said.

"That's bullshit. I want to know," he insisted as if there were actually rules to obey in this game.

"We knew you weren't going to stay at the Helmsley," Don replied. "Matter of fact, we've put people here ourselves." He laughed. "We didn't think we were going to be this lucky, actually." He turned to Phil. "Did we, Phil?"

"No, we didn't, Mr. Lewis. Thank you. You got us into a pot of boiling oil."

"We have to go back, Mr. Lewis. No one is going to hold you to blame. If you cooperate with us, everything will be fine." Don stood up and moved between Jonathan and the door. Then he nodded at Phil, who rose from the chair.

"Can't do that," Jonathan said and crouched into a linebacker stance. He rushed forward, his arms tucked in, his shoulder up, and caught Phil in the solar plexus, driving him back into the open window with such unexpected force that he started to crash through, but he reached out at the last second to pinch Jonathan's neck between his large palms, the momentum and Phil's strength carrying them both over the windowsill.

They dropped straight down two stories, Jonathan literally riding the big man to the alley pavement. His body served as a cushion for Jonathan, but Phil's head slammed and bounced, shattering his skull.

Jonathan rolled off him and spun to his feet. He looked up at Don, who was pointing a pistol. Don fired just as Jonathan lunged for the wall. The bullet whizzed by and ricocheted off the pavement and into a garbage can. Hovering near the wall, Jonathan moved to the opening of the alley. Don's second and third shots were futile. Jonathan turned the corner and ran, his adrenaline flowing. In seconds he put several blocks between himself and the hotel.

He was actually invigorated by the fight and the flight. Laughter built in his chest and rose to flow out of him like thunder. No one would stop him. No one. Not until he did what he had come to do.

PHILIP STONER'S LIMOUSINE paused at the gate. The rear window opened like a small curtain, revealing Philip's face against the dark background, and the security guard approached. He was in uniform and had his buttercup yellow hair in a military-style haircut. The seams on his blue shirt strained under the bulge of his muscular physique. He was a personal trainer during his spare time and had a California surfer's tan complexion and the electric blue eyes. His name tag simply read Brandon.

"Good evening, Mr. Stoner," he said, pulling his shoulders back. "Everything's quiet, sir," he added as if that were his own doing.

"No visitors?"

"Not a one, sir."

"I want you to be particularly diligent tonight, Brandon. I'm anticipating some problems," Philip said. "Call me with anything that looks suspicious, including automobiles that pass the grounds more than once or that park on the street, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Philip sat back. The window came up, and Brandon returned to his post as the luxurious automobile made its way up the drive. The gate closed behind it. All was quiet.

The house was just as quiet, and tonight it felt more empty than ever.

He had once believed that the whole point to all this, to existence, was the struggle to find meaning and balance, the quest to understand the seemingly incomprehensible. Where meaning was hidden, he had created his own meaning. He had imposed his own structure and beliefs; he had given the universe shape. He had, in effect, become a stand-in for God, creating, destroying, bestowing with the impact of a deity. While people of far lesser means sat in churches and synagogues and prayed for blessings, prayed for hope and opportunity, Philip Stoner moved to the right or to the left on the map of his real estate holdings and created jobs, small business opportunities, and homes; he had an impact on schools and government agencies, made some people wealthy and a number poor. He hovered above it all, not driven by any morality other than what was good for business.

Was he alone now? Was this his reward? What of it? God was alone, wasn't he? To be a creator, a power, meant you had to accept the loneliness, but perhaps it wasn't loneliness so much as it was being exceptional. The tallest tree in the forest stood above the rest and was separate and complete in itself. The need for society, for company was really weakness. It kept you down, made you mediocre, average, one of the crowd. That meant you would be under the influence of someone like him, at his beck and call and at his mercy.

No, he concluded. I am not unhappy. I will make something of my solitude. I will feed on it and grow from it and become even larger, even taller, even more apart from them. There would be no regrets, not in this heart, he pledged. This was especially true tonight. Any failure was the failure of his subordinates, men of smaller vision. He would accept no blame and no defeat. You are never defeated until you accept it, he concluded.

After he entered the house and sifted through his messages, he had Jerome make him a champagne cocktail, and then he waited on the rear patio for his phone call. Like some mythical fisherman, he had cast out his line to hook the largest fish and call in the biggest favors. It was time to collect on his debts, and he had no doubt he would do so.

At the moment, however, he was annoyed with the time all this was taking. He was accustomed to quick reactions to his requests; he was a button pusher, an emperor who merely waved in one direction and parted crowds. How dare they keep him waiting? No matter what they did for him now, he would let them know in clear terms that he was unhappy with the pace of their response.

The wind picked up, a sea breeze that lifted the salty air higher and combed through the palm trees, making the branches rustle. A car horn got caught in it and was carried up to him, the sound like the cry of a dying metallic beast, a primeval animal bleating against the onslaught of time and evolution, wondering why in hell it was ever created if it was meant to be destroyed.

Isn't that the question and the reality that makes this all seem absurd? he thought. Born to die. What's the point? Unless every form of life, even so-called lesser forms, have been given the challenge . . . make yourself immortal. Sure, Philip thought, excited by the concept, this was God's purpose, to see if anything he had created could find the secret of life, the secret of eternal being, his secret. That was what amused God. He was watching, waiting, laughing, and then nodding sometimes and thinking, Mankind, you're getting warmer.

Philip laughed at the ideas. They were interesting, however. Maybe he should spend time writing down his thoughts. Maybe he should publish his theories so they would teach and instruct, so that others would benefit from his wisdom. He would live on in that, wouldn't he? Unlike even the most ordinary parent, he wouldn't live on in his offspring. He accepted that now, but he would find his own avenue to immorality.

He drank another champagne cocktail and ordered his dinner to be served a little later than usual. Alone again, he listened to the wind and watched a dark cloud streak toward the quarter moon, sliding over stars, charging toward it like a missile made of smoke.

About fifteen minutes later Philip saw him before he heard him, maybe because the wind was coming from the opposite direction. His yellow hair gleamed in the darkness as he stepped briskly through the intricate pattern of shadows around the house. Philip rose, put his glass down, and walked to the edge of the patio, where he waited.

Brandon came faster, and when he crossed a valley of light emanating from one of the house windows, Philip saw he had his pistol drawn.

"What's up? Someone on the grounds?" Philip asked quickly.

"Yes, sir."

"I knew it. I just knew it. Where's Jerome? Did you call for backup?"

"No need. I can handle it, sir."

"This is no time for arrogance, Brandon. Caution is not weakness. Where did you see him?" Philip asked, gazing out at the crop of small trees that bordered the western end of his compound.

"The mirror, sir."

"What? The mirror? What the hell are you talking about, Brandon?"

"I saw him in the mirror," Brandon said with a small, wry smile. He lifted the pistol and fired point-blank into Philip's chest, the impact of the thirty-eight exploding his breastbone and splattering his heart as he was lifted off the patio floor and thrown back against the lounge chair, bleeding and dying in the darkness of his precious solitude.

Brandon hurried back to the security booth at the gate. The phone was ringing. Stoner's servants had heard the shot and found him on the patio. The butler was hysterical.

"He's dead! I think Mr. Stoner is dead!"

"Calm down. I'm coming up there to check it out right now." Then he made his phone call.

He was told how to get rid of the gun they had given him and what to say when the police arrived.

"I understand," he said. His chest bulged with his excitement as he charged out of the booth and up the driveway.

He had just earned more money than he would have made in ten years, and he had done it in seconds.

Kathy said nothing to Elaine about what she thought she had seen and what she had done the night before. Instead, she proposed they do everything she had suggested. Elaine woke with a small headache, and Kathy made her another one of her grandmother's concoctions. Maybe it was just psychological suggestion, but it seemed to work. Her energy returned, and with Kathy bubbling around her, choosing things to wear, talking about breakfast, and enjoying the day, Elaine lost the black cloud that had taken shape in her thoughts. Neither of them mentioned Jonathan Lewis. It was as if the encounter had never happened.

The two burst out of the apartment building into the sunshine, laughing, arm in arm, bouncing like teenagers with a carefree air envied by adults. They had breakfast at the Country Kitchen as planned, met some of their friends from school, chatted, went window-shopping and then on a spending spree at Lord and Taylor. Afterward they found a small restaurant with outdoor seating and had salad, coffee, and shared a chocolate croissant.

It turned out to be a perfect day, neither of them saying anything heavy, both doing a lot of giggling and fantasizing.

"Do you feel sufficiently guilty about not doing any work yet?" Kathy asked.

"Work? What work?" Elaine replied.

Their laughter was as smooth as velvet, joyful, flowing, keeping them walking on air.

Kathy proposed an early movie, and Elaine agreed, light-headed and drunk on procrastination. Behind it all, unspoken, not even suggested, was Elaine's deeply gnawing fear of thinking, of remembering. As long as she and Kathy kept moving, kept themselves occupied, the nightmare never had a chance to formulate. In the back of her mind was the realization, however, that later there would be hell to pay.

The movie, although light and funny, exhausted them both. Neither was terribly hungry yet.

"I'll just make myself a sandwich at home," Elaine said.

Kathy nodded. They lingered on a corner, watching the people and the traffic. "Are you going to be all right?" she finally asked.

"Yes," Elaine said. "I am. Thanks for everything, Kathy. I know what you were doing for me."

"What do you mean, for you? I was doing it for me too," she protested. Elaine smiled. "I mean it, Elaine. Your being upset was upsetting to me. If you have any problems, even a shudder, I want you to call me. Promise?"

"Okay, I promise," Elaine said.

They hugged and hailed cabs. Elaine's came first. "I'll call you later," she said and got into the cab and went home.

When she entered the apartment house, she practically ran up the stairway, not looking down or to the sides. After she stepped through her door, she leaned against it, closed her eyes, caught her breath, and gazed around. The small place looked even smaller, darker. Her heart pounded.

"This is stupid. Get ahold of yourself, Doctor," she muttered and went to the bedroom. As she passed through the kitchen, she noticed that her answering machine was blinking. There were two messages.

Her finger hovered over the button. It was as if she thought it would burn her. Her heartbeat quickened even more, and the back of her neck began to feel clammy. She pushed the button, the tape rewound and then played after a beep.

"This is Lieutenant Marcus just following up your 911 call last night to be sure all is well. You can reach me at 555-2121 between five and eleven if you have any problems."

"Huh?" she said.

The second message started. It was her mother calling from Jamaica, telling her they would be in New York tomorrow. They would call from the hotel about meeting her for dinner. She hoped all was well.

The machine went dead.

She lingered and then picked up the receiver and called Kathy to ask about the police.

"I didn't say anything about calling them because I realized it was just my imagination, Elaine. Gosh, I thought the police were supposed to be uncaring. Who ever imagined they would follow up?"

"What did you see exactly?"

"I thought I saw someone hovering on the street below your apartment. You had me spooked so I called for a patrol car. I actually watched them search and there was absolutely no sign of anyone. I felt stupid, and now I feel guilty. You're going to have another bad night."

"No, I'm not."

"I can be there in twenty minutes," Kathy said.

"I'm fine, really. I'll be all right. I've got to work through this myself. I'm sure it was just a mistake. Maybe I imagined what he said. You've been telling me all these months that I see demons in every man who shows the slightest interest in me."

"It's true," Kathy said. "I'm not a psychiatrist, but. . ."

"Some things are as clear as the hair on your teeth," Elaine said, imitating Professor Engleman.

Kathy laughed. "All right. You know where I am if you need me."

"My parents are flying in tomorrow. I'll be meeting them for dinner tomorrow night."

"Great," Kathy said.

"Would you like to join us?"

"Maybe you should have the first night alone with them, Elaine. I know you don't see them often enough," Kathy said wisely.

"You're going to make a helluva doctor someday, Dr. Du Bois. You've got that rare quality called compassion."

"Have a good night, yes," she said reverting to her Cajun syntax and lilt.

"Thanks," Elaine said.

Just talking with Kathy had made her feel better. She changed into something comfortable, made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cup of tea, and watched some television. Later, before she went to bed, almost as if she were being drawn magnetically, she went to the window in the living room and looked down at the dark street. She searched each and every shadow, but saw nothing suspicious.

He was gone, she concluded. As quickly as he had come into her life, he was gone from it.

It was time to return to work, return to her purpose, return to forgetting the painful past.

"Jesus Christ," Harry said moments after he fastened his seat belt and sat back to wait for takeoff. "Look at this."

He held the newspaper up for Lil. She perused the headlines on the second page and shook her head. "What's it say?" she asked.

"I don't know. I just saw the headline," he said and started to read. "His security guard found him dead on the patio at approximately eight forty-five last night. He was shot at point-blank range with a thirty-eight. The rest is just a recap about who he was, and then there's a rehashing of Farah's murder," he added, perusing the page where the story was continued.

He put the paper in his lap and turned to Lil. "Philip Stoner, murdered," he said.

"You told me yourself, Harry, the man made a lot of enemies in building that empire," Lil said.

Harry nodded and looked at the picture of Stoner. "Funny, I don't feel sorry for him as much as I feel. . ."

"What?"

"Disappointed. I wanted more. I wanted him to come to me someday and admit that he was at fault, that I was the one . . . that you and I were the ones who had suffered the greater loss. When he came to my office that day and told me we had both lost, I thought, How dare you? How dare you equate your son with my daughter? Dirk couldn't stand up to Farah's shadow," he said.

"It's almost like a Greek tragedy," Lil said. "Such a powerful, wealthy, famous family . . ."

"You forgot evil, such a powerful, wealthy, evil famous family," Harry said. "Well. . . I guess it is time to move on now."

"It is, Harry," she said, putting her hand on his. "It is."

He nodded, gazed at the article again, shook his head, and sat back for the flight to New York.

Nevertheless, almost as soon as they established themselves in the hotel, Harry went to the television set to catch a news report. Philip Stoner's murder was the lead story.

"Police have no real leads," said the reporter. "The security guard saw nothing suspicious, but Mr. Stoner's secretary revealed that he often received death threats and occasionally got threatening mail, especially after the trial of his son."

They flashed Dirk's picture on the screen and began a short recap of the trial and aftermath.

"Turn that off, Harry!" Lil cried, coming out of the bathroom. He practically lunged for the set and snapped it off.

"Sorry," he said. "Curiosity got to me."

"Don't let this dominate the conversation at dinner, Harry," she warned.

"I won't," he promised.

However, when Lil called Elaine it was almost the first thing out of her mouth.

"We read about it on the plane, honey. We'd rather not talk about it. Let's just catch up at a nice dinner. Where would you like to go?"

Elaine had no preferences, but Harry remembered an Italian restaurant at Thirty-eighth and Third Avenue that he always enjoyed.

"Oh, yes, I know the place. I'll meet you there," Elaine said. "Did you call Uncle Louis and Aunt Carol yet?"

"We were about to, but we wanted to see you alone," Lil said. "Later, another night, we can all meet for dinner."

"Okay, Mom."

"Are you all right?" she asked. Maybe there was something to the idea that a woman instinctively sensed a problem in one of her children. It had always been a bit harder with Elaine because she often became distracted by her thoughts and ideas, and what looked like distress was usually simple pensive-ness. The hesitation in her voice tonight was no different.

Harry, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation while he shaved, perked up and listened.

"What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine, Mom."

"You're not in the middle of dissecting something disgusting, are you, Elaine?"

Elaine laughed. "No, Mom. I was just finishing a report. I'm fine and looking forward to seeing you guys. I bet you got terrific tans, huh?"

"If I must say so myself, yes," Lil replied and Elaine smiled to herself.

How much she had missed her parents, she thought, and how foolish she was to deny it, even to herself—especially to herself. She would become a doctor, maybe even a well-known and highly respected specialist, but she would always be Harry and Lil Ross's little girl.

"Where's Dad?" she asked softly.

"Right here. Harry?"

He was leaning out the bathroom door. He widened his eyes and then, still with shaving cream on his face, hurried to the phone.

"Hey, how's the doctor?" he asked.

"I'm okay, Dad," she said. He too heard something different in her voice, something that threw him back years, to when she was just a little girl and still looked to him when she was sad or afraid or hurt. "Did you guys have a good time?"

"Terrific," he said. "We're thinking we might get married," he added and she laughed, but it was a laugh that sounded as if it had turned to a sob at the end. "You didn't get a B or anything silly like that, did you?"

"No, Dad. I'm still Straight-A Ross."

"That's my genius," he said. "You know, I got A's once. In the Boy Scouts for tying knots," he said and she laughed again. "Italian all right with you, then?"

"Fine."

"See you soon, Doc," he said and handed Lil the phone.

They exchanged a knowing look, and he returned to the bathroom. After she hung up, she came to the door and looked in at him as he splattered aftershave on his face.

"She makes it so hard on herself, being such a loner," Lil said.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Harry."

"She'll find Mr. Right. Stop worrying," he said.

She just looked at him for a moment. "Talk about good things only, Harry," she warned. "I don't want to revisit tragedy tonight."

"I understand," he said and nodded his promise, but he couldn't help thinking about Philip Stoner and the irony of his meeting such a violent end.

Somehow he thought—or rather he feared—that Stoner's death had something to do with him.

HE HEARD ABOUT HIS FATHER'S murder while he was eating breakfast in a coffee shop on the Lower East Side. They had a television set behind the counter. He almost missed the news report because he was still quite drowsy, only half awake after a bad night trying to sleep in another fleabag hotel. He kept waking, thinking they might find him again. He had become neurotic about their ability to track him down. It was as if every homeless man and woman was on the lookout for him, every cop was on the take, every hotel employee, store clerk, even the elderly waitress who served him his scrambled eggs had been given his description. "If you see him," they had been told, "just call us." He dreamed of eyes everywhere, people looking out of their apartment windows, some searching with binoculars provided by the organization. He envisioned mobs of people walking the streets, looking down alleys and behind buildings, vampires thirsting for information about his whereabouts. The whole

underworld was after him. He didn't have a chance in hell.

First thing he did after he woke was rent a van. If he had to remain in New York another night, he thought he'd be better off sleeping in it. He would park it legally on the street not far from Bellevue, find a dark corner, quiet, away from heavy traffic and crowds of people.

