Dragon Tears 067-011-4.8]

By: Dean R. Koontz

Synopsis:

A startlingly original masterpiece of suspense--a #1 New York Times
bestseller.  In a shootout, police detective Harry Lyon kills a man on
a murderous rampage.  Suddenly, Harry is being stalked by someone, or
something, with a twisted lust for revenge.

Harry Lyon, a decent cop struggling to remain rational in a crazy
world, finds his sanity threatened after being forced to shoot a man
and having a homeless stranger chant haunting words at him predicting
his death by dawn.

Berkley Publishing Group;

ISBN: 0425140032 ; Dimensions (in inches): 1.15 x

Copyright 1995

You know a dream is like a river, Ever changing as it flows.

And a dreamer's just a vessel, That must follow where it goes.

Trying to learn from what's behind you.

And never knowing what's in store, Makes each day a constant battle,
Just to stay between the shores.

The River.

Garth Brooks, Victoria Shaw.

Rush headlong and hard at life, Or just sit at home and wait.

All things good and all the wrong Will come right to you: it's fate.

Hear the music, dance if you can.

Dress in rags or wear your jewels.

Drink your choice, nurse your fear In this old honkytonk of fools.

-The Book of Counted Sorry.

Tuesday was a fine California day, full of sunshine and promise, until
Harry Lyon had to shoot someone at lunch.

For breakfast, sitting at his kitchen table, he ate toasted English
muffins with lemon marmalade and drank strong black Jamaican coffee.  A
pinch of cinnamon gave the brew a pleasantly spicy taste.

The kitchen window provided a view of the greenbelt that wound through
Los Cabos, a sprawling condominium development in Irvine.  As president
of the homeowners' association, Harry drove the gardeners hard and
rigorously monitored their work, ensuring that the trees, shrubs, and
grass were as neatly trimmed as a landscape in a fairy tale, as if
maintained by platoons of gardening elves with hundreds of tiny
shears.

As a child, he had enjoyed fairy tales even more than children usually
did.  In the worlds of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen,
springtime hills were always flawlessly green, velvetsmooth.  Order
prevailed.  Villains invariably met with justice, and the virtuous were
rewarded-though sometimes only after hideous suffering.  Hansel and
Gretel didn't die in the witch's oven; the crone herself was roasted
alive therein.  Instead of stealing the queen's newborn daughter,
Rumpelstiltskin was foiled and, in his rage, tore himself apart.

In real life during the last decade of the twentieth century,
Rumpelstiltskin would probably get the queen's daughter He would no
doubt addict her to heroin, turn her out as a prostitute, confiscate
her earnings, beat her for pleasure, hack her to pieces, and escape
justice by claiming that society's intolerance for bad-tempered,
evil-minded trolls had driven him temporarily insane.

Harry swallowed the last of his coffee, and sighed.  Like a lot of
people, he longed to live in a better world.

Before going to work, he washed the dishes and utensils, dried them,
and put them away.  He loathed coming home to mess and clutter.

At the foyer mirror by the front door, he paused to adjust the knot in
his tie.  He slipped into a navy-blue blazer and checked to be sure the
weapon in his shoulder holster made no telltale bulge.

As on every workday for the past six months, he avoided trafficpacked
freeways, following the same surface streets to the MultiAgency Law
Enforcement Special Projects Center in Laguna Niguel, a route that he
had mapped out to minimize travel time.  He had arrived at the office
as early as 8:15 and as late as 8:28, but he had never been tardy.

That Tuesday when he parked his Honda in the shadowed lot on the west
side of the two-story building, the car clock showed 8:21.  His
wristwatch confirmed the time.  Indeed, all of the clocks in Harry's
condominium and the one on the desk in his office would be displaying
8:21.  He synchronized all of his clocks twice a week.

Standing beside the car, he drew deep, relaxing breaths.  Rain had
fallen overnight, scrubbing the air clean.  The March sunshine gave the
morning a glow as golden as the flesh of a ripe peach.

To meet Laguna Niguel architectural standards, the Special Projects
Center was a two-story Mediterranean-style building with a columned
promenade.  Surrounded by lush azaleas and tall melaleucas with lacy
branches, it bore no resemblance to most police facilities.  Some of
the cops who worked out of Special Projects thought it looked too
effete, but Harry liked it.

The institutional decor of the interior had little in common with the
picturesque exterior.  Blue vinyl-tile floors.  Pale-gray walls.

Acoustic ceilings.  However, its air of orderliness and efficiency was
comforting.

Even at that early hour, people were on the move through the lobby and
hallways, mostly men with the solid physique and selfconfident attitude
that marked career cops.  Only a few were in uniform.  Special Projects
drew on plainclothes homicide detectives and undercover operatives from
federal, state, county, and city agencies to facilitate criminal
investigations spread over numerous jurisdictions.  Special Projects
teams-sometimes whole task forcesealt with youth-gang killings, serial
murders, pattern rapists, and large-scale narcotics activities.

Harry shared a second-floor office with Connie Gulliver.  His half of
the room was softened by a small palm, Chinese evergreens, and the
leafy trailers of a pothos.  Her half had no plants.  On his desk were
only a blotter, pen set, and small brass clock.  Heaps of files, loose
papers, and photographs were stacked on hers.