As soon as he had rented it, he drove down a fairly dead side street, parked, and used a dime to unscrew the license plates. Then he slunk along the streets until he found a parked car in deep enough shadows. He took off the license plates and replaced them with the van's. He brought the car's plates back to the van and put them on. He had seen that done in a movie once and thought it might just throw them off long enough for him to get out of the city.

He got back into the van and drove until he had located this hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He washed up in the bathroom, came out, and ordered breakfast. Barely keeping his eyes open, he sipped his coffee and then perked up when he heard, "Billionaire Philip Stoner was shot and killed last night at his Palos Verdes home in California."

There was no doubt in his mind who had committed the murder. Harry Ross had gotten some revenge, he thought. The man was relentless. He might even find me out someday, he thought. Well, he would surprise them. He would go after them first. He had begun and he would continue until he was free and safe.

For a moment, only a moment, he wondered why he didn't feel any great sadness about his father's death. The man had done all he could for him, and for a while the two of them had enjoyed his celebrity. He used to think the old man was really proud of him, but then his father became his biggest critic, threatening to cut him off from the fountain of wealth if he didn't change his degenerate ways.

Maybe half of the things he had done, he had done in defiance of his father. Maybe he had hated him from the start. His death will have little impact on my life, Dirk thought. Thanks to Dad's forethought, the money was secure, and he had little interest in his father's real estate empire. Let the lawyers and relatives fight over everything. They'll be coming out of the woodwork like termites.

He tried to recall some warm moment, think of some smile or loving words, but his memory seemed to be caught in a circle these days. He could go back only to his escape from death and review the events that had transpired since. It was truly as if he had died and all that had occurred before was lost like some computer memory bank that went down with its hard drive after an electrical surge.

After he heard the news, however, he lost his appetite. He pushed his eggs away and just sipped his coffee, vaguely listening to the details of the story and then smiling with interest at the picture of his former self when it was flashed on the screen and the trial was resurrected. It was like looking at and listening to the story of a different person.

Afterward he took up a position of observation near Elaine Ross's apartment house and watched her comings and goings. He followed her and Kathy around the city, remaining far enough away to keep from being discovered. When they went to the movies, he went too and sat all the way in the rear. Before the picture ended, he got up and left and watched for them. He saw Kathy and Elaine split up, and he followed Elaine home, but he didn't move on her. He wasn't ready.

When she emerged early in the evening, got into a cab, and went to the restaurant, he was right behind her. He parked a half block away and watched Harry and Lil Ross arrive. Of course that surprised him. He saw them all meet, embrace, kiss, and go inside, and then he went to a sandwich shop and bought himself a ham and cheese on roll with a can of beer. He sat and ate and watched the restaurant, and then a strange thing began to happen to him: he became confused.

He was doing now what he had done to Farah. After their separation, when she became adamant that there would be no reconciliation, he had begun to stalk her like this, follow her everywhere, spend all of his free time watching and observing her. Occasionally she had spotted him. He'd seen the fear on her face, and he had smiled and retreated. Once, a male friend of hers had called him and asked him on Farah's behalf to stop. He'd even threatened to go to the police and then to the newspapers.

"Go on," Dirk had told him. "Go to the police. Go to the newspapers, and then go to hell. Don't threaten me, you little bastard. I know what's going on here. Watch your back, big shot."

He must have scared the shit out of the guy because he never called again and he stopped seeing Farah. Maybe her self-anointed protector wanted to go to the police after speaking to him, but Farah stopped him and he thought why should I bother, then, if you don't?

Long ago Dirk had stopped trying to understand Farah. She hated him and yet she loved him; she wanted him to stay away and yet she wanted him to come back. He remained forbidden fruit, but she couldn't let go of the glitz and glamour she had enjoyed at his side. It would have remained that way, too, he thought. She would have come back; there would have been a reconciliation, if it hadn't been for her family. He was sure of that. They made her stubborn; they made her resist, and this after all he and his father had done for them, too, he thought. Ungrateful bastards.

Now here they were again, he mused, coming to see her, giving her advice, supporting her resistance. She was probably in there expressing her desire to forgive him, and they were absolutely forbidding her to do so. She had always forgiven him before. This had to be their fault. It had—

He blinked, the anger clouding his eyes for a moment. Then he thought, No, that's not Farah; that's Elaine.

He looked around as if he had just realized where he was. He was in New York and not in California. And he wasn't Dirk Stoner anymore. He was Jonathan Thomas Lewis. Dirk was dead and gone. He got back into the van. It was time to start over, build a new life with a new love.

Elaine.

My new love.

He crushed the beer can in his hand and heaved it into the back of the van, waiting, impatient, but in control. No mistakes, he told himself. This time, no mistakes.

He made his eyes small and rested his forehead against the window. His jaw hung open, his tongue flat and pale. He was so still that anyone passing who saw him would have thought he was dead.

"I have friends," Elaine said in a far more defensive tone than she had intended. "It's just that a social life isn't a priority for me right now, Mom." She paused and sipped some Merlot. "You guys have no idea how much work there is. Medical students get to a point where they need only four hours of sleep."

"No wonder most of the doctors I know look unhealthy," Harry quipped. "All right, leave her alone. Stop the cross-examination, Mrs. Prosecutor," he told Lil.

"Me?" Lil pressed her right palm against her breastbone and sat up, her eyes wide. "Mr. Worrywart accuses me of being a prosecutor?"

"Just stop, both of you," Elaine said. The waiter brought their salads. She waited for him to leave. Her parents stared at her, startled by her outburst. She spoke in a calmer voice. "I need some space, some breathing room. I know we're meant to go two by two through this journey called life, but I have to do what I have to do first."

Lil and Harry looked at each other and started eating.

"Tell me about your vacation," Elaine said.

As Lil described the hotel, the grounds, the reggae music, and the shopping, Harry studied his younger daughter. He saw the way her eyes wandered, her gaze going to the restaurant windows and door too often to be meaningless. He said nothing; he asked no questions.

Their conversation over the entrees moved to her work, her next vacation, what they would do when she returned to California.

"I'm not looking forward to meeting my old friends back there," she admitted. "Everyone will try to be casual, but I'll see the questions and the thoughts in their eyes: How am I doing? How am I coping? How is my family coping? I'd rather be someplace where no one knows me, knows us."

Lil nodded. "I understand," she said. "I feel it every time we have a new client. I see it in their eyes, but if we don't face it and get through it, it will always be there, Elaine."

They ate. Elaine hated herself for being the one to bring up these topics, but they boiled at the surface. It was truly impossible to keep the lid down.

"What do you think of Philip Stoner's being murdered, Dad?" she finally asked. The story lingered in the air around them, impossible to ignore. It was headlined in newspapers and one of the lead stories on television.

"Not too long ago, he came to see your father," Lil said.

"Oh? Why?"

"He . . . was trying to get me to see that he had lost just as dearly as he had. I wouldn't accept his theory, and he left."

"Strange thing for him to do," Elaine said. "I never thought of that man as having a conscience."

"He doesn't. Didn't," Harry corrected himself. "I'm sure he was killed by someone he had hurt badly. The police are probably going crazy. They must have a list of suspects that stretches from Santa Monica to Palm Springs."

"No one has called you about it?" Elaine asked.

"Me? Why in hell would they call me?" He looked at Lil.

"There's not exactly any love lost between you two, Harry. That's what Elaine means."

He thought a moment. "Well, I'm glad we were on vacation, then. I'd hate to have to prove I didn't kill the bastard. Someone once asked me how I felt about him since the trial and aftermath, and I remember saying, as Mark Twain once commented, 'I'd put aside all other forms of recreation and go to his funeral.'" He started to smile and then just ate.

Elaine's eyes went to the door when a man entered. Harry watched how she followed him across the restaurant to his table and then went back to her food. He sensed how conscious she was of everyone around them.

After they had eaten and left the restaurant, they made plans for dinner with Lil's brother and sister-in-law. Harry hailed a cab for Elaine first. Lil hugged and kissed her, and then Harry hugged her and helped her into the cab. He leaned in after her.

"Your mother's going to spend time with Aunt Carol tomorrow, shoplifting in all the department stores," he said with a smile. "You got any free time during the day?"

She stared at him. She had never expected he would want to see her alone.

"Just lunch, Dad, about one at the school."

"I'll meet you there."

"I'll wait for you on the front steps, but I have only an hour."

"Good," he said and leaned in to kiss her again.

She smiled and watched him back out and close the door. He hailed another cab as she was driven off.

When Elaine stepped through her apartment door, she closed and double-locked it quickly. All the references to Farah's death and Philip Stoner's murder had stirred up her nerves again, and memories of Jonathan Lewis had returned. She hurried across the living room, not turning on any lights, and gazed down at the street. It was a little busier than usual, with pedestrians crossing, hurrying along the sidewalks, parking cars. It was simply too early to see anything suspicious, she thought, and besides, who wanted to?

She didn't go right to sleep. She knew she would toss and turn if she did, so she cracked open a textbook and started on a project that wasn't due for another two weeks. It was in her nature to be ahead of schedule all the time anyway. She felt less anxiety knowing she could do nothing for five or six days and still not be in trouble. Occasionally her eyes drifted to a framed picture. It was a photo she loved of Farah, taken when she was vacationing with Dirk at his father's cabin in upstate New York. How fresh and happy she looked. Did she ever have even an inkling of what was in store for her? Who could?

Elaine worked until her eyelids did that old slam-shut thing, and then she went to the kitchen and drank some milk. She paused at the front door to check the locks. There was one chain lock and one dead bolt. An intruder would have to smash in the door, she thought.

Remembering what Kathy had seen, she was tempted to go to the living room window again and gaze at the street, but she resisted.

If I do that, she thought, I'll stay there until I do imagine something, and then I surely won't sleep. She went to bed, turned off the light, and embraced the pillow. It was comfortable. Her parents were here, close by. She felt safer than usual.

And she had a lot to do tomorrow. Only vaguely did she wonder why her father has asked to see her.

Sometime during the night she woke. She thought she heard footsteps. She listened, her heart pounding, and then she sat up and gazed into the darkness of her apartment. Was it her imagination or was someone standing just outside her door? She listened and then slowly rose and walked softly across the apartment to the door. It was quiet, very quiet.

Only my imagination, she thought. She breathed relief and went back to bed, but she couldn't fall back to sleep. She blamed herself for being stupid, and her anger kept her awake. Tomorrow night, she vowed, she would take a sleeping tablet, or at least another glass of Kathy Du Bois's grandmother's panacea.

He didn't really think he could simply walk up the stairs and work open her apartment door. He did think briefly about going up the fire escape and trying a window, but he rejected that as well. There was no point in taking any great risk. This was going to be easy when he was ready. However, he couldn't help himself. He had to enter the apartment building, go to her door, and actually try the knob. It was dead quiet in the hallway, with not very much light coming from the small bulbs in the ceiling. He slipped his credit card between the jamb and the lock tooth. He worked that back, but there were obviously other locks on the door.

"Aren't you the careful one?" he muttered. "Your sister wasn't so careful. She left her door unlocked. She was expecting me. To this day, I believe that," he said.

He stood there talking softly to the closed door as if Elaine had opened it and was looking out at him.

"She teased me, you know. She was always doing that. She knew I was there; she knew I had entered, but she kept talking on the phone, talking to some new boyfriend—or at least that was what she wanted me to think."

He paused and looked down the hallway toward the stairs. The shadows were playing tricks on him. They looked like bougainvillea bushes, like the ones behind Farah's apartment. He reached into his pocket as if he expected the sharpened screwdriver to be there. For a moment he thought he felt it in his fingers.

"Screw me?" he muttered. "We'll see who screws who."

He actually stepped forward so that his face was only an inch or so from the door. Then he pressed his lips to it and put his forehead against it and listened. He thought he could hear her breathing, lying in her bed and breathing. He envisioned her softness, her silk skin, her warm places and he longed for them. He brought his hands to the door and pressed his fingers hard so that they looked like spiders.

He had no idea how long he stood there, but he finally did hear something, footsteps on the other side. He held his breath and waited. There was no peephole, so she couldn't see him. He saw the doorknob being turned, the locks being tested. She was just on the other side, only inches from him. He wanted to scream, but he subdued the urge and held his breath. Moments later she retreated and all was silent. He waited a long while before stepping back, and then he quietly returned to the stairway and went down, the steps betraying him with their creaks.

When he walked out the front door, he looked around before he crossed the street. Then, keeping to the shadows, he made his way back to the van, got in, and drove to the area near Bellevue, as he had planned, to find a safe haven before curling up into the fetal position in the rear and dreaming of the demon search parties shining flashlights, knocking on doors, peering through windows, looking for him.

He was in worse shape than ever the next morning. He hadn't shaved for days now, and he had been sleeping in the same clothes for just as long. His appearance didn't bother him. His vanity, which had always been one of his chief characteristics, had burrowed deep into his flesh to curl up in his heart. Pride had become an ache, an ever-present gnawing beast urging him on past exhaustion, past hunger, past any hesitation. There was no risk greater than the risk of failing at this pursuit.

They had changed his face, worked on changing his voice, begun preparations to give him a whole new life, but the man inside couldn't be subdued. The driving force that had taken him to Farah's back patio door that night was alive and well and raging once again. It resurrected old feelings with him and old pains as well. He had turned back time.

He had to have her again and make her admit that she loved him. Then and only then could he put aside the past and look to the future. Why didn't those fools see this? All those supposed experts?

The dead aren't buried until they're buried in your heart, he thought. I'm the only undertaker.

He checked the street and was encouraged by the apparent absence of anyone or anything suspicious. They had failed to find him. He was better than they were. Perhaps they had decided to give up. Now that his father was dead, why should they care? They had no one in power to whom they had to answer.

He laughed. "You did me a favor, you dumb bastard. When you killed dear old dad, you probably got them off my back."

He started the engine and drove off to get something to eat. He was very hungry, and he needed his strength.

Today . . . today was the day he would begin to bury the past that had tried to bury him.

Harry arrived at the school early. It surprised Elaine but also made her happy.

"Did you tell Mom you were meeting me?" she asked him after they hugged.

"No. She thinks I'm going to see Charley Mallen over at A. G. Edwards to talk about investments," he replied. "I thought you and I would have a really private get-together. Where's lunch?" he asked.

"There's a small deli over there." She nodded across the street.

"You look tired," he said as they walked. He held her elbow, and then she threaded her arm through his.

"I stayed up too late last night working on something. I wanted to get tired so I would sleep well."

"You don't sleep well either, huh?" he asked. Before she could respond, they had to cross the street and watch the traffic. They hurried, went into the restaurant, and found a booth near the window that looked back at the school. The waitress gave them menus.

"A real New York deli corned beef sandwich," Harry said. "I haven't had one in years. With celery tonic. How's that?"

"Very New York," Elaine said, smiling. She ordered the chicken salad platter and iced tea.

"So?" Harry said.

"What?"

"You have trouble sleeping?"

"Sometimes."

He nodded.

"I'm doing better," she said. "How about you?"

"I am and I'm not," he admitted. "Look," he said, pulling himself in and sitting up straighter, "I haven't been as much of a father to you as I should have been, as I should be," he continued, "but—"

"That's not true, Dad. Don't start blaming yourself for things. Your response has been classic."

"I know," he said, raising his eyebrows. "I've been to your mother's therapist, remember?"

She smiled. "Therapists can help."

"Yeah, but you got to want the help, and I haven't wanted it," he confessed. Now she raised her eyebrows. "But that's a whole other discussion, Elaine. What I meant to say is that I haven't been as close to you as I should have been, but that doesn't mean I don't have that extra sense about you that a parent has about his child. I know, I know," he said, raising his palm, "that sounds like hocus-pocus to a medical student, but—"

"It doesn't, Dad. It has validity."

"Validity? I like that, validity. Anyway, I got some negative vibes last night at dinner. You're not just overworked, Elaine. Something else is bothering you. You didn't tell your mother anything, so I don't know why you would tell me, but I'm asking you to tell me as a favor to me."

She started to smile.

"No matter what that therapist told me, Elaine; no matter what rationale she uses or theory she imposes, I still have to accept some blame. I didn't listen to what Farah had been telling me; I didn't pay attention. I didn't hear the cry for help because I wanted it not to be true." He sighed deeply.

The waitress brought their drinks.

"I don't want to make the same mistake with you. That's it. That's my whole story. So if you have any sympathy for me, you'll tell me your troubles."

She started to laugh and then reached out to touch his hand. "Dad."

"I can't help it," he said. "I'm afraid for you "

Her smile faded. "Why?"

"Just a father's paranoia, maybe. Or maybe, because of what happened, it's natural to be timid and terrified."

The waitress brought their food. Elaine didn't lift her fork. She stared down. "I'm the one who's going to sound paranoid," she said.

Harry took a deep breath. "Let me please be the judge of that."

"You won't tell Mommy any of this?"

He smiled. "Used to be you girls always asked Mommy not to tell me." He raised his hand. "Real estate agent's word of honor."

After a moment of hesitation, she began. "A couple of nights ago I agreed to go to this dance club with Kathy Du Bois. I got there a little early, and when I went to the bar, this man came up behind me. . ."

ELAINE WAS SORRY SHE HAD TOLD her father the story even before she was finished telling it. The changes that came into his face, the look in his eyes, the way his lips whitened, and the speed with which the blood came to his cheeks actually frightened her more than her nightmares. He looked as if he was going to have trouble breathing.

"Dad, are you okay?" she said when she concluded and he simply sat there staring at her. She reached for his hand. It felt clammy, cold.

"I'm all right," he said. He sucked in his breath and relaxed his shoulders. "Really. I'm fine. Has this man bothered you since?"

"No, I haven't seen or heard from him. I'm sure it was just a stupid little event involving my overworked imagination and it's over, but it disturbed me at the time, and I can't help thinking about it once in a while." She smiled. "I guess I'm not as good at hiding my feelings as I thought. At least, from you."

"It's not a stupid little event, Elaine. The birth mark . . ."

"As I said, it might just have been the lighting, my imagination . . ."

"But his calling you E Lame . . ."

"I might have imagined that too," she said weakly. "I mean, really, Dad, what else could it be?"

Harry stared, but she could almost see through his eyes, see his own imagination churning out the fantastic possibilities.

"It would have had to have been a ghost, Dad," she offered.

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe. Describe this guy to me in a little more detail," he continued. "You said there were other similarities that disturbed you. Exactly what besides the birth mark and him calling you that stupid nickname?"

She talked about his gestures, his ordering Dirk's drink, licking the swizzle stick the way Dirk always did, his laugh. She paused. "Kathy says my problem is that I see Dirk the demon in every man I meet these days. She might be right about that. Maybe I should have spent some time with Mom's therapist too."

Harry nodded, leaning in toward her to whisper. "Yet you found it odd that he didn't ask you many personal questions. You had the feeling he already knew all the answers. That suggests someone who has known you or someone who has been studying you for a while."

"You sound like a detective, Dad."

He smiled. "I guess I've become a bit of a detective these days, but you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to be suspicious of someone who's cagey about where he came from, someone whose accent sounds phony. . . Anyway, I can understand your anxiety, honey. I don't like this situation. There is so much insanity out there." He snapped out of his thoughts and looked at her. "And this is why you've been having trouble sleeping?"

"Yes," she admitted. "However, it's over, and I'll be fine now. I'm back to work. It was just weird."

"I'll say." He thought for a moment. "You better start eating," he said nodding at her food.

He looked at his sandwich. All of a sudden the sandwich appeared far too big. His appetite had shrunken dramatically in seconds. Nevertheless, realizing how important it was to put on a good show for Elaine, he took a large bite and smiled as he chewed.

"I really miss this kind of food. You know how it is being a Californian. Your mother looks under the sofa for fat these days."

Elaine laughed and ate. Color became more balanced in her father's face. Maybe it had been a good idea to get all this out after all, she thought. Maybe it had always been her and not her father who had prevented the tête-à-têtes. She had never given him a chance to be her father.

"First," he said between bites, "I still want you to report all this to the police. I want you to go to the precinct and talk with a detective. There are a lot of kooks out there and you could have run into one, or he could have deliberately stalked you," he said and immediately regretted his use of the word "stalk."

"You really think that's necessary?"

"Absolutely, Elaine. Absolutely. You want to be on record so that if this clown turns up again, God forbid, you won't have to go through a complex explanation. You'll be on record and the police will react faster. Promise me you'll do that."

"Okay, Dad. I'll do it," she said.

"I want you to become more aware of your surroundings. Avoid being alone as much as possible too."

"Dad . . ."

"Caution is called for now. Trust is what makes people victims," he added. "Trust and innocence."

His face clouded over with memory for a moment, and then he blinked and returned to his sandwich. They both ate silently. The din in the restaurant was crowded out by his own frantic deliberations. Philip Stoner was murdered, and now this, he thought.

Elaine saw the intensity in his face and put her hand over his.

"Don't make me regret telling you, Dad. The incident is over. I'm all right. Really."

"Okay. We won't, as I promised, bring your mother into this as long as you keep close contact with me, at least for a while," he added.

"I want to keep close contact with you forever, Dad," she said.

Tears came to Harry's eyes. His throat closed a bit, and he coughed. "I can't finish this," he said. "I'm out of shape when it comes to eating a New York deli sandwich."

Elaine laughed.

"If you think of anything else, no matter how insignificant it might seem, I want you to promise you'll tell me, Elaine. Okay?"

She nodded.

"And go to the police."

The waitress approached to see if they wanted anything else.

"I've got to get back," Elaine said. "I have an experiment to complete."

"No problem. I'm fine."

"If you want to stay and have coffee . . ."

"Maybe I will," he said and looked up at the waitress. "I'll have a cup."

Elaine rose. "Thanks for lunch. I'll meet you and Mom at the hotel at seven."

"Okay," he said. "Bring earplugs. You know how that side of the family can be when they get together," he warned.

She laughed, leaned down, and kissed him on the cheek before turning to walk out.

Harry touched his face. She never used to do that, he realized as he watched her leave. She was suddenly his little girl again.

She's scared; she's really scared, he decided.

And so am I.

He almost didn't spot Harry Ross standing there, waiting for his daughter on the steps of the college building. In fact, he nearly walked right past him. When he realized it was Harry, he hesitated and then wondered what would happen if he did. Would Harry recognize him? He decided to see.

This was fun; it was like being invisible. Harry glanced at him, but only for a second, not even long enough to register a look. He deliberately walked so close that Harry could see the color of his eyes, but the one man who should have known him better than anyone else, the one man who should have seen him in his nightmares, never registered the slightest sign of recognition or familiarity. Harry looked through him with the same blank stare most urban people wore when they looked at other pedestrians.

Harry's mind was obviously on other things, Dirk thought. Had Elaine told her father about meeting him at the dance club? What if she had? What would he do? Would he pull her out of New York? Not likely. He couldn't hire a bodyguard to be with her twenty-four hours a day. He wouldn't be able to get the police to do much. No, all Harry could do was worry. The stress would affect his work, his sleep, his marriage, and his health.

Dirk discovered he enjoyed imposing turmoil on Harry and his family. Look at what they had imposed on him. Look at all his sleepless nights.

No man hated him more than Harry Ross hated him. If Harry Ross could see him die every day for the rest of his life, he would be grateful. He'd love to kill me repeatedly, Dirk thought. He wears vengeance like a big red birthmark on his forehead. Maybe he'd carved a v in his chest.

How do you contemplate another human being who hates your every breath? He recalled the way Harry had looked at him from the witness room during the execution, how desperate he was to get some satisfaction. It almost stopped me from putting on that Academy Award performance, Dirk thought. Dirk had been nervous, sure, but nowhere near as nervous and disturbed as someone who was really going to his death that day. He knew if he showed a lack of fear and hysteria, he would attract more attention, but it sure would have been like putting a knife in Harry Ross and twisting it. Good old Dad put on a pretty neat act too, especially when he dropped his head, looking defeated.

Of course, it took a great deal of faith to lie there and let someone take him to the brink of doom, but Dirk had always had faith in his father's power. Whenever Philip Stoner said he was going to get something done, it was as good as done. He never failed anyone, especially himself. He was never disappointed, never frustrated. He had an iron will. Everyone else, especially anyone under his authority or on his payroll, seemed puny, insignificant, vulnerable.

Dad had told Dirk how it would be, and Dirk had accepted his words as gospel. The drugs would give him the characteristics of expiring; the EKG would be manipulated; a simple electrode would be adjusted, and the flat line would confirm the doctor's declaration of death. The operation was to be smoothly run, straight through the mortician's hands and into recovery, where the doctor would be waiting. Dirk had begun to wake sooner than they anticipated, but that was all right. He was well on his way by the time he regained full consciousness and after that, the plan was laid out with precision. The plan just took too long. He couldn't stand it anymore.

He would be fine now, though. He would be fine.

From his corner across the way, he watched Elaine meet Harry. He saw them cross the street arm in arm. How sweet. He watched them go into the delicatessen, and he even got a glimpse of the two of them talking intensely, touching each other's hands, comforting, loving.

Confident, feeling omniscient and omnipresent, he bought a hot dog from a vendor and returned to his vehicle.

It was a particularly crisp, clear day, windows and buildings glittered, leaves shone like gold or brass, pedestrians seemed to walk with a bounce in their gait. It was a good day to be alive. He caught the reflection of his face in the rearview mirror for a moment and was astounded. He looked like a street person, a homeless man. It was time to take a short break from all this, a respite. Things would work better if he stepped back for a little while anyway. The cautious would grow careless. It would seem as if he were gone and everything would be easier for him.

He gazed at the remainder of his hot dog. What the hell was he doing, settling for this? He should be having lunch at Tavern on the Green. He should buy himself something decent to wear. He needed new shoes, a new suit, shirts. How long had he been wearing the same underwear? And he needed a haircut and a shave. He wanted to feel good too, feel alive.

His father had never worked with desperation. Why should he? By now they had surely given up on him. They probably no longer cared about getting him back, returning him to the program. With Dad dead there was no longer anyone demanding it.

I'm on my own, he thought, finally. He started the van and drove away to begin a spending spree. First he went to an ATM and got himself plenty of cash. Then he went to a hair salon and got a style cut and a shave. After that, he went shopping for new clothes. When he had bought enough, even buying a small suitcase, he called the Waldorf and made a reservation. He got himself a suite and soaked in the tub for hours, ordering room service before going out on the town. After all, it would be a while before he returned to New York, he thought.

There was a downtown bar he recalled because it served as sort of a headquarters for high-priced, elegant call girls. To his delight, it had remained so. It took him only a few minutes at the bar to connect with a tall, svelte brunette, who returned with him to his suite. It was really like the old days, cheating on Farah when he was away on a tournament or doing some advertising promotion. Somehow that made it sweeter.

The woman left him early the next morning, discreetly, and he slept almost until noon, forgetting for the moment who he had become and why he had fled to New York. He had taken a real chance, booking himself into a major hotel and using one of his new credit cards, but they didn't come knocking. He was right. They had written him off. The past was finally behind him.

However, there were still follow-up stories about his father's death on the television news. The police in Los Angeles claimed they had no leads. He thought about it for a moment and then placed a call to the Los Angeles Police Department. He asked for the detective leading the investigation of Philip Stoner's death and was connected to a Lieutenant Harris.

"Check out Harry Ross," he told him. "He did it for revenge."

Then he cradled the receiver and turned off the television set. He wanted to get a little more rest. He would need all his strength for what lay ahead.

Harry was reluctant to leave New York. Lil, who had been surprised at his willingness to come in the first place, was amazed when he thought aloud, wondering if they should stick around for another few days.

"I get the feeling Elaine's perked up since we've come," he told her. "It's like recharging a battery, having us around. It can't be easy for her here, alone, after everything that's happened."

"She's not alone, Harry. She has my family, and we're a phone call away and on a plane in minutes if we have to be. Besides, she hasn't said a thing like that to me. Has she said something to you?" Lil asked, raising her left eyebrow suspiciously.

"No. What would she say?" he protested, quickly turning away from her. "Just a thought," he said, "but now that I really think about it, I realize we've been away too long as it is."

"It's better if we all get back to work, Harry," Lil said, and he agreed . . . firmly. That ended the discussion. They spent their last night together, Elaine deciding that she and Kathy would prepare a meal in her apartment. It was actually mostly Kathy's Cajun cooking.

Everything was delicious. The Rosses loved Kathy Du Bois and both Harry and Lil were intrigued with her descriptions of the bayou and her family.

"Elaine has made a good friend," Lil told Harry after they left to return to the hotel. "She's like another sister."

Harry winced at the description but swallowed back his sorrow quickly. The next morning they were on a flight to Los Angeles. Lil seemed truly regenerated by the vacation, her family visit, and their time with Elaine. Harry was glad he had decided to make the detour back from Jamaica. In the short space of time, he felt he had grown closer to his surviving daughter and she to him.

The day after their return, they were surprised when a Los Angeles police detective paid them a visit at the office.

"This is really routine, Mr. Ross," he explained after showing his I.D. His name was Harris. "We're just covering all bases. Please don't take offense," he added, sensitive to who they were and what they had suffered.

"You must be a busy man," Harry said, "visiting and interrogating all the people who hated Philip Stoner and had a possible motive to kill him."

Lieutenant Harris smiled.

Once they explained where they had been during the time of the murder, Harris began his withdrawal, apologizing for the inconvenience.

"It's no inconvenience," Harry said, refusing to back off from his hatred for Stoner. "I enjoyed it."

"Pardon me?" Harris said.

"It's like this lawyer joke. This guy calls his attorney, and the secretary says, I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. So-and-So died last night. He thanks her, hangs up, and the next day calls and asks for his attorney, and again she tells him he died. He thanks her, hangs up, and calls again. Again she tells him, 'Your attorney died.' He thanks her and calls once again. 'Why do you keep calling?' she asks. 'I told you, Mr. So-and-So is dead.' 'I know,' he says, 'but I just like to hear it.'"

Harry laughed at his own joke. Harris smiled and looked at Lil, who just shook her head. Then he shook hands and left.

"Why did you do that, Harry?"

"What?" he said with all innocence.

"You know what. Why did you gloat? Can't you let the dead rest in peace?" Lil asked him.

He thought a moment. "No," he said. "Not until I rest in peace."

They went back to work. It was a busy week. They put two large estates into escrow and had offers on three other properties while showing a half dozen more to prospective buyers. What made Harry particularly happy was the fact that a number of the people they serviced actually didn't seem to know about the murder of their daughter.

Maybe it's ending, he thought. Maybe it's really ending.

He called Elaine every night. He asked her if she had gone to the police, and each night she said,

"Tomorrow," but every tomorrow she had another excuse, another conflict.

"He hasn't called or been around," she said. "Everything's back to normal, Dad. I'm fine. But I'll talk to the police. I promised and I will," she said.

"Why do I get the feeling you won't?" Harry asked her.

She laughed. "I will. You didn't tell me you had pulled Kathy aside and told her to get me to go. She's been after me as well. I can't escape it."

"Good. I'm looking forward to seeing you," he added. It wasn't the sort of thing he usually told her.

"Me too," she said and then told him about her studies, her interest in medical research, and her excitement over a possible breakthrough in Alzheimer's disease. Becoming a part of what interested her pleased him. He felt warmed by her willingness now to take him into her confidence. She was really becoming his daughter. His only regret was that it had taken a great family tragedy to open his eyes.

Lil didn't know about his phone calls to Elaine. She called on her own or with him present, and whenever he spoke to Elaine with Lil in the room, he behaved as if he was just learning about things she had already told him. Elaine understood why.

"It's good you kept your word about not telling Mom," she said.

"Okay, Dr. Big Shot. I kept my word. Did you keep yours?"

"Today," she said. "I'm going over to the precinct right after my last lab," she told him.

He waited until Lil had gone to make dinner that night and then he called Elaine to hear about her police visit. Her answering machine came on. He left a message. He and Lil ate, talked about a recent sale, and watched some television. He kept looking at the clock. It was three hours later in New York, quite late already. Surely Elaine had gotten his message by now, he thought.

Lil spotted his distraction. "What is it, Harry?"

"What?"

"You keep looking at your watch, looking at the clock. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just thought. . . I thought Elaine might call tonight."

Lil looked at her watch. "It's nearly midnight in New York. She's probably asleep, Harry."

"Yeah." He got up and went out on the patio just so Lil wouldn't see the tension in his face.

Elaine knows how worried I am, how worried I was when I left New York, he thought. She wouldn't neglect me. He sneaked into his den and called her. The phone rang and rang, and then the answering machine came on.

Her recorded voice hit him like pins pricking his heart. He felt the blood rise in his face.

Where is she?

Where the hell is she?

When he looked up, he saw Lil standing in the doorway.

"What is it, Harry?" she asked. He started to protest, concoct a story, but she put up her hand like a traffic cop.

"I've known something was cooking all along, Harry Gordon Ross. Maybe it's time you told me."

He looked at the phone. Maybe it was.

"Elaine met someone at a dance club before we arrived in New York."

"So?" She came in and sat down.

"There were resemblances, things about him that reminded her of Dirk."

She grimaced. "Reminded her of him?"

"More than just reminded her. Resembled him is more like it. His gestures, his eyes . . ."

"She never told me any of this while we were there."

"She didn't want to upset you. I picked up something in her behavior that first night we had dinner, and she told me at lunch."

"Lunch? When did you—"

"I met her at the school and never told you. That was when she told me about this man."

"How horrible for her, but Harry . . ."

"There was one more thing, one more terrible thing. He called her E Lame when he said good night, when she practically had to run away from him."

Lil stared.

"No one else ever called her that. You know how much it bothered her when he did and how he did it just to annoy her," he said.

"What are you saying? That the man was Dirk? Harry, how could—"

"Nothing," he said, "would surprise me."

"This is crazy. I don't want to hear this sort of talk," she said, shaking her head. "It will drive you mad, Harry."

"It already has," he confessed. "It already has."

FROM THE WAY SHE MOVED, spoke to people, conducted herself through her daily life, he knew she had let her guard down, thrown caution to the wind, put him out of her mind. He hadn't shown his face, approached her, or spoken to her since the night at the dance club. He had observed her from a safe distance, but he had remained close enough to read her expressions and gestures. She was fascinating to watch.

Right at the beginning, when he had first started courting Farah, Elaine had caught his interest. She had that smug little smile, the fire of defiance in her eyes. There were occasions at his home in the early period of his marriage to Farah when Elaine visited and sat reading at the pool. She had a sweet little figure, not as voluptuous as Farah's, but well proportioned, with just enough lift in her butt and rise in her bosom to seize his gaze every time she rose from the lounge to swim a few laps. He thought she moved more gracefully than Farah. She did everything with intensity, yet with a subtlety that left some mystery.

He had smiled at her lustfully, and she had turned away or given him that wonderful aloof look, trying to make him feel an inch tall. It stirred him. He wanted to consume her, and he fantasized about her even while he made love to Farah, but Elaine's responses to almost everything he said were short, sharp, sometimes biting.

Nevertheless, he rarely became angry. The more he smiled and laughed at her, however, the angrier she became, and that fury put a rush of blood in her face that seemed to light the sexual energy he always suspected was well housed within her.

Elaine was often critical of the way he treated Farah, especially in public. Even in his presence, never intimidated by him, Elaine would voice her objections and tell Farah to speak up for herself.

"He ignores you whenever there are other pretty women around him," she had said, "and he never holds open a door for you or helps you into your chair at restaurants. He treats you as if you were his caddy, trailing along behind him."

Dirk roared and she spun on him, her eyes full of sparks. "I thought you had that extra special breeding, being a Stoner," she fired at him. "I thought you were supposed to have class."

Farah always laughed it off, avoided any suggestion of marital conflict, and he, being who and what he was, took every advantage of that.

He knew that if he had married Elaine, he wouldn't have gotten away with an inch of infidelity or condescension, much less the miles and miles of it he heaped on Farah. Elaine stood up to him, challenged him, questioned him, and ridiculed him at every turn. She never missed an opportunity. No matter how many tournaments he won, how often he was on television, his celebrity didn't impress her, nor did his wealth. She as much as told him she thought he was vapid, selfish, egotistical, and not worthy of her sister's affection and respect. Elaine was not one to hide behind innuendo, either. If she saw that he didn't get the gist of her retort, she explained it in no uncertain terms.