Surprisingly, Connie had gotten to the office first.  She was standing
at the window, her back to him.

"Good morning," he said.

"Is it?"  she asked sourly.

She turned to him.  She was wearing badly scuffed Reeboks, blue jeans,
a red-and-brown-checkered blouse, and a brown corduroy jacket.  The
jacket was one of her favorites, worn so often that the cords were
threadbare in places, the cuffs were frayed, and the inner arm creases
in the sleeves appeared to be as permanent as river valleys carved in
bedrock by eons of flowing water.

In her hand was an empty paper cup from which she had been drinking
coffee.  She wadded it almost angrily and threw it on the floor.  It
bounced and came to rest in Harry's half of the room.

"Let's hit the streets," she said, heading toward the hall door.

Staring at the cup on the floor, he said, "What's the rush?"

"We're cops, aren't we?  So let's don't stand around with our thumbs up
our asses, let's go do cop stuff."

As she moved out of sight into the hall, he stared at the cup on ho
side of the room.  With his foot, he nudged it across the imaginary
line that divided the office.

He followed Connie to the door but halted at the threshold.  He glanced
back at the paper cup.

By now Connie would be at the end of the corridor, maybe even
descending the stairs.

Harry hesitated, returned to the crumpled cup, and tossed it in the
waste can.  He disposed of the other two cups as well.

He caught up with Connie in the parking lot, where she yanked open the
driver's door of their unmarked Project sedan.  As he got in the other
side, she started the car, twisting the key so savagely that it should
have snapped off in the ignition.

"Have a bad night?"  he inquired.

She slammed the car into gear.

He said, "Headache?"

She reversed too fast out of the parking slot.

He said, "Thorn in the paw?"

The car shot toward the street.

Harry braced himself, but he was not worried about her driving.

She could handle a car far better than she handled people.  "Want to
talk about whatever's wrong?"

"No."

For someone who lived on the edge, who seemed fearless in moments of
danger, who went skydiving and breakneck dirt-biking on weekends,
Connie Gulliver was frustratingly, primly reticent when it came to
making personal revelations.  They had been working together for six
months, and although Harry knew a great many things about her,
sometimes it seemed he knew nothing imrtant about her.

"It might help to talk about it," Harry said.

"It wouldn't help."

Harry watched her surreptitiously as she drove, wondering if her anger
arose from man problems.  He had been a cop for fifteen years and had
seen enough of human treachery and misery to know that men were the
source of most women's troubles.  He knew nothing whatsoever of
Connie's love life, however, not even whether she had one.

"Does it have to do with this case?"

"No."

He believed her.  She tried, with apparent success, never to be stained
by the filth in which her life as a cop required her to wade.

She said, "But I sure do want to nail this sonofabitch Durner.  I think
we're close."

Doyle Durner, a drifter who moved in the surfer subculture, was wanted
for questioning in a series of rapes that had grown more violent
incident by incident until the most recent victim had been beaten to
death.  A sixteen-year-old schoolgirl.

Durner was their primary suspect because he was known to have undergone
a circumferential autologous penile engorgement.  A plastic surgeon in
Newport Beach liposuctioned fat out of Durner's waist and injected it
into his penis to increase its thickness.  The procedure was definitely
not recommended by the American Medical Association, but if the surgeon
had a big mortgage to pay and the patient was obsessed with his
circumference, the forces of the marketplace prevailed over concerns
about post-operative complications.  The circumference of Durner's
manhood had been increased fifty percent, such a dramatic enlargement
that it must have caused him occasional discomfort.  By all reports, he
was happy with the results, not because he was likely to impress women
but because he was likely to hurt them, which was the whole point.  The
victims' description of their attacker's freakish difference had helped
authorities zero in on Durner-and three of them had noted the tattoo of
a snake on his groin, which had been recorded in his police file upon
his conviction for two rapes in Santa Barbara eight years ago.

By noon that Tuesday, Harry and Connie had spoken with workers and
customers at three hangouts popular among surfers and other beach
habitue's in Laguna: a shop that sold surfboards and related gear, a
yogurt and health food store, and a dimly lighted bar in which a dozen
customers were drinking Mexican beers at eleven o'clock in the
morning.

If you could believe what they said, which you couldn't, they had never
heard of Doyle Durner and did not recognize him in the photo they were
shown.

In the car between stops, Connie regaled Harry with the latest items in
her collection of outrages.  "You hear about the woman in Philadelphia,
they found two infants dead of malnutrition in her apartment and dozens
of crack-cocaine vials scattered all over the place?  She's so doped up
her babies starve to death, and you know all they could charge her
with?  Reckless gm" Harry only sighed.  When Connie was in the mood to
talk about what she sometimes called "the continuing crisis or when she
was more sarcastic, "the pre-millennium cotillion"; or in her bleaker
moments, "these new Dark Ages"-no response was expected from him.  She
was quite satisfied to make a monologue of it.