"What I mean is that you're a prime example of a chauvinistic pig," she once told him. He roared, but she held her look of disgust until Farah pleaded with them both to stop.

Now that he gave it some analytical thought, he realized Farah had always served as mediator between him and Elaine. She told Elaine that he would change, improve, and that he wasn't as bad as he seemed, while she told Dirk that Elaine was merely being protective, loving, and didn't mean half the things she said.

Well, he knew she did and more. Whenever he found himself alone with her, she left no doubt that she despised him. Yet the more antagonistic she was, the more desirable she became. He couldn't explain the attraction except to conclude that it put some interest and excitement into his life at a time when he had grown restless and bored. She was a challenge. Most of the women he knew were willing to be taken for granted. They seemed to prefer it that way.

Once or twice he had tried to come on to Elaine, but she rebuffed him quickly and definitively, leaving no doubt that he would have to be the last man on earth, and even then there would be some serious doubt. He recalled the last time that had happened. She had fixed her fiery gaze on him and tightened her lips as she said, "This doesn't surprise me. It confirms everything I've ever thought about you. To me you're repulsive."

He'd felt as if he had been slapped. His face actually stung from the blood that pounded to the surface.

Repulsive? No woman had ever thought him repulsive. Annoying, impish, conceited, aggressive—he could tolerate almost any other description, but repulsive? That was a word for despicable lower creatures, snakes, insects. Who in hell did she think she was?

It wasn't long after that episode that Farah became more resistant and defiant. He always believed Elaine had finally gotten through to her, had finally convinced Farah he was no damn good and should be discarded like a broken toy. Elaine, the younger sister, had become the wiser one, giving counsel. Farah listened to her more and more and took her advice on how to act, what to do. He was positive about this and even told Elaine so on a few occasions.

"If I have helped my sister see through you, I will be overjoyed, grateful," she told him. "Blame whatever you want on me. Every accusation you make is a compliment."

He didn't speak to her much after that, and if she was around when he went to see Farah, he would change his mind and wait for her to leave.

"Your sister is filling your head with garbage about me," he had told Farah, but she was already too strong, too sure of herself.

"She's not telling me anything I didn't know but refused to face," she replied.

He knew for a fact that Elaine was the one who had sent Farah to her attorney and started the whole legal mess, culminating in that court order to stay away from her. From then on, the situation had continued to go downhill until he could tolerate it no longer.

Even now, even here in New York, even after he had put fear into her heart, Elaine strutted from the school to her apartment with her head high, her shoulders straight, her face full of confidence. He was determined to change that. This would be his revenge.

He waited, he paced himself, he exercised restraint. When he felt enough time had passed, he plotted every move carefully.

And then he struck.

Ironically, it was the day Elaine had finally decided to go to the police and do what her father had suggested: put the incident on the record. True, she hadn't seen or heard from Jonathan Lewis since the night at the dance club, but every once in a while she would stop whatever she was doing, wherever she was, and look up. Elaine wasn't one to believe in anything that couldn't be scientifically substantiated, but there was something valid to this sense of danger, this gnawing fear in her gut, something left over from mankind's more primitive time when animal instincts were still keen in us, she thought.

She would occasionally catch sight of some man who looked like Jonathan Lewis, someone his height and shape, and it would send a chill down her spine, make her heart skip a beat, and then she would chastise herself for having the reaction. It wasn't he. She had to put a cap on her imagination, stop creating demons. He was gone. Good riddance.

And yet sometimes, for no apparent reason, she would recall him or—and this was what made it frightening—recall Dirk. Ever since Farah's death, she had tried to banish the memories of him from her mind, forcing herself to become an amnesiac in regard to him. She never wanted to hear his name or see his picture or remember his voice. She had been fairly successful at blocking him out too.

Until now. Until that night at the club, the one night she had relented and given in to Kathy. Was it simple coincidence? Had this man recognized her as soon as she entered the place, or had he followed her there? If he had followed her, he knew where she lived and he would have come after her, she concluded. Since he hadn't come around, it had to have been just an unfortunate coincidence. He simply recognized me on the spot. She felt comfortable leaving it like that, but Dad was right. She couldn't just forget it. He might come back.

Her lab work had taken longer than she had anticipated. She decided to get a quick bite at the delicatessen and then, on the way home, stop at the police station. She hoped it wouldn't take a great deal of time. She would make a report and then call her father and let him know it had been done.

Elaine didn't mind eating alone. Farah had hated it. She would actually skip meals if she had to have them by herself. On the other hand, Elaine was usually so occupied with something that she never dwelled on the fact that she was alone. Her thoughts, her reading, her plans, took up all her mental time, and eating was relegated to its biological role. It was rarely a social event, rarely an occasion for conversation.

Tonight was no different. She opened her textbook after her hot turkey sandwich was set before her on the table and she read as she fed the forkfuls of food into her mouth, barely looking up to see who had come into the restaurant. She skipped dessert, deciding instead to buy one of those big black-and-white frosted cookies on the way home and eat it later with tea.

The sky had clouded over considerably since she had entered the restaurant, but she didn't notice. It was like her to be oblivious to the weather. More than once she had been caught in downpours without an umbrella, and once without a jacket either. As soon as she stepped outside, she buttoned her light leather jacket and quickened her pace. A stiff breeze lifted her hair, nudged papers over the sidewalks and the streets, and quickened everyone's steps.

When the weather changed in New York and looked stormy, drivers became more impatient. Horns blared, pedestrians challenged them more often at streetlights, tempers flared.

Above her the lights brightened in buildings and all around her, restaurants and storefront neon signs flickered on. The clouds were rolling in so fast, it looked like a virtual eclipse. She quickened her own steps even more and wondered if it would be wiser to go home and do the police thing later or in the morning. A drop of rain splattered on her nose and made the decision for her. She practically jogged along the last block.

The sight of a van with its rear doors wide open attracted her interest. It was parked close to the front of her apartment building, but there was apparently no one around. Anyone leaving anything unlocked or unguarded on the city streets was a curiosity these days, she thought. However, as she drew closer, she saw that there was nothing in the van for anyone to swipe. Still, she wouldn't have left the doors open if it had been her van.

About a half dozen yards from the vehicle, she felt something pressed against her side. She started to turn in surprise and she heard his voice.

"Just move toward the van," he said.

What he pressed into her side was sharp. It actually sliced through her leather coat and into her ribs. The realization that she had been cut put a panic in her that thundered through her very being. She felt her legs weaken. When she looked up, he was smiling down at her.

"E Lame," he said, and then his smile turned to ice, his eyes filling with threat. "Into the back of the van. Now. Move," he ordered.

The rain grew heavier, but she didn't feel a drop. She looked at the van and then felt the blade move up her side, slicing through more of the jacket, the point of the knife drawing a line of blood in the direction of her underarm. He had wrapped his other arm firmly around her waist.

Her books fell to the gutter. She thought to scream, but the cars that rushed by now had their windshield wipers going. Horns were louder, people were running, covering their heads with newspapers. Who would hear her? Who would have the courage to stop?

"Who are you? What do you want?" she demanded.

He pushed her toward the rear of the van and then pressed his body up against hers so she would have to move forward into the rear. She started to turn, but he blocked her view of the sidewalk. The rain had driven people indoors anyway.

"Get in. Now!" he said. The sleeve of his raincoat was pulled forward to hide most of the knife from view. He jerked the tip of it toward her, and she retreated until the backs of her legs were against the bumper. There was nowhere else to go.

She started to cry. Reluctantly she turned, and then he shoved her so she fell forward into the darkness of the van. He got in after her and closed the doors. She looked up.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice straining, a mere breath of itself.

"I'm who I've always been," he said.

"What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted, E Lame," he said. "You."

Her fear turned her into something primitive. She started to scream and stand, hoping to rush past him and back out through the van doors. She reached up to claw him, motivated now by a pure animal instinct for survival. He caught her wrists and twisted them until the pain drove her down to her knees, and then he jerked his right knee up and caught her in the forehead, just above the bridge of her nose. The blow was so hard it snapped her head back and she fell over to her side, struggling to retain consciousness. She felt her hands being pulled behind her, some wire being wrapped around her wrists and then around her ankles. He finished by tying a handkerchief around her mouth, tightening it so hard it cut into the corners of her lips and pushed her tongue down. She gagged, her eyes bulging.

When he was finished, he stood and looked down at her for a moment. Then he crawled to the front and got into the driver's seat.

"Did I ever take you to our upstate New York cottage?" he asked in a calm, friendly voice. "I can't recall. . . . No, that wasn't you," he said, starting the engine. "I don't know how I could confuse you with that bimbo."

He pulled away from the curb.

"Boy, are you in for a pleasant surprise. It's beautiful up there. It's near a lake, and we have very nice grounds, with apple trees, and a pond nearby. Dad bought the cabin so long ago that he forgot about it. I used it maybe five times. A place like that should be used more, don't you think?"

He turned to look back at her. She was groaning and gagging.

"Why don't we think of this as our honeymoon? That's it," he said his voice filling with excitement. "We've gone to the country for our honeymoon, huh, E Lame?"

He laughed, wove in and out of traffic to make his way to the West Side Highway, and tried to speed up. However, the rain made the driving harder, the going slower. It took him the better part of a half hour to find the entrance and start toward the George Washington Bridge. He was frustrated, but he controlled himself by reminding himself of the prize that awaited when he reached his destination. He had waited this long. He could wait a little longer.

"Not the best weather for a trip," he said, "but we'll make our own sunshine every day, huh, E Lame?"

She drew her legs up toward her chest and tried to pull the wire apart, but it cut into her wrists and she had to stop resisting. She closed her eyes. The van bounced and swerved.

"There's the old G.W. Bridge. We're well on our way," he declared.

He began to sing. "I'm driving in the rain, just driving in the rain. What a wonderful feeling . . ."

The phony accent was completely gone. There was no mistaking that voice.

It can't be he, she thought.

It can't be.

And yet her heart was sick with the realization, the definitive, horrible realization.

It was he.

He had come back from the dead.

The rain stopped about fifty miles northwest of New York City. Clouds had broken in the west. The wind had died down, and traffic had lightened as cars were able to pick up speed. The tires still swished over the macadam. As he drove farther and farther upstate, the rain appeared to wash things off and leave the world cleaner. He caught sight of a brook. Swollen by the downpour, it rushed over rocks and around turns at a maddening pace toward some lake.

She was no longer struggling in the rear. He heard no grunts and moans. E Lame was too smart to waste her energy and strength, he thought. She was being patient, keeping herself from panicking, waiting for her opportunity. When he gazed back at her, he saw how she had pulled her body in and rested her head for the maximum comfort under the circumstances. He was tempted to pull over and do her right on the road, but that struck him as more of a rape. He wanted this to be as much of a mutual thing as possible. He would convince her that if she cooperated, if she was real good and did what she wanted to do anyway, it would go easier on her and maybe, just maybe, she would survive. Being a woman of great intelligence, she would consider the offer and surely agree, he thought.

He drove on. He passed through a small hamlet, but paid no attention to people. A while later he was on a quiet country road. They climbed a hill, left the macadam street, and traveled a good half mile down the gravel road before arriving at the cabin. His father had wanted it to be primitive, off the beaten path, a true escape. There was a submersible well, a septic system, but there was also running water and electricity. Television arrived via an old-fashioned roof antenna. This was what his father considered primitive. Dirk laughed.

The cabin itself was a two-bedroom one-story structure. The kitchen, dining area, and living room occupied one open space with the two bedrooms across from each other and the bathroom in the rear. Dirk realized there would be no food supplies, just booze, soft drinks, and beer. About five miles east on the highway there was a one-stop shop. Later he would get some food, he thought, but first things first.

He pulled as close to the front entrance as he could and got out. The key to the cabin was hidden in a fake rock to the right of the door. Nothing had changed. It was there. He opened the door and stepped in to check the place out. He had to be sure that no intruder had camped out here.

Everything was as it had been when he and Farah had vacationed here last: the L-shaped leather sofa was draped in a white dustcover, as were the matching chairs. Dust caked the tables, the mantel, and the lamps. There were spiderwebs in the fireplace, and he was sure the chimney had become a virtual bat city. Otherwise the cabin looked as quaint and as charming as it had always been. He'd had some good times here, he thought, although only twice with Farah.

He turned on the water pump and watched it fill. Then he went to the sink in the kitchen. The water ran brown for a few minutes before clearing. He turned on the refrigerator, found that some rodents—looked like field mice—had made a small home for themselves behind the stove, and then checked the bedrooms. The mattresses had been stripped. All the linens, comforters, and pillowcases were in their storage bins and actually looked quite fresh and clean. They had the scent of hickory.

He slapped his hands together and smiled. "This is really nice," he muttered. "It's going to be great."

He returned to the van and opened the rear doors. Her eyes popped open, the fear spreading from the corners and down her face like a rush of blood. She started to protest, shaking her body.

"Easy now, E Lame. Easy," he said. He got in and snapped the wire on her ankles. Then he took the gag from her mouth.

She took deep breaths, her body heaving with the effort, as she glared up at him, fury now nudging fear off her face. He smiled, and she started to sit up.

"You bastard," she said. "Untie my hands."

"In a while," he said. He pulled her toward the doors. "Get out," he commanded, and she stepped out of the van, with him holding her right elbow.

Her legs ached from being cramped for so long. She grimaced, but squeezed down her tears. Remain defiant, she thought. Remain defiant.

"Sorry about the ride. You remember me talking about this place?" he said turning.

She looked at the cabin. It was the one in the picture of Farah on her desk. She recalled Farah had enjoyed her two weekends here and always tried to get Dirk to bring her back. He promised, but he broke that promise, along with about a thousand others.

"My father used to think of this cabin as an escape," he said. "He came here with a number of his bimbos. I remember he brought me here to see nature in the raw. We took what was probably our only walk together in the woods right here. While we walked, he gave me his philosophy. 'Dirk,' he said, 'learn from nature. Survival of the fittest. That's all that matters.' Sentimental bastard, my father."

"Why did you bring me here? You can't get away with this," she said.

He laughed. "Me? You're telling me I can't get away with something? What's left to prove, E Lame? Please, don't insult my intelligence," he said turning angry. He seized her left elbow and marched her toward the cabin door.

"What do you want?"

"Everything," he said. "And more."

He opened the door and pushed her into the cabin. She stood there, looking about as he closed and locked the door. Then he pushed her toward the sofa. He pulled off the dustcover and threw it on the floor.

"Sit here," he ordered. She did so. Then he pulled the dustcover off the chair across from her and sat gazing at her with that wry smile.

He looked so different, and yet it was as if he wore a transparent mask and she could see his old face through that changed nose, those thickened lips, that lifted jawline and taut skin. His eyebrows and hair were a different color, and his ears were tucked closer to his head.

"How did you do this?" she asked, her voice no more than a raspy whisper.

He laughed. "I didn't do it. Dad did it. Dad can do anything, or at least he used to be able to do anything. I don't know if you heard, but he's dead. He bought some new real estate," Dirk said with a smile.

She shook her head. "My father and I . . . saw you die. Everyone saw you die."

"Yes, they did. Dad tried to buy the justice system first, and when that didn't work, he did the next best thing: he bought the correctional system." Dirk leaned forward. "It's simple, E Lame. People in charge of my fate were made offers they couldn't refuse, and not because their lives were threatened. They were tempted beyond belief, offered kingdoms."

He sat back, his smile fading. "The doctor in charge replaced the lethal chemicals with something that made me look dead, and he moved an electrode while he read the EKG. It produced a flat line, and they stuffed me in a coffin. That's what I was told would happen, and I'm here, so it must have worked, huh? I actually woke up in that coffin, E Lame, and it wasn't pleasant."

She thought about the possibilities. Recently she had learned about an anesthetic that was no longer on the market. It worked like a narcotic, giving the patient a corpselike pallor.

"The rest isn't hard to figure out," Dirk said. "I've got an entirely new identity, but access to the old money. I had a father every boy dreams of having," he added. Then he shrugged. "Survival of the fittest."

"You're crazy," she said. "You're even worse than you were. You won't last."

"Last? I'm not going to live forever, and neither are you, E Lame, but anyone betting right now would figure me to outlive you, and I've already died once," he said and laughed again. "Come on. Where's that smart-ass sense of humor now?"

"Fuck you," she said.

"No, it's me that fucks you, E Lame. Of all the girls I ever knew, and I've known a few, for some reason the fact that you despised me always turned me on, and you despise me right now as much as it's possible to despise me, right?"

"You've got that right," she said and looked away, searching for some avenue of escape, some plan.

"Well, I guess I despise you too. In fact, I detest your whole family, especially your dear old dad," he said and she fixed her eyes on him quickly. "Aha, struck oil, did I? Yes, E Lame, he's next on my list unless . . ."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you're a lot more cooperative and considerate of my feelings," he said.

"I don't believe you," she said.

"What's there to believe? Think of how vulnerable he is, how easy it will be. I can walk right up to him, just like I walked right up to you, E Lame, and he won't even know what's happening. In fact, I did it a few days ago when he met you for lunch at the school."

Her heart stopped. The heat rushed into her face and she shook her head.

"I thought he even smiled at me as I walked past him. Maybe . . ." He laughed. "Maybe I'll go see him to buy a piece of real estate and he'll take me to the house. Maybe they'll both take me, your mother and father, and right there, I'll do them both. Would you like that? Can't you see it?"

She struggled against the wires in vain for a moment and then lowered her head. She wanted to tell him her father wouldn't be fooled. She had already told him things that would make him suspicious, but she was afraid he would definitely kill him if he knew that. What could she do? She felt so helpless, so vulnerable. He and his damn money were too powerful.

He got up and lifted her chin so she had to look up at him. "What's it going to be?"

"How do I know you'll keep your word?" she asked.

"You don't, but you know I will do what I threatened if I don't get what I want."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to be Farah," he said.

Nothing he could have said would have put more of a chill in her heart. She felt her heart stop and then start again.

"You must have wondered how we made love, how good it was. Now you step into the role. You play the part. I'll tell you, show you, exactly what to do, what to say. Well?"

"I can't," she said, the tears now freely moving over her eyelids and trickling down her cheeks.

"Sure you can. It's in the genes, right?"

"You killed her," she said.

"And you'll bring her back. Just like Dad brought me back. Yes," he said, more excited than ever. "We'll both cheat death. Well?" he demanded. "What's it going to be? Do I return to California and buy a house or—"

She nodded. "I'll do what you want," she said.

"Good. I tell you what, Farah," he said. "It'll be like the old days. I'll spoil you. I'll go make the bed and get things ready for us, Okay? Okay, Farah?"

"Yes," she said, her throat closing.

He smiled. "Atta girl. My special Miss America. Remember how you used to ask for that hole in one? I'm feeling good today. Everything's under par, baby."

He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and then the cheek, and then he moved to her lips, a soft, brushing kiss, but a wet kiss.

"Just a sample of what's to come," he whispered. He kept his lips close to her ear. She could feel his hot breath. Her stomach churned, but she kept herself under control, swallowing back the acid that wanted to come gushing up and out of her throat.

"Farah used to stick her tongue right in my ear, just a little thing, but it gave me a delightful chill," he said, turning his head. "Well?"

She took a breath, closed her eyes, and did it.

"Great," he said. "That's it." He straightened up. "Be right back," he said. "As soon as I prepare the grounds, we'll tee off together."

She watched him strut toward the bedroom. Then she looked helplessly at the locked front door, tugged on the wire until it cut into her skin again, and sat back, defeat washing over her like a twilight shadow rising from the underground.

HARRY'S FEARS TURNED TO RAW panic after 11:00 p.m. with the realization that it was after 2:00 a.m. in New York and Elaine still did not answer her phone. He sat in the living room in his underwear, unable to close his eyes in bed, and sipped from a glass of bourbon, watching the late news and then a late movie. He barely heard a word and didn't follow the action.

Lil finally came to the door in her nightgown. "You can't stay up all night, Harry. You might as well go to sleep. There isn't anything you can do at the moment," she said softly.

"What are you talking about? How can I go to sleep? I'll call every fifteen minutes," he said, determined.

"You have to face the possibility, Harry, that she's at someone else's home, someone else's apartment," Lil said softly. "She's a mature woman. She might have met someone, or maybe she's with a friend and decided to stay the night."

"Or maybe . . ." He looked away rather than voice any of the fears that crisscrossed his consciousness like a series of trailers for horror movies.

"Harry."

"All right," he said. "I'll just watch a little more television, get more tired, and go to sleep."

Lil stood there. He tried not to pay attention to her, but she didn't move and she didn't turn away. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and then seized the phone.

"I'll just call once more." He punched out the numbers carefully and waited. The damned answering machine came on again. He lowered the receiver and stared at the floor as if he had just been told something terrible.

"There's nothing you can do until morning, Harry," Lil said.

"I shouldn't have left New York. I shouldn't have left her until I knew she had involved the police." He looked up, his eyes swelling with tears. "If something has happened to her, it's the second time I failed to prevent a terrible thing happening to one of my children," he added, his throat closing before he finished his sentence.

"Oh, Harry." She crossed to him, and he reached up to pull her near, so he could bury his head against her warmth. She brushed back his hair and then kissed the top of his head. "Come to bed, Harry. We'll call first thing. You'll get ahold of her tomorrow."

"I hope so," he said. He turned off the television set, rose, and walked like an invalid alongside her back to their bedroom. She helped him under the covers and then crawled in herself. The silence and the darkness were far worse. Now he had only his own thoughts with which to contend. Finally, near daybreak, he fell asleep, but he woke with a start, angry at his body for betraying him. It was past eight. Lil had gotten up and was already in the kitchen. It was after eleven in the morning in New York. He reached for the phone.

"I called already, Harry," Lil said coming to the door with a cup of coffee in hand.

"And?"

"She wasn't there."

"What time?"

"Seven-thirty her time and then eight."

"She never came home," he said. He shook his head. "She would have at least checked her phone messages, Lil. Something's not right."

He rose, now determined to deal fiercely with any resistance to his actions. He had nothing to fear from Lil. She looked substantially worried herself. However, rather than being satisfied that she was finally as concerned as he was, he felt more terror. She was stronger than he was, and she was falling apart, too.

"It'll be something innocent," she said. "You'll see. You'll see," she chanted. It sounded like her morning mantra.

He went to the bathroom, threw cold water on his face, and hurried out to his closet, a plan formulating in his mind as he ripped clothing off the hangers.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to get in touch with someone at the school first and have them check on her. I don't know her schedule, but maybe someone in the school's administration can get back to us quickly."

"She'll be furious."

"I don't think that's a consideration at this point under the circumstances, do you, Lil?"

She shook her head.

He went to the den and started calling, first getting the number for the administrative office. When a secretary answered, he tried in as controlled and as clear a voice as he could muster to explain what he wanted, what he needed. She was confused almost immediately nevertheless and transferred him to someone in registration, who, after hearing some of what he said, then had him transferred to the office of the dean of students. That secretary sounded far more intelligent. She listened. She apparently knew who he was, who Elaine was, the history of their family tragedy.

"I can understand your concern, Mr. Ross. Give me a few minutes. I'll call you back."

"I don't mind holding on," he said.

"Whatever you like," she said. "Let me see if I can locate Elaine's schedule quickly."

Lil brought him a cup of coffee. He sipped it and waited. She stood beside the desk, occasionally sipping from her own cup.

The secretary returned. "She has a lecture this morning," she said. "I'm sending someone over to the classroom to check on her. That will take at least fifteen minutes, Mr. Ross. I promise I'll call you instantly with the information."

He thanked her and told Lil.

"You want something, a piece of toast?"

He nodded. It would be best to occupy themselves until they got their call. It came close to twenty minutes later.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ross," she said. "Your daughter is not in attendance."

It was as if someone had shot him in the heart. For a moment he couldn't respond. The memories of the police coming to their office the morning of the murder, the looks on their faces, the revelations about the tragedy, their attempts to withhold the gruesome details—all of it flashed through his mind.

"Thank you," he managed to say.

"I hope everything will be all right," she concluded and he cradled the phone, shaking his head.

Lil gasped and bit down on her lip.

"She would never miss a lecture," he said. Lil nodded. There was no resistance to his panicking now. There was barely any to her own.

Harry had grown to appreciate one particular Los Angeles detective, Pat McShane. Throughout the investigation of Farah's murder and the aftermath, Harry had felt McShane's humanity, his compassion and concern. He came to mind immediately, and it was their good fortune to be able to reach him on their first call.

Harry explained their concerns quickly.

"I have some friends in the NYPD, Mr. Ross. I'll be on the phone with them immediately," he promised. "Where can I reach you?"

"I could come to you," Harry suggested.

"I don't recommend your hanging around here, Mr. Ross. Best thing would be to occupy yourself as best you can until I can get someone over to Elaine's apartment to do some checking. It's gonna take a while."

"Okay. I'll be at my office," he said and gave McShane the numbers.

"What about her girlfriend?" Lil asked as soon as he hung up.

"Yeah, right. Let's get her number." He called information and got it. Kathy too had an answering machine, so he left a desperate message with their office and car phone numbers. Her call came in first, a little after they had arrived at the office.

"I was surprised she wasn't at the lecture, Mr. Ross," Kathy said. "I called her apartment, and then I decided to go there on my way home. I don't have another class until seven tonight. The police were already at her apartment," she added. "We got the superintendent and went inside."

"And?"

"She wasn't there, and it didn't look as if she had been there last night."

"No, we knew she wasn't. What do the police think?"

Her hesitation put a fist of ice around his heart.

"Kathy?"

"Well, I don't know what to make of it, but. . . when I was leaving, I noticed a textbook in the gutter, soaked through—we had a hard rainfall last night. I recognized the cover so I picked it up. It was Elaine's book, Mr. Ross. I turned it over to the police."

"Christ," he said.

"What?" Lil cried, her fist against her lips.

He shook his head. "And what did the police say?"

"Nothing. They took the textbook, and I came home and found your message on my machine. I'm sorry I don't know any more."

"Did you tell them about the man at the dance club?" he asked quickly.

"Yes," she said. "I'm sorry to have to worry you like this."

"No, no. Thanks for what you've done on your own. I'll see you soon," he added and hung up. He told Lil the details.

Minutes later McShane called with the same basic information. When Harry pushed, McShane said, "It's a little early yet, but with the family's history and such, the NYPD is going to treat it like a possible kidnapping, Harry. They'll inform the FBI today."

"The FBI," Harry repeated. Lil was already looking quite pale. "Okay," he said. "Thank you for your help, Pat."

"I hope it turns out to be a false alarm, Harry."

"Thank you."

"I'll call you as soon as I hear anything else," McShane said.

"I won't be here," Harry said.

Normally, Pat McShane would have pointed out the futility of running around the country, hanging out at police precincts, haunting an investigation, but under the circumstances, he decided not to interfere. "I understand," he said. "Call me if I can help you in any way."

"Thank you," Harry said and hung up. He immediately dialed his travel agent.

"What are you doing?" Lil asked.

"I'm getting myself a ticket to return to New York."

"I should go too," she said.

"Maybe you should stay here and man this post, Lil. You're better at occupying yourself and—"

"I'm not thinking about myself, Harry."

He thought a moment. "All right. You get our tickets," he said hanging up the receiver. He pulled out the phone book and started thumbing through it rapidly. "I want to do one more thing before we leave."

"What? Where are you going to do, Harry?"

He found the address he wanted and got up.

"Where are you going?" she asked as he started around the desk toward the door.

He paused. "I want to see the FBI myself, right here. I have something I want checked out. I'll fill you in later," he said, and before she could ask anything else, he was gone.

Special Agent Ted Andrews lifted his coffee cup mechanically, staring out over the patio toward the Hollywood Hills. Behind him in the kitchen, Toni was fixing Erik and Melissa's lunches, giving them instructions for the day. As their nine-year-old daughter and seven-year-old son stood obediently and listened, Melissa's eyes opened wider and she grew a little more alert. Both glanced through the patio doors at him toward the end of their traditional litany of warnings, cautions, and orders.

Normally Ted participated with a humorous comment that drew Toni's rebuffs. Their parents had this loving interplay, often teasing each other with an underlying affection. They knew their father was an FBI agent and that made him larger than life, but their mother had ways of bringing him down to earth and making him seem no more intimidating than anyone else's father. In fact, more often than not he looked a bit afraid of her, and she was just a fraction of an inch over five feet five, weighing in at one-ten. Her dainty features were doll-like, but her temper could be quickly brought to flame in those emerald eyes if her ire was aroused. Her hair, which hung down nearly to her shoulder blades, was so red it looked on fire in the sunlight.

"They're leaving, Ted," she called out to him.

"Yo," he said, turning. The kids came out to receive his hugs. "Hey, have a good day, squad," he said. He watched them go through the kitchen to the front door with Toni trailing. Then he turned and gazed out at the hills again.

"What's bothering you, Ted?" Toni asked.

He hadn't heard her return. "What?"

"You've been distant for a while now. And don't tell me it's on a need-to-know basis, either," she warned. "Besides, I have a need to know. I'm the interested party." She stepped out on the patio and sat across from him.

In the distant sky a commercial jet lifted toward its flight path and disappeared between two waves of cumulus clouds, making what looked like a ponderous journey from one horizon to the other. The world looked painted on a wide canvas, all the movements small. He liked it here. He loved it here.

"Well?" she persisted. "Don't start denying how you've been behaving, Ted," she added before he could.

He laughed and shook his head. "I think you know me better than I know myself. That defense didn't come yet, but I guess it was on its way." He took a deep breath. "I got pulled off a case," he said, "because I was getting too close to solving it."

Her intense look of concern, beading up those eyes and tightening her small mouth, changed radically to a look of confusion. "Why would they do that?"

"The perpetrator or perpetrators are people who exist on a level or two higher than my reach is supposed to go," he said. "I could embarrass people of great authority, programs that are, at the minimum, controversial." He smiled. "Thanks to Billy Powell," he said. "My computer genius tapped on some doors in cyberspace that are not even supposed to exist."

"Oh. And this has upset you?"

"At first not as much as it does now."

She tilted her head in that way that stirred his heart.

How lucky he was to be married to someone as adorable as Toni, he often thought. As corny as it sounded, she did pluck the strings of his heart with those cute gestures.

"What do you mean, as much as it does now?"

"Well, it's been heavy on my mind. I'm a soldier in a kind of army, Toni. Law enforcement is a war. I've always believed in being loyal, following orders without questions, having faith in the leadership, but this is the sort of thing that gives government a bad name. Something," he said, "is not kosher. At the least, I should be trusted at this point with the information, don't you think?"

"Absolutely. You have clearance to guard the president of the United States, if need be, Teddy. This stinks."

He nodded. "I've been given the opportunity to take a special holiday if I take it now."

"When were you told?"

"Jack Bradley told me it was coming, and the paperwork came through yesterday."

"Jack Bradley?" she said impressed.

"Yes. I told you this was high up. I was informed yesterday. Selzer saw me moping about, rereading my file on this matter, and then stopped by and told me he had gotten word from Bradley's office. Then, late in the afternoon, Billy was informed he was being transferred to the Florida office." He looked up quickly to see the reaction in her face. It turned quickly from sympathy to outrage to fear. "He's leaving next week."

"And you blame yourself for that?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he sipped the cold coffee and gazed at the Hollywood Hills again.

"Why should you?" she asked.

"I don't and I do. Anyway, it's sort of like losing faith in someone you've held in high esteem. I'll get over it," he said, rising. He released a great sigh as if all his frustration and unhappiness had turned to air he could exhale.

"I'm sorry, Ted. What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Be a good soldier. I'll make arrangements for my vacation and let the embers cool. Everyone will breathe a sigh of relief, I guess. Sorry I was so distracted with it. It just kind of hit me one day. I mean, people have been killed, things have been done, and it's all being taken care of by the powers that be. Why is it so hard to do the right thing as well as the legal thing?"

"Invite Billy over for dinner one night before he leaves," Toni said. "I still haven't thanked him enough for helping Melissa with her computer."

"Good idea," he said. "Call you later." He leaned over and kissed her. She held him a little longer than usual, and he kissed her again.

"I love you," she said.

"I know. At least they can't take that away from me," he said with a smile. She watched him go, lumbering a little more than usual and sloping those otherwise broad shoulders a little more too.

The day promised to be routine, so routine he decided he would do what they wanted and start his vacation tomorrow. Shortly after he arrived, he informed Martin Selzer and then returned to his office to finish up some paperwork. Less than ten minutes later his secretary came in to tell him there was a man here to see whoever was in charge. He saw the excitement in her eyes.

"It's Harry Ross," she said in a deep whisper, "and he looks distraught," she added. Her name was Marlene Hartman, and she had been his secretary for five years. She was very efficient but always a little on the nervous side about working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Not once during the time she had worked for him did she have occasion to feel any fear. It was for the most part a rather uneventful office job. People rarely came in off the street to ask for help from the FBI.

"Harry Ross?"

"Don't you remember, the famous murder story that rivaled the O.J. case in some ways?"

"Oh. Oh, yes," he said, remembering the murder and also the recent headlines about the billionaire father of the killer. "Yeah, send him in."

What the hell was this all about? he wondered.

Harry Ross came through the open doorway quickly. He was almost to the desk before Ted rose to shake his hand. He looked as if he had run from wherever he lived. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled, his collar tugged open so that the knot in his tie was loose.

"How can I help you, Mr. Ross?"

"My daughter," he said.

Ted nodded. "I'm sorry. I know about the murder, and I'm sure it's not something a parent gets over, but—"

"No, my younger daughter. She's been going to college in New York, and she was kidnapped last night."

"Kidnapped? You've received a call for ransom?"

"No, this man doesn't want ransom. He wants revenge," Harry said.

"You know who it is?"

"I think I do," Harry said.

"Well, let's call the New York office." Ted sat.

"Please," he said, indicating the chair across from him. Harry shook his head. "I'll make the call, Mr. Ross. Whom do you suspect?"

"My former son-in-law," he said.

"Your former son-in-law? You mean your younger daughter was married and divorced too?"

Harry shook his head.

"I don't understand. Your son-in-law was Dirk Stoner, right? The man who was executed for your older daughter's murder?"

Harry nodded.

"So how can you say—"

"He's back," Harry said, deciding to take the seat.

ELAINE COULDN'T SHAKE THE feeling that she had confronted a ghoul, someone beyond reality. Despite Dirk's revelations and her understanding that, yes, if the drugs had been manipulated before the start of the execution, the EKG manipulated afterward, and Dirk given something like Nisentil—an anesthetic that could give him the appearance of death—with Philip Stoner's power and money, such an elaborate escape and defiance of justice could have been effected. Even so, she still felt she was living in a nightmare. This couldn't really be happening. It just couldn't.

A skilled plastic surgeon had worked on Dirk and created a different face, but he couldn't work on the man's soul and create a different man. She had sensed that familiar darker side when she looked into those eyes that night at the dance club. Instinct had told her a truer tale than apparent scientific truth. Her eyes saw one thing, but her heart had seen another, and for someone who had decided to place all her faith in empirical evidence, in demonstrations and tests, this was a major revelation. Perhaps medicine was an art after all and the best doctors were born with a talent, an insight.

If I live through this, she vowed, I'll never denigrate second sight again. She took a deep breath. If I live through this. That thought shook her very bones. It was time to be practical and intelligent, to push the weaker part of herself down and put a lid on the panic. Nightmare or no nightmare, she was here and this madman was in charge of her fate. She decided her best hope was psychology. Don't swim against the stream, Elaine, she told herself; swim with it but faster than the current so you have some control.

The moment he reappeared, she visualized her sister and softened her face. Farah had been a good teacher, showing her how to be more feminine, how to seduce. Elaine was always too embarrassed and disdainful to use what writers through the ages called feminine guile. She believed that using sex as a tool was somehow playing dirty, being deceitful, and deceit was hardly something upon which to build a meaningful relationship. If two people didn't come to care for each other purely, intellectually, spiritually, then what good were raging hormones? This wasn't supposed to be a contest, a game, was it?

Dirk saw the softer look on her face and paused, a smile on his lips.

"My wrists hurt so much," she whined.

"You know I could break your neck in a second," he said, tilting his head slightly. "I'm stronger than I was before I went to prison," he added, as if he thought that was a major accomplishment.

She nodded. "I can see that," she said. "You look very fit."

"Damn right," he said, "so don't give me any reason to do it." He stared a moment longer, deciding, and then he went around behind her and released the wire wrapped around her wrists. She brought her hands forward and rubbed her wrists vigorously, stirring the circulation.

"You shouldn't have struggled with it so much," he said seeing the thin cuts in her skin.

"You're right," she said. "It wasn't smart."

He liked that. His smile widened.

"Can I get a glass of water?" she asked.

"Sure. Go ahead. Glasses are in the cabinet above the sink. I can get us a couple of warm beers too," he added. "They'll be colder in an hour or so."

"That's good," she said, moving slowly toward the kitchen. She ran the water and found a glass. He stood right behind her as she rinsed it out and then filled it and drank.

"Good well water. It's probably cold, huh?"

"Yes," she said. "You want some?"

"Thanks."

She drew another glass of water and handed it to him.

"To us," he said, raising the glass, "and our resurrection."

She formed a small smile and drank some more water. His eyes were glued to her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

"I feel so tired and dirty," she said. "You know how much I hate feeling sweaty and dirty," she said, practically mimicking Farah.

He lifted his eyebrows as he nodded. "It'll be a good hour or so before the water heater gets up a good load," he said. "By then we'll both need a shower," he added. "You remember how I always need a good shower after a round of tournament golf?"

"Yes," she said.

"Shall we approach the green?" he said, holding out his hand. She looked at it, the revulsion whirling just under her breastbone.

Wait for opportunity, she told herself. Wait for a chance to escape. Hold yourself together. Don't panic.

She reached out, and he clasped her hand, pulling her firmly toward him until he could embrace her and meet her lips with his own in a long, wet kiss that made her stomach curdle.

"Farah, Farah," he whispered, "I knew you would come back to me. I knew you couldn't resist."

"Yes," she said. "I'm back."

He surprised her by reaching down and lifting her into his arms with ease. He really was very strong. Her head against his chest was pillowed by his firm pectoral muscle. His arms held her as if she weighed nothing. They felt like steel bars beneath her legs.

He turned and walked toward the bedroom.

I mustn't think about what's happening to me, she told herself. I must imagine this is an experiment, a test. If I lose control, he might kill me in bed, kill me in seconds.

"Okay," he whispered, "time to tee off."

She forced a laugh. Farah had a musical giggle that rose and fell and rose. She could make her voice tinkle and shift her eyes as she lifted one soft, round shoulder with a turn that made her boyfriends drool.

The blanket had been pulled back. Dirk lowered her to the sheet and stood back to undress. She watched him a moment, and then he stopped.

"Come on," he said, "like always. Try to beat me."

Their lovemaking had always been a game, Elaine realized. He and Farah had designed it to keep themselves amused the whole time. They made it frivolous, not uplifting and ecstatic. She blamed that on Dirk's personality and Farah's hope that she could please him.

The race began. She started to undress. He laughed as she struggled with her skirt. He was naked before she got off her panties and unfastened her bra.

"You lose," he said. "You know what that means."

She shook her head, smiling. "I forgot," she said.

"Let me remind you," he said, and lifted his genitals, offering his penis.

Oh, God, no, she thought. He shook his penis until it started to harden, and then he stepped closer. He put his hands behind her head. She closed her eyes and imagined she was going into surgery, but as a patient. She was being anesthetized. In a moment she would be under and not know what was happening to her.

The tip of his penis nudged at her lips.

"Farah," he said sternly, "play by the rules."

His fingers tightened around her head. The tips of them were like spikes being driven into her scalp.

She opened her mouth.

He didn't have an orgasm. The game, as she understood it, was that after a few moments he would retreat and she would finish undressing. Learning the details of what was once his and her sister's private business made her feel like a voyeur. Everyone had something too private, too personal even to admit to his or her own conscious being. Farah had never told her any of the nitty-gritty details of her lovemaking with Dirk. She had only said he was wonderful in the early days.

When Elaine was naked, he lowered himself to the bed and nudged her to move over. He strummed her nipples, kneaded her breasts roughly, kissed her neck, and then lifted himself over her and gazed down at her. She tried not to look away, but it was so hard and her stomach was in revolt, threatening to push up the acid that had gathered into a pool at the base of her diaphragm.

"Dirk Stoner approaches the tee," he declared in a deep sports announcer's voice. "He's lining up his drive. He can birdie this hole, and if he does, the trophy and the money are his. The crowd's at a hush. Stoner plants his feet, concentrates and . . . swings."

He entered her roughly and began his thrusts with a wildness that terrified her. He was so hard and strong, he could rip her apart, she thought. Her body lifted off the mattress. He scooped up her legs and pulled them back until her spine screamed. When she looked up at him, she saw his eyes roll back, his lips drool. From this angle with him in the throes of sexual passion, his reconstructed face took on the look of a mask, the bones pressing against the thin skin.

"It's going long, long, long. Stoner is on the green. Hold it, hold it, he's going to get a possible hole in one. I don't believe it. Yes, yes, yes," he cried as spurted in her. The whole bed shook, the headboard slamming against the wall.

She thought she had passed out. When she opened her eyes, he had dismounted and was lying on his back, breathing hard, panting, and murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes." She dared not move. After a while he spun around and then roughly turned her over and slapped her buttocks.

"Good," he said, as if he were grading her on her performance. "Just like old times. I'll check the hot water. I know how you are," he said. "Boy, do I know."

She watched him leave the bedroom, and then she started to sit up. The ache in her legs and lower back nearly took her breath away. She gazed at the windows. Did she dare try to open them and slip out?

He was back before she could test them.

"The water's hot enough, Farah. Go to it," he said. He had an open beer can in his hand and took a long swallow, his Adam's apple moving like a small rodent in his neck.

She was going to vomit. She knew she couldn't hold it back. Practically leaping out of the bed, she hurried to the bathroom, his laughter behind her. There she knelt at the toilet and let loose. It felt as if she had regurgitated her intestines before she sat back on the floor, dazed.

He threw open the door and looked at her. "What's wrong?" he said, furious. "You never threw up after we made love."

She thought quickly. He looked as if he wanted to rip off her head. "I'm. . ."

"What?" he demanded, stepping forward. He crushed the empty beer can in his hand.

"Pregnant," she said.

He stopped dead and stared.

"Pregnant?"

She nodded. His eyes shifted, and his mouth twisted with the thought.

"Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes, that's good. The Stoners have to go on, don't they? Okay, okay. Be pregnant," he said as if he had the power to deny it or make it true right then and there. He took a deep breath.

This was a mad game of pretending. How would it end? When would it end?

"I guess I better get us something to eat. Take your shower and get dressed," he said, nodding at the stall. "There are towels in the closet there."

"Okay." She smiled.

"I know what you want to eat," he added. "If they have it, I'll get it."

"Thank you," she said.

"Pregnant," he said. "I like that. Sure. It's time I became a father." His smile faded and was quickly replaced with a scowl. "It better be a boy."

"I think it is," she said. "I know it is," she added as convincingly as she could manage.

"Good." He gazed down at her and then stepped back and closed the door.

She held her breath. Once he was gone, she would get away and find help. He was getting dressed, so she ran the shower and then decided it was probably a good idea to take one anyway. It would revive her. The water was warm enough, and she did feel soiled and dirty because of the rape. When she looked at her body, she saw all the red marks, the bruises and the scratches. Until now she had been somewhat numb to pain, but as she regained her composure, so did she regain all feeling, and the aches and stings were almost overwhelming.

She dried herself and then listened at the door. The cabin was quiet. Surely he was gone. Slowly, inches at a time, she opened the door until she could peer out. The cabin was empty, not a sign of him. She had to take advantage of this good luck. It was time to move and move fast. She rushed out to find her clothes in the bedroom.

As soon as she entered, she heard the door slam behind her and she spun around. He was standing there, still naked, a twisted, mad smile on his face.

"E Lame," he said, "I knew you would come as soon as your sister was gone."

Ted Andrews assumed the demeanor and the posture of a psychiatrist as he listened to Harry Ross's story. He kept his face expressionless while still evincing interest and sympathy, nodding appropriately, but saying nothing. Ted realized that Harry Ross saw conspiracies everywhere, emanating from Philip Stoner as if the deceased billionaire merely had to point his finger in any direction and whole government agencies would be set in motion. From the way Harry described him, the man could order a change in the weather.

Ted had to admit that the story Harry's younger daughter had told him was eerie. He began to think that at the least they might have a copycat out there. Nothing was too bizarre to be possible, especially when it concerned serial and copycat killers, he concluded.

"Does the New York office have any of this information yet?" Ted asked, when Harry paused. He had been speaking at high speed, talking as quickly as his tongue could form the syllables. His neck muscles strained, his eyes bulged. The hot flush that had been in his face when he first entered was still there, sweat beading on his brow. If the phenomenon of a human being exploding was indeed possible, Harry Ross was a prime candidate. Ted sought ways to calm him.

"No," Harry said. "I thought if I came here, the lines of communication would be faster."

Ted nodded. "That was a good idea, Mr. Ross," he said. "Let my secretary get you something to drink.

Relax a moment and then, if you can, give her the story with as many details as you can recall. We'll fax it to New York as soon as you're finished."

Harry's body seemed to soften, sink in his clothes, as he assumed a more relaxed posture. "Good. We've got to get on this immediately."

"I understand. We will," Ted said firmly. Harry stared at him like a man who couldn't believe his stroke of good luck. Then his eyes darkened as new suspicions and new paranoia developed.

"I know how crazy this must sound to you, but from the day of the execution, I never had a good feeling. I remember Philip Stoner's face. I remember thinking how in hell could even Stoner—a man who, when he moved his little pinky, changed lives, destroyed lives—how could he watch his own son's death and not even have his eyes water? It wasn't natural, especially for a man with that sort of ego. Now it makes sense to me. Philip Stoner saved his son and remade him, or at least he thought he had. Don't be surprised if you find out his own son killed him. We're talking about using science, cosmetically changing a man's face, giving him a new identity. It's done, isn't it? Even our government does it," Harry emphasized.

Ted felt his heartbeat quicken, his eyes widen. It was as if Harry Ross in his wild attack on the unreasonable world around him had shot an arrow that had struck a target. Cosmetic surgery? "Yes, Mr. Ross, we do," he admitted. Harry nodded and sat back. "So don't be too quick to write me off as just a distraught father."

"You have my word that I won't," Ted said. He said it with such firmness that Harry's paranoia receded instantly. "I have children too," Ted added.

"Good," Harry said. "Then you understand."

Ted called for Marlene. "Please get Mr. Ross whatever he wants and take his statements. I want to fax them to New York as soon as they're written."

"Yes, sir," she said. She turned to Harry, who rose with great effort.

"Take it easy for a few minutes, Mr. Ross. You don't have to tell me how traumatic all this must be."

"No," Harry said, his eyes resembling those of a man who had lost his soul, "I don't."

Ted watched him walk out and then buzzed Billy on the intercom.

"What's up?" Billy asked as he entered Ted's office. Ted nodded at the door and he closed it.

"We have to go back on the Internet," he said.

Billy's eyes widened. "Really? Why?"

"Get me all you can on the execution of Dirk Stoner and its aftermath," Ted said. "You remember the case?"

"Sure. Why the new interest?" Billy asked.

"His victim's sister is missing in New York. I just met with the father. It could be a kidnapping. Get me as much detail as you can, Billy."

"No problem," Billy said and left.

A half hour later Marlene came by with Harry Ross's statement. Ted read it, impressed with the detail.

"Okay, looks good," he said. "Let's get it out to New York. Put me through to Bob Raphael so I can let him know it's coming," he added. "Where's Mr. Ross?"

"He left. He said he was on his way to New York. While he was talking, something came to mind and he got very excited. He barely finished before he jumped up and ran out."

"Okay, let's get hopping ourselves," Ted said.

Minutes later he was on the phone with the bureau chief in New York.

"It does look like an abduction," Raphael told him. "We've already interviewed the girlfriend who was with Elaine Ross at the dance club. She remembered the guy's name, and we were able to track him to the rental of a van. We've put its description and license plate number out."

"What do you have on the man himself?"

"Not much yet."

"What about his permanent residence?"

"Thanks for your assistance, Ted," he said abruptly. "We'll take it from here."

"But—"

"This is going to be high profile, considering who the victim is, Ted. I got word from Bradley himself. Everything has to go through his office first. They don't even want me talking to another bureau office without going through them. I have your fax," he said. "Thanks. You don't have to bother with this any more. You're lucky," he added. "Enjoy your time off," he added before hanging up.

Did the whole bureau know he was taking a week off? Ted wondered. What was going on here?

Ted felt the heat build in his chest. "Jesus Christ," he said, "the guy might not be paranoid after all. Dr. Lawler murdered, the nurse murdered. Philip Stoner shot to death." He looked up as Billy returned.

"The flight plan for the Rainback Corporate jet fits. It flew up to San Quentin the day of Dirk Stoner's execution."

Ted nodded. "I want you to find out who was the doctor on the execution."

"Done."

"And?"

"The doctor is dead, heart attack. I downloaded the story from the San Francisco paper."

He handed it to Ted, who perused it quickly. "He had just retired?"

Billy shrugged. "Pretty bad luck," he said.

"Maybe." Ted looked at the article again. The writer mentioned that Dirk Stoner was one of the murderers whose execution Dr. Byron had supervised. He looked up again, his decision made.

"I think I know how I'm going to spend my holiday. What about you, Billy? Do you have any vacation time coming?"

"Sure."

"Want to go to New York?"

Billy smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

KATHY DU BOIS MET HARRY AND Lil at Elaine's apartment. For all three of them, but especially for Harry and Lil, it was emotionally difficult to be there among Elaine's things. While they waited for Kathy, they looked at the pictures of themselves and of Farah that Elaine had placed all over the small apartment.

Once, we were a happy family, Harry thought. So many people were envious of us. Life is so fragile; fate can turn or twist in a moment and change your entire direction. He pushed back the terrifying thought that he might already have lost his surviving child. He couldn't even begin to imagine what life would be like for him and Lil. We might as well all die together, he thought.

They had called the New York police to let them know where they could be located as soon as any information was attained. Harry had been referred to the FBI, and the agent who spoke to him on the phone sounded efficient but impersonal. Harry's paranoia became inflamed. Even the Federal Bureau of Investigation had been paid off with Stoner money.

"You know the make and the model of the van he rented. It isn't hard to trace a vehicle nowadays, is it?" Harry pursued.

"It's still not as easy as they make it look on television, Mr. Ross. We don't know what direction he might have taken. We have all bridge and tunnel personnel on alert, but he might have left the city before we passed on the information. There's an APB out there. Every highway patrolman has the alert. We'll get back to you as soon as we learn something concrete."

Harry mumbled a thank-you and hung up. He didn't want to go off on his own if there was any possible lead that would take him and the police in a different direction, but their lack of information confirmed his private plan. He couldn't let Lil in on it, though. She would do everything to stop him.

Kathy comforted her, talked about Elaine and how strong a person she was, how no matter how difficult the problem, she was surely capable of finding a solution. An hour later Lil's family arrived at the apartment, which began to look like the scene of a wake.

"I'm going for a walk," Harry told Lil. "I can't sit still."

"Where are you going?" she asked, her eyes full of panic. "It's late."

"Just for a walk. Relax. Keep busy. I'll call you."

"Call me? What are you talking about?"

"I mean, I'll be right back. I don't know what I'm saying. I gotta get some air."

"You want company?" his brother-in-law asked.

"No. I just want to take a quick walk. Thanks, Louis," he said and hurried out before Lil could put up any more resistance.

Once outside, he located the closest pay phone and called Margie Cohen at Pacific Escrow, a company he and Lil used often.

"I need you to do something for me. There's a property in upstate New York I need to locate. It's owned by Philip Stoner, Marge. I'm in New York City, and I couldn't take the time to locate it myself before I left L.A.," he explained. "I know it's in the area that used to be known as the borscht belt, the Catskill resort area. I believe it's Sullivan County. That's all I can remember Farah telling me."

"Okay, Harry. I'll call my cousin Marvin Plotter in Westchester County tomorrow morning, and he'll find it for us. Where should I call you?"

"It can't wait until tomorrow morning, Marge. I'll call you in about an hour and a half."

"What is this, Harry?"

"It involves my younger daughter, Marge. Her life is in danger."

"Oh, my God."

"Can you help me?"

"I'll call Marvin at home and get him to help us. I've done him loads of favors and made him a lot of money," she assured Harry.

"Thanks. Make sure your cousin understands how desperately important this is."

"Why is it so desperately important, Harry? How is Elaine's life in danger?"

"I can't tell you all of it right now, Marge, but believe me when I say I'm not exaggerating."

"I'll get the information, Harry."

"I knew you would," he said. "Thanks, Marge."

After he hung up, he looked up rental car companies in the phone book and found a location only four blocks from Elaine's apartment. He was there in less than ten minutes, and twenty minutes later he was driving a Cadillac with a mobile phone. He needed a full-size car. He was thinking ahead. He wanted speed, and afterward he wanted comfort for Elaine. As long as he was moving, doing something, he could keep his optimism.

It had been years since he had driven to upstate New York. He and Lil had once spent a holiday at the Concord Hotel. They had flown to New York and rented a car. They had a great time. The food and the entertainment were wonderful. He played some golf; she went to the health club. They danced into the wee hours. Back then he would never in his wildest imagination have envisioned himself taking this same route for this reason.

About an hour out of New York, he called Marge Cohen.

"I just got the information, Harry. Marvin has access to his office computers from his home, but he said it still wasn't easy to find. It's near a village called Mountain Dale, off Church Road. The address is just Church Road. I don't know how you're going to find it. Marvin says it's hard enough to find places up there in the daytime, much less at night. He says—"

"I'll find it," Harry said. "Thanks, Marge. I owe you a lot."

"Harry, is Elaine going to be all right?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "She sure is."

He sped up. He was on the New York Thruway. When he reached the Sullivan County exit, the toll booth attendant gave him directions to Mountain Dale. He was sorry to learn he had at least another fifty miles to go, but he accelerated and never looked back.

As he drove, he fantasized getting another phone call years ago. This call came from Farah. She was telling him Dirk was threatening her. He was coming to the apartment. Harry saw himself rushing out of the house, getting into his car, and driving at near fatal speeds until he reached her street. Once there, he whipped the car to the curb, hopped out, and ran to the rear of the house just as Dirk opened the patio door. In seconds Harry was on him, gripping him in a choke hold. And Farah . . . Farah was safe. None of this was going to happen.

The blast of a tractor trailer's horn shattered the fantasy. The trucker was right on his bumper. He hadn't realized he had slowed down while he played with his imagination. He floored the accelerator and pulled ahead.

"I'm coming, Elaine," he muttered. "Hold out, baby. I'm coming."

Ted Andrews and Billy Powell caught a military transport from L.A. and arrived at Elaine's apartment a little over an hour after Harry had left. Billy carried his portable computer notebook in its case the way old-time doctors carried their medicine bags. Ted introduced himself quickly to Lil's brother, who presented him and Billy to Lil. She had been sitting on pins and needles in the living room, waiting for Harry's return.

"I suspect that your husband's not coming right back, Mrs. Ross," Ted Andrews said after she explained how Harry had left.

"I can't imagine what he's doing," Lil said.

"May I speak to you privately?" Ted asked her. Everyone was standing around, listening.

She took him and Billy to Elaine's bedroom and closed the door.

Ted began to review what Harry had told him.

"I know all about that fantastic idea, Mr. Andrews," she said. "God forbid it be anywhere near true."

"I agree, but assuming Harry still has those suspicions, do you have any thoughts about where he would go in New York? Did the Stoners keep an apartment here, for example?"

"New York real estate. I'm sure he has office buildings, property but . . ." She shook her head and then stopped, her eyes widening a bit. "I recall there being some vacation place upstate," she said, "but I don't know where. I can't remember. Farah and Dirk went there after they were first married. It's some kind of a cabin in the country, near a lake, I think."

"Owned by Dirk Stoner?"

"By his father," she replied. "You think Harry's gone there?" She shook her head. "He wouldn't. . . how would he go?"

Ted looked at Billy who was already unzipping his computer case.

"I need a phone line," he muttered, quickly located it, and plugged in his modem. In seconds he was sitting before the lit screen and quickly getting access to FBI resources. While he worked, Ted asked Lil questions about Dirk and Farah, trying to keep Lil calm and talking.

"Got it," Billy said. "It's a parcel of land near a hamlet called Mountain Dale, about ninety miles northwest of the city. Hold on," he added. He reached into his case and took out the small portable printer. He attached it and then went back to the computer as Ted watched.

"These things are going to make us all obsolete someday, Mrs. Ross. All of us except people like Billy here."

They watched as the printer began to click. A map emerged.

"A street map from Mapblaster," Billy bragged.

Ted gazed at it. Billy kept working.

"Found him," he announced. "He rented a car about two hours ago, a black Cadillac."

"Oh, my God," Lil said. "What's he doing?"

"Let's go," Ted said. "Thank you, Mrs. Ross. Don't worry. We'll get to him."

Billy put his equipment back in the case, and they left the apartment.

"He's got quite a head start," Billy said. "We're going to need a chopper to get anywhere near catching up with him, but you didn't check out with Selzer, and you said the New York office as much as cut you out of the loop."

"I think we might be able to change their minds now," Ted said.

Twenty minutes later he and Billy were standing in Bob Raphael's office. As Ted laid out the revelations and the theory, he noticed Raphael's face did not reflect any skepticism. He stared stone-faced and then sat back.

"Bradley's not going to like hearing any of this, Ted. I told you we were on this case and you should start your vacation," Raphael said slowly.

"What's going on, Bob? I've got a right to know," Ted insisted.

Raphael glanced at Billy.

"He's been in on this from the start and knows as much as I do," Ted said.

"You're sure about this location?"

"It's a hot possibility and worth the trip," Ted said. "But time is really ticking away, Bob. More people will die, innocent people."

"Bradley's not going to like this," Bob Raphael insisted.

"If it's a matter of containment, we're your best bet, but only if we act quickly, Bob. Who knows how this might blow up if we don't get there in time. You've got to make an independent decision," Ted emphasized.

Raphael nodded, thought a moment, and then picked up the phone and ordered a chopper.

The night before had been horrendous. He never left the cabin to get food until early in the morning. Before he left, he tied Elaine's wrists and ankles with wire again. She was barely able to move on the bed. When he returned, he undid the wire and offered her something to eat.

Throughout the day, Dirk moved between seeing her as Farah and as herself. Elaine began to wonder if these schizophrenic episodes were real or make-believe. His demeanor, his facial expressions, and even his voice changed when he saw her as who she really was.

She ate and drank what he offered only so she would have the strength to escape when she saw the opportunity, but he was always a step ahead of her, tying her up when he wanted to sleep or when he wanted to leave the cabin. On the second evening he left and didn't return for over an hour and a half because he decided to get them take-out Chinese food.

"We're really in the boonies," he declared when he returned. "I had to drive about twenty miles for this."

He laid it all out on the table and undid the wires again. She was angry and frustrated and for the first time considered attacking him with the fork he had placed next to her plate. If she succeeded in jabbing it into his throat . . .

However, when he took off his shirt and she saw his muscularity, she lost her courage. He was formidable. She would have to concentrate on outsmarting him, getting the surprise advantage. Otherwise it would be no contest.

She pretended to be grateful for the food and very hungry. The nausea she had initially experienced had never left her. It was difficult to keep down a piece of bread, much less chicken fried rice, moo goo gai pan, shrimp lo mein, spring rolls, and pot stickers. He ate ravenously.

She paused and looked at him. He kept her naked, but she no longer thought about it.

"Where have you been since . . . since your escape?" she asked.

"Where have I been? I've been in hell most of the time. The people Dad had working for me were a gruesome, boring lot. They kept me in places even more hidden away than this and I didn't speak to another normal person until . . . I escaped again."

"What do you mean, escaped again?"

"I wasn't supposed to go back to the world yet," he said and smirked. "I wasn't ready, according to them and my father," he complained.

"Did you kill your father?" she asked.

"No. I don't know who killed him. Maybe your father did."

"He would never do such a thing, no matter how he felt,'" she insisted.

He smiled. "I remember you in the courtroom. Every once in a while, I'd sneak a look back at you. You looked more bored than I was half the time."

"I wasn't bored. I was numb," she said.

He thought a moment and then laughed. "Me too."

"Are they after you, then?" she asked. She ate a little just so he would continue to make conversation.

"Who? The police?"

"No, the people your father got to take care of you," she said.

"They came after me, and one of them was very sorry right before his brains exploded on concrete. My guess is they gave up once dear old Dad met the Grim Reaper. A lot of things will fall apart in his empire now."

"It could have all been yours," she said.

He shrugged. "A lot of it still is. Dad provided for me in many ways. I have my Swiss bank accounts. Don't worry your little head over me."

"Don't you feel any remorse at all for what you've done and what you're doing?" she asked.

He paused, thought, and then shook his head. "Nope, not a bit," he said and chomped down on the shrimp. "Pretty good Chinese food for a hick town, huh?"

She didn't reply. It was dark outside. The sky was overcast, so there were no stars and no moon. It looked as if Dirk had draped black velvet over the windows. How could she ever make her way through such a thick night? Her heart sank. She lowered her head.

"Hey, don't tell me E Lame is finally giving up," he said. "Don't tell me she's finally realizing she isn't better than me," he said, gloating.

She raised her head slowly and fixed her eyes on him with such hatred that he had to pause.

"Wipe that look off your face or I'll. . ."

She shifted her eyes away quickly.

"That's better. I remember how you used to treat me, look down on me. Let me tell you something, E Lame, you ain't even a good fuck."

He threw his fork down on the table and sat back abruptly. Her heart began to pound. He was changing again. He would be more vicious this time.

"Sex by itself is just sex by itself," she said. "People have to care for each other."

He looked at her and laughed. "That's what you think, huh? Believe me, I've been with many women who didn't care all that much for me but who cared a great deal about themselves and wanted to use me just as much as I wanted to use them. We please ourselves, E Lame. That's what sex is really all about."

"Not for me," she said with defiance.

He started to laugh and stopped. "You're still a snob. Get up," he ordered, "and go to the bedroom. I'll show you how it's done in our most outstanding prisons. Let's see if that doesn't wipe the smug look off your face."

"Please," she pleaded. "I'm tired."

"Oh, you poor baby. Get the fuck up!"

She rose slowly. He stood up and slammed his chair against the table. Then he turned to lock the cabin door. As he did so, she reached for the fork and clutched it in her left hand, holding it down at her side. She turned and walked toward the bedroom. He strutted after her. She brought her left hand in front of her and passed the fork to her right hand. When she reached the door, he put his hand on her buttocks and she spun around, driving the fork with all her might and hitting him squarely at the bridge of his nose, the outside right tooth of the fork pricking his left eye. Almost immediately the blood flowed down his face.

She ducked under his right arm, which he had raised instinctively but too late, and she charged out, scooping a dustcover off the floor as she rushed to the door. She turned the lock, opened the door, and flew out into the night, the dustcover over her shoulders, floating behind her like a cape.

His howl was maddening and drove her forward, blindly, stumbling over rocks and brushes until she reached the forest and continued her flight through the darkness, running into branches, scratching her arms and legs, but ignoring the pain as she charged ahead.

Her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and she ran into less foliage, but the going was very hard on her feet. She knew they were bleeding. Her right big toe felt broken, and her ankles screamed with the pain from twisting and spinning her way through tree roots and rocks.

Finally she paused at a small gully and leaned against a slim birch. The forest was deathly quiet. Her pounding heart thumped so loud, however, she didn't think she would hear anything else. The pain in her right side was sharp. She felt as if she had made an incision from her hip up to her armpit. She finally caught her breath and looked back. It was so dark; everything was so still.

And then she saw the beam of a flashlight.

He was coming.

He would come after her forever.

HARRY'S HEART SANK WHEN HE pulled into the hamlet of Mountain Dale. Except for the streetlights, the small town was dark. There wasn't a single pedestrian, nor did he see any other automobiles. There were windows lit above some storefronts, but what was he going to do, stop at homes, knock on doors, and ask for directions to a cabin in the woods? If he had to, he would, he thought, and then, just before he reached the end of what looked like the only street, he saw a small bar and grill, its one neon sign still lit and blinking: Kayfield's. He pulled over to the curb and got out.

The place was larger than he first had thought. The bar was on the left and extended in a semicircle almost to the rear wall. There were black synthetic wood tables on the left and, in the rear, a pool table and a jukebox alongside a cigarette machine. Three men were sitting at the bar. On closer inspection, he realized one wasn't a man. She was a woman who looked to be in her fifties, her dark brown hair cropped unevenly short, her thick thighs shoved into worn gray dungarees, the sleeves of her flannel shirt rolled up to her elbows. She wore black boots. Hovering over her mug of beer the same way the two men did, she gazed at him with surprise and interest.

A party of four men, three at least in their late fifties and one perhaps in his thirties, were playing gin rummy, a small pot of bills piled at the center of the table, an open bottle of beer beside each man. They looked up but continued their game. The bartender, leaning against the back cabinet, his arms folded over his protruding belly, nodded at him. Harry thought he looked like one of the Three Stooges with the puffs of gray and black hair bordering a bald head that glittered beneath the overhead light fixture.

"Yes, sir?" he said without moving away from the cabinet.

"I just drove up from New York, and I've got to find a place very quickly," Harry said, trying not to sound as desperate as he was. He feared spooking them and keeping them from talking. All of the patrons heard him, and their interest was immediately piqued. Even the card players stopped their game.

"And where would that be?" the bartender asked him.

Harry looked at his note. "Church Road, a cabin owned by a Philip Stoner."

"I know it," the woman said quickly, as if she were playing Jeopardy. She raised her beer mug to her mouth and took a long swig while Harry waited. "Hardly uses the place. It's a pretty nice cabin too. It's near Stone Pond," she added for the bartender's benefit. He nodded, but he looked as if he still didn't know where the place was.

"Is it far from here?" Harry asked.

"Naw," she said. "You follow the street out here until it forks. Stay on the left. That's Church Road. It winds around about two miles, and then you'll come to a steep hill on your left. Go up about three miles and watch for a road on your right. Only way you'll see it is there's a broken corral fence right before it. The road's just gravel. Go in about a half a mile and you'll run into the cabin. I think Stoner owns about fifty acres up there, don't he, Joe?"

The short, thin man beside her nodded. "At least, and it's good land too. Got me a six-pointer on that property last year. No signs posted," he added quickly, eyeing Harry.

"Thanks," Harry said.

"Watch out for the traffic," someone at the card table called as Harry started for the door. Everyone laughed. Harry flashed a smile and left, feeling as if he had just struck gold.

The directions were easy to follow. In minutes he reached the steep hill the woman had described. As he started up, he suddenly realized what he might have to do.

I have no weapons, he thought, and maybe Stoner does.

His memory went back to his conversation with the correction officer, Wayne Echert, who had described Dirk as physically fit, working out, building his body.

Fools rush in, Harry thought, but I'm not going to go look for help now. No time.

He found the gravel road and turned off his headlights about a quarter of a mile after he had started in. The gravel crunched loudly beneath his tires. He slowed and stopped, sticking his head out to see if he could hear anything. The night was silent all around him. The androgynous creature at the bar had said about a half a mile. He had nearly gone that far. He didn't want to drive right to the cabin. The only thing he had going for him was surprise.

He got out of the car. The air felt misty and humid, as if rain had stopped and been put on hold just a few feet from the earth where it would linger until it was released in a downpour. Harry opened the trunk and searched for the tire iron. When he found it, he closed the trunk softly and started up the gravel road, moving quickly and quietly, his heart pumping blood so fast that he could almost feel it wash through his chest.

Less than five minutes later he saw the cabin. A light was on, and a van was parked out in front. He had been right, but the knowledge filled him with a cold dread. He hoped he wasn't too late. After all, it had been nearly two full days since Elaine was abducted.

As he drew closer, he realized the door of the cabin was wide open. It made him hesitate. That was odd, ominous. He studied the scene, waiting and listening. Still hearing nothing, he crouched and made his way to the front window. Slowly he raised his head and peered into the cabin. Two lamps were burning, and a candle flickered on a table covered with containers for take-out food as well as two plates, some silverware, glasses, and a bottle of beer. He studied the layout and concentrated on the open door to his right. Nothing moved. There was no sign of any inhabitants, but he concluded they couldn't have left that table too long ago.

He decided not to rush in. Instead, he turned around and circled the cabin, peering through every window until he reached the lighted bedroom and saw that it too was empty. However, he noticed the clothes scattered sloppily beside the bed and, on closer inspection, concluded they were Elaine's.

Where in hell was she? Where was he? Harry waited, hoping someone would appear, and then, after no more than two minutes passed, two minutes that felt like hours, he heard the most horrible, piercing howl, followed by a shrill scream. The sounds had come from the woods to his left. He knew then what people meant when they claimed their blood had turned to ice in their veins. For a moment he couldn't move, hardly breathed, and felt as if something sharp and lethal had been plunged through his heart. Then he charged into the woods, crashing through the bush, swinging the tire iron like a machete.

There was another scream and then another. He paused and heard the distinct sound of sobbing and the sound of someone moving rapidly through the brush. And then he saw the beam of light and crouched to wait.

Dirk had Elaine's hair grasped in his right hand. He was leading her along, occasionally tugging hard on the strands. She carried the dustcover in her left hand, pressing it to her body to protect as much of herself as she could from the branches of saplings and bushes through which Dirk walked, seemingly unaffected himself by the thorns and undergrowth that snapped back at them like whips.

Harry couldn't see his face, but the shape of his body, the way he walked, and what he already knew from Elaine's description, convinced him that this was indeed his hated former son-in-law. Dirk was shirtless, his shoulders and arms gleaming like armor in the reflected illumination of the flashlight.

When they reached a small clearing, Harry burst out of the shadows. He wasn't a small man, but he was far from an athletic man. The strength and the power he mustered came from someplace far deeper inside him than mere muscle tissue. He reached down into the essence of his being, his years and years of frustrated manhood and fatherhood. He molded his ever-present subconscious guilt into a ball of hate and fury that overtook his actual physical being and made him gigantic.

Dirk looked up with surprise as the dark figure came at him. Elaine gasped, thinking there were more incredible horrors around her. He had taken her into a demonic world, peopled by creatures beyond imagination, and they would soon both be consumed. She half expected the entire forest to come alive, trees to metamorphose into wiry gargoyles, skeletons of hands to pop up from the moss and mud, tree roots to turn into snakes.

Dirk released his grip on her hair to put up his defense after he had directed the flashlight on Harry and realized who it was, but Harry came in low, charging forward with speed he never anticipated he could ever achieve. Dirk's flashlight beam fell on Harry's face as Harry lifted his head, and their eyes met. Dirk started to swing the flashlight like a club, but Harry feinted to the right and then to the left as he brought the sharp end of the tire iron forward, driving it in just below Dirk's chest and following the thrust with all his weight. The flashlight flew out of Dirk's hand and twirled to the ground, the impact extinguishing its beam like a smothered fire.

The two of them went over, Harry falling on Dirk as they hit the ground, but never releasing the tire iron. He had succeeded in knocking the wind out of him, and for a moment, Dirk gasped and heaved. Harry rose above him on his knees and lifted the tire iron like a spear, driving it down with all his might and his weight, striking Dirk in the same place, only this time the end broke through Dirk's skin and entered his body. The iron stuck up and out of Dirk, who remained on his back, his hands coming up slowly to grasp the iron before his arms fell to his sides. It was as if Harry had driven a stake into a vampire.

Elaine, who had remained in a protective crouch the whole time, was now on her feet, fleeing from the scene. Harry groaned as he turned to lift himself. He saw her disappearing into the brush and screamed. "Elaine!"

He got to his feet and staggered forward. The sounds of her mashing the undergrowth ceased.

"Elaine!" he cried again.

He moved forward a little more steadily, straightening up as he cried out again and again until she appeared before him, silhouetted in the darkness.

"Dad?" she said.

"My baby," he cried and reached out for her. She stepped into his arms and they held each other, neither able to speak for a moment, neither willing to relax his grip on the other. He kissed her forehead and her hair.

"How did you find us?" she asked, still feeling as if she were in an ongoing nightmare. None of this could be real: her father appearing miraculously, coming all the way from California, and finding her in this hideaway. "How?"

"I wasn't going to lose you too," he said. "Are you all right?"

"No," she said, "but I will be."

"Let's get out of here," he urged, wrapping the dustcover around her. They moved slowly toward the cabin.

From the southeast came the chatter of a helicopter. It fell like thunder out of the dark clouds until its lights were visible. As Harry and Elaine emerged from the forest, the helicopter found the gravel road, and its spotlight hit the black Cadillac and the van. It began its descent toward the clear area. Harry and Elaine paused and looked up at the glaring light. Someone was waving madly at them.

"The police?" Elaine said.

"I think it's an FBI agent," Harry said, shielding his eyes.

Ted Andrews was waving his arms and pointing emphatically.

"What the hell. . . ?" Harry turned, partly out of instinct, partly because he thought Ted Andrews was trying to indicate something.

Dirk had pulled the tire iron out of his body and was waving it over his head as he stumbled forward like some medieval warrior obsessed with battle and dying for his cause. He lumbered toward them, tiny streaks of blood down the sides of his chin, creating a gruesome mask. The wound under his chest had become war paint, crimson lines drawn over his stomach and under his heart, primitive, primeval designs meant to ward off mortal danger. His eyes were filled with the illumination from the helicopter's spotlight. His face was on fire. He looked unstoppable, invulnerable, a creature with a thousand lives who laughed at the threat of impending death, defiant.

They didn't hear the crack of the rifle. The helicopter's engine overpowered the sound, but Dirk's forehead suddenly exploded, the hairline lifting as if he wore a wig, his skull splattering, freeing blood that spurted free and clear into the darkness around him like a swarm of red insects. He was lifted by the impact, his arms jerking up and out as he was thrown back into the shadows, where he disappeared like someone who had fallen into the earth itself, been swallowed up in a grave dug long ago in preparation for him and this moment.

Elaine collapsed against Harry and became limp. He scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the cabin as the helicopter continued its descent.

Harry was impressed with how quickly a doctor and an ambulance arrived on the scene. Apparently the FBI had anticipated enough of this to begin the process and have a doctor on his way at about the same time they began their journey to the cabin. The doctor was a military physician; Harry never even learned his name.

Although Elaine put up a fuss, it was decided she would go to the hospital. When they left in the ambulance, however, Harry was surprised to learn that they were taking her back to the city.

"It's better this way, Harry," Ted Andrews told him. "Thank God her injuries aren't life-threatening and she doesn't need to go to an emergency room. This will be easier for your wife too," he added, but Harry understood there was more to this.

Before they left, a team of agents had arrived at the cabin and had begun a thorough cleanup. Harry had the sense that in a matter of hours, no one would be able to tell that anything out of the ordinary had occurred here.

He rode in the ambulance with Elaine. The doctor had sedated her, so she slept all the way. From the way her mouth twitched and her eyes moved, Harry imagined she was reliving some of the horror. He was afraid to learn just how bad it had been and what she had gone through. The worst visible injuries were on her feet, which were cut and scratched so badly that the bandages had to be wrapped up over her ankles. The other scratches and traumas were treated, but left uncovered, except for one sizable gash just above her left elbow. Remarkably, her face was unscathed.

"I've got to call my wife," Harry told Ted Andrews. "She must be half out of her mind by now."

"It's all been taken care of Harry. Your wife has been contacted. We've got someone returning your rental car, and our people are bringing Mrs. Ross to the hospital. She'll be there when we arrive," Ted promised.

In the calm of the aftermath, or rather in his own exhaustion, Harry sank into the comfort of all this official support. He sensed that there wasn't much he could ask for and not get.

"How did you find us? What got you to follow up?" Harry asked him. "You didn't look that convinced when we spoke in your office."

"Let's wait, Harry," Ted Andrews said. "We'll put it all together for you when you can understand it better. We still have a few loose ends to tie up ourselves."

Harry smiled. "You mean when you get the clearance to tell me everything?"

"Something like that," Ted admitted.

Harry had his first laugh. It felt really good. He held on to Elaine's hand and closed his eyes. He didn't think it was possible to be this tired and still be alive. He tried to stay awake, but he drifted off for nearly an hour and woke only when the ambulance began to cross the George Washington Bridge. Elaine was still asleep.

There were police everywhere when they arrived at the hospital. Lil rushed forward when they emerged from the ambulance.

"She's all right," Harry said quickly. "She's all right, Lil."

The ambulance attendants paused with the gurney to let her look at Elaine.

"My God, her feet, those scratches. What happened, Harry? No one will tell me anything." She followed the gurney into the hospital. When Harry didn't respond, she stopped and looked at him.

"Let's see to Elaine first," he said.

A little over an hour later they sat on a small leather settee in a private lounge used only by the hospital administration, and Harry, leaving out many of the gruesome details, related what he had done and what had occurred.

Lil listened without interrupting and then finally, realizing what he had gone through, turned her attention to him. "Maybe the doctors should examine you, too, Harry?"

"I'm all right," he said, smiling. "Just tired."

The doctor who examined Elaine at the hospital came in to see them and, with Ted Andrews and Bob Raphael at his side, gave Harry and Lil a full report. "Except for a broken toe, she has no serious physical injuries," he said stressing the word "physical."

Lil picked up on that. "Will she be all right?"

"We'll have a therapist seeing her as soon as she is able to benefit," the doctor said, gazing at Bob Raphael to be sure what he was saying met with approval.

Harry caught the shift in the doctor's eyes.

"I'd let her sleep and get some sleep yourselves," he continued.

"Where is she?" Harry asked.

"We put her in a private room, Mr. Ross," Bob Raphael said, "with security."

"Why?" Lil asked, fearful. "Is someone else after her, after us?"

"We have absolutely no reason to believe that, Mrs. Ross. It's just a precaution."

"To protect whom?" Harry shot back. "Well?" he added angrily.

The two agents looked at each other and then at the doctor, who quickly excused himself and left.

"Why don't we wait until tomorrow, Mr. Ross? Everyone's exhausted. It's been a horrible experience for all of you," Raphael said.

"I want all of questions answered. Give me every fact you have," Harry insisted.

"You'll get it," Ted Andrews said firmly. "That I personally promise you."

From the way Ted Andrews looked at Bob Raphael, Harry felt reassured.

"Okay. Let's go get some sleep, Lil," Harry said.

"We have a car waiting to take you back to Elaine's apartment, and there'll be a car there for you in the morning whenever you want it," Raphael said. "Just call this number for anything you need, sir," he said, handing Harry a card.

Harry took it, and they rose and started out.

"Why are they being so nice to us, Harry?" Lil asked softly.

"Someone pretty high up somewhere screwed up big, Lil, and we were all victims because of it," he said. "That's why."

She took a deep breath.

She was almost afraid to hear any more.

Epilogue

ELAINE WASN'T GOING TO remain in the hospital a minute longer than necessary. Once the period of testing and observation ended, she began clamoring to go home and back to school. She had had two sessions with the therapist, who told Harry and Lil that Elaine was an extraordinarily strong person.

"You have one very focused and determined young woman there," she told them. "No one comes out of something like this completely whole, but I think she's going to be fine. She's promised to continue to see me on a periodic basis, and of course, whenever she feels she needs to see me, I'll make the time for her."

"We see therapists the way other people see their dentists," Harry muttered afterward. "Mental and emotional checkups for the rest of our lives."

"There's no shame in that, Harry, especially when suffering alone is unnecessary."

He wasn't going to argue. He wasn't ever going to argue with the women in his life again, he thought.

Ted Andrews didn't come back to see them until two days after Elaine had been brought to the hospital. He left messages, promising he would be there with all of it, claiming the investigation was still ongoing. There had been a remarkable blackout of news. Nothing about the kidnapping had appeared in the newspapers or on television or radio. It was as if Elaine had been brought to the hospital for other reasons, medical reasons. Harry was about to explode with frustration when Ted Andrews finally appeared in the hospital corridor outside of Elaine's room one night.

"How's she doing?"

"She wants out. She's going to be released tomorrow morning," Harry said. "Where have you been? No one returns my calls."

"Do you want Elaine in on all of this now, Harry? Would it be better if—"

"No more lies and cover-ups. Elaine has earned her right to know as much as any of us," he replied.

"Okay. Someone's coming up here to see you and your family, Harry. His name is Jack Bradley. He's the director's personal assistant. If this is a good time for it, that is," he added.

"As good as any," Harry said, "and long overdue," he added.

Ted Andrews smiled. "I know," he said. "I'll go downstairs and let him know."

Harry returned to the room and told Lil and Elaine.

"Maybe she shouldn't listen to all this horror, Harry," Lil said.

"Nothing I hear could be any worse than what I lived through," Elaine said. Lil nodded glumly. "Maybe you should leave, Mom."

Lil looked up. She would have loved to leave, but she wouldn't. "No," she said. "I'm not going to be the odd man out any more." She glared at Harry, who shook his head.

Five minutes later Jack Bradley entered with Ted Andrews at his side. Bradley looked as if he had just taken a detour from a formal government affair. He wore a dark suit and tie, his gold Rolex and diamond pinky ring in its gold setting glittering. Whether it was a facade or not, he was an impressive-looking man, what a top aide to someone in high office should look like, Harry thought. He and Lil sat on Elaine's right. She was propped up in her bed, wearing a new pink nightgown, one of her textbooks opened and beside her on the bed.

Ted Andrews stepped forward.

"Mr. and Mrs. Ross, Elaine, this is Jack Bradley."

Bradley extended his hand, and Harry shook it.

"Pleased to meet you, Harry. From what Ted told me, you're quite a guy. And you," he said, turning to Elaine, "have to be some strong woman. Are you sure you want to be a doctor? I have a position for you in the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Bradley said, flashing his winning smile.

"I'm sure I want to be a doctor," Elaine said. She shifted her eyes to Lil, who pursed her lips and shook her head at Bradley's suave and flirtatious manner.

"I'm glad we're all friends," Harry said sharply, "but I'd like to get some answers. How the hell has all this been kept out of the news? How did something like this happen in the first place?"

Ted Andrews brought a chair around for Bradley.

"Thanks, Ted. Is it all right if we all sit?" Bradley said.

"Sure. Sit, stand, do somersaults," Harry said. He and Lil they sat too. Ted Andrews closed the door softly and took up a position in front of it.

"I don't think we have to tell you a great deal about Philip Stoner," Jack began. "He was a man of extraordinary wealth, and he used that wealth to manipulate the system. We've done a quiet but thorough investigation of what occurred. To cut to the chase: even before Dirk Stoner's conviction, his father began a process that combined blackmail and bribery. A number of people in law enforcement were involved. It was an insidious conspiracy, well planned and engineered. It eventually involved the prison doctor whose responsibility it was to oversee and conduct the lethal-injection execution."

"He used a rarely used anesthetic and manipulated the EKG," Elaine said. "Dirk told me so himself."

"Yes. Stoner made arrangements with the funeral parlor. When the coffin arrived, the cosmetic surgeon who was in charge of the reconstruction of Dirk Stoner's face was there to take control. Another corpse was placed in the coffin. My guess is that it was some homeless person. We don't think it's necessary at this point to exhume the body. Dirk Stoner's identity has been confirmed to our satisfaction."

"Where's his body?" Harry demanded.

"He was cremated," Bradley said without hesitation.

"Cremated, but that . . . Don't you need the body as evidence?"

"There's no need. All the main players in this are either dead or handled."

"Handled?"

"Mr. Stoner, who was perhaps justifiably paranoid about the conspiracy, systematically had almost all of the key people eliminated. The doctor who performed the reconstructive surgery was murdered, as was the private-duty nurse. In fact," Bradley said, turning to Ted Andrews, "it was the mistake of putting her charred remains on an Indian reservation landfill that brought the FBI into this in the first place, and then it was Special Agent Andrews and his assistant who began to tie things together before you even spoke to him."

Lil, Harry, and Elaine looked at Ted, who kept his face expressionless as he thought, Yes, but you pulled me off the case before Elaine Ross was abducted. He said nothing, however, and they turned back to Jack Bradley.

"Anyway, Philip Stoner was an influential man," he continued. "I don't have to go into detail about that. He managed to infiltrate a very sensitive and highly secret organization in our government, an agency that is responsible for the relocation of important government witnesses, the Federal Witness Protection Program.

"That agency already has its critics in Congress, representatives who want to cut it back or cut it out altogether. During the last hearing, called after a protected witness killed six people in four states, there was supposed to be a cutback. It's a program that hides itself under the shield of national security, and unfortunately there are people who abuse power. One of them decided in the autumn of his career to make himself a small fortune.

"I want you to realize how honest I am being with you," Jack Bradley continued, his voice a few octaves lower, "because we believe you deserve to know it all, and we believe you are responsible people and will understand why it is necessary for all this to remain in this room." He paused.

"People should know what a horrible man Stoner was," Harry said. "It should be on the front pages of every damn newspaper in the country."

"Don't you think almost everyone who knew him was aware of that, Mr. Ross?" Bradley said. "What good would the information do now anyway? He's dead."

"Who killed him?" Harry fired. Bradley shifted his eyes to Andrews, who remained stolid, eyes forward.

"The man Stoner had gotten to in the program was trying to protect himself at this point. The program does have good results when it works right. This is an embarrassment for us, and there will be hearings behind closed doors, but if that information should somehow get out to the public, it could place other people who are being protected in grave danger and, perhaps more important, discourage would-be witnesses from coming forward, from feeling secure. I know you see how serious this is and understand why we have to be . . . discreet," Bradley added.

"What are we supposed to do, pretend none of this happened?" Harry said emphatically.

Jack Bradley didn't flinch. He sat back, gazed at Elaine, and smiled.

"What's the alternative, Mr. Ross? Why put your daughter through any more grief, any further pressure? Haven't you been hounded enough by the media? Why not let Elaine get back to her studies and back to as normal an existence as possible? Why not let all of you get back to normalcy?"

"We'll never get back," Harry said.

"Harry," Lil said and put her hand on his. He looked at her and saw the gentle reprimand in her eyes.

Jack Bradley rose. "I've arranged for your flight back to Los Angeles whenever you require it," he said.

"Are you sure you got them all? Is there anyone out there who might be a danger to us, to my daughter?" Harry asked.

"We got them all," Jack Bradley said, "even the people at the vet clinic." He smiled. "But most got themselves."

He stepped closer to the bed and extended his hand to Elaine. She took it and they shook.

"I'm quite confident you will make one helluva fine doctor, Elaine," he said. "Good luck to you."

"Thank you," she said.

Ted Andrews opened the door. Jack Bradley turned and offered Harry his hand. Harry stood, looked at Lil, and then shook.

"You won't need us anymore, Mr. Ross, but if you ever do, you'll get a quick response under my direct orders," Jack Bradley said.

Harry nodded and watched him leave. Ted Andrews paused at the door.

"Thanks," Harry said. "I have the feeling you did more than the handbook required."

Ted smiled and followed Jack Bradley out.

Harry turned to Lil and Elaine.

"Let's all go back to work, Dad," Elaine said.

"Okay, honey," he replied.

She lifted her hands and he took them and embraced her. Lil embraced them both. No one spoke. All their eyes were filled with tears.

When Lil and Harry were sure Elaine was back on her feet, they returned to Los Angeles. Like two world-class swimmers who had been kept away from the water far too long, they dived into their work, packing their days with appointments, meetings, open houses. They actually had one of their best sales weeks in months and, at Lil's suggestion, taped a new infomercial to be broadcast locally. Everyone who saw it said they were back to their old selves: Zsa Zsa Gabor and Tim Allen, Lil talking about elegant cornices and richly tiled floors, and Harry pointing out the extra hose connections and low maintenance.

Harry stayed away from Farah's grave for a while. He was like someone who was trying to work up his courage and design the right approach, come up with the right words. Finally, one early evening after he had shown a custom home in Beverly Hills, he got onto the freeway and drove to the cemetery.

It was one of those magnificent Los Angeles twilights: clean, crisp air, a breeze coming from the ocean, the sky light orange and blue, wispy clouds streaming off the horizon, and Venus twinkling with the promise that this would be a night of blazing stars and clear constellations.

Harry walked down the pathway slowly and paused before Farah's monument. For a while he simply stared at it the way he often had, blinking his eyes, trying to deny what they reported, the words, the reality.

He took a deep breath and looked away, gazed down the rows of tombstones and monuments, the vain effort of the bereaved to give their lost loved ones some immortality. Most of these graves had few if any visitors anymore, but perhaps, Harry thought hopefully, the dead lost interest in the living long before the living lost interest in them.

He turned back to his daughter's grave and put his hand on top of the monument, but he did not ask forgiveness.

"I don't know why I couldn't do for you what I was able to do for Elaine," he said, "but I know you're not jealous or unhappy about that. I think . . . I know you're proud of me.

"She's going to be something, your little sister. She's going to do a lot of good for a lot of people and make us all proud."

He took a deep breath, and he smiled.

"You know," he said, "he did me a favor in a way. He gave me a chance to get some revenge. I guess it's not nice for me to be happy about that, but I can't lie to myself, honey. I feel . . . a little restored. Forgive me for that. Put in a good word for me with the Old Man, huh? Tell him . . . I just loved you too much."

He looked up. More stars were surfacing.

"Your mother's going to bawl me out for being late for supper."

He lowered his head, kissed his fingers, and touched the top of the stone.

Then he started away.

Venus was right.

It was going to be a night filled with blazing stars.

ANDREW NEIDERMAN is the author of numerous novels of suspense and terror, including The Dark and The Devil's Advocate— which was published by Pocket Books, and was made into a major motion picture by Warner Bros, starring Al Pacino and Keanu Reeves. Mr. Neiderman lives in Palm Springs, California, with his wife, Diane.