She said, "A guy in New York killed his girlfriend's two-year-old
daughter, pounded her with his fists and kicked her because she was
dancing in front of the TV interfering with his view.  Probably
watching 'Wheel of Fortune,' didn't want to miss a shot of Vanna
White's fabulous legs."

Like most cops, Connie had an acute sense of black humor.  It was a
defense mechanism.  Without it you'd be driven crazy or become
terminally depressed by the endless encounters with human evil and
perversity that were central to the job.  To those whose knowledge of
police life came from half-baked television programs, real-life cop
humor could seem crude and insensitive at times-though no good cop gave
a rat's ass for what anybody but another cop thought of him.

"There's this Suicide Prevention Center up in Sacramento," Connie said,
braking for a red traffic light.  "One of the counselors got sickof
getting calls from this depressive senior citizen, so he and a friend
went to the old guy's apartment, held him down, slashed his wrists and
throat."

Sometimes, beneath Connie's darkest humor, Harry perceived a bitterness
that was not common to cops.  Perhaps it was worse than mere
bitterness.  Maybe even despair.  She was so self-contained that it was
usually difficult to determine exactly what she was feeling.

Unlike Connie, Harry was an optimist.  To remain an optimist, however,
he found it necessary not to dwell on human folly and malevolence the
way she did.

Trying to change the subject, he said, "How about lunch?  I know this
great little Italian trattoria with oilcloth on the tables, wine
bottles for candleholders, good gnocchi, fabulous manicotti."

She grimaced.  "Nah.  Let's just grab tacos at a drive-through and eat
on the fly."

They compromised on a burger joint half a block north of Pacific Coast
Highway.  It had about a dozen customers and a Southwest decor.  The
tops of the whitewashed wood tables were sealed beneath an inch of
acrylic.  Pastel flame-pattern upholstery on the chairs.

Potted cacti.  Gorman and Parkison lithographs.  They ought to have
been selling black-bean soup and mesquite-grilled beef instead of
burgers and fries.

Harry and Connie were eating at a small table along one wall-a dry
grilled-chicken sandwich for him; shoestring fries and sloppy, aromatic
cheeseburger for her-when the tall man entered in a flash of sunlight
that flared off the glass door.  He stopped at the hostess station and
looked around.

Although the guy was neatly groomed and well dressed in light gray
cords, white shirt, and dark-gray Ultrasuede jacket, something about
him instantly made Harry uneasy.  His vague smile and mildly distracted
air gave him a curiously professorial look.  His face was round and
soft, with a weak chin and pale lips.  He looked timid, not
threatening.  Nevertheless, Harry's gut tightened.  Cop instinct.

Sammy Shamroe had been known as "Sam the Sham" back when he was a Los
Angeles advertising agency executive blessed with a singular creative
talent-and cursed with a taste for cocaine.  That had been three years
ago.  An eternity.

Now he crawled out of the packing crate in which he lived, trailing the
rags and crumpled newspapers that served as his bedding.  He stopped
crawling as soon as he moved beyond the drooping boughs of the oleander
bush which grew at the edge of the vacant lot and concealed most of the
crate.  For a while he stayed on his hands and knees, his head hanging
down, staring at the alley pavement.

Long ago he had ceased to be able to afford the high-end drugs that had
so thoroughly ruined him.  Now he suffered from a cheap wine
headache.

He felt as if his skull had fallen open while he slept, allowing the
wind to plant a handful of prickly burrs in the surface of his exposed
brain.

He was not in the least disoriented.  Because the sunlight fell
straight down into the alley, leaving shadows only close along the back
walls of the buildings on the north side, Sammy knew it was nearly
noon.  Although he hadn't worn a watch, seen a calendar, held a job, or
had an appointment to keep in three years, he was always aware of the
season, the month, the day.  Tuesday.  He was acutely cognizant of
where he was (Laguna Beach), of how he had gotten there (every mistake,
every self-indulgence, every stupid selfdestructive act retained in
vivid detail), and of what he could expect for the rest of his life
(shame, deprivation, struggle, regret).

The worst aspect of his fall from grace was the stubborn clarity of his
mind, which even massive quantities of alcohol could pollute only
briefly.  The prickly burrs of his hangover headache were a mild
inconvenience when compared to the sharp thorns of memory and
self-awareness that bristled deeper in his brain.

He heard someone approaching.  Heavy footsteps.  A faint limp: one foot
scraping lightly against the pavement.  He knew that tread.

He began to tremble.  He kept his head down and closed his eyes,
willing the footsteps to grow fainter and recede into silence.  But
they grew louder, nearer... then stopped directly in front of him.

"You figured it out yet?"

It was the deep, gravelly voice that had recently begun to haunt
Sammy's nightmares.  But he was not asleep now.  This was not the
monster of his turbulent dreams.  This was the real creature that
inspired the nightmares.

Reluctantly Sammy opened his grainy eyes, and looked up.

The ratman stood over him, grinning.

a "You figured it out yet?"

Tall, burly, his mane of hair disordered, his tangled beard flecked
with unidentifiable bits and chunks of matter too disgusting to
contemplate, the ratman was a terrifying figure.  Where his beard did
not conceal it, his face was gnarled by scars, as if he had been poked
and slashed with a white-hot soldering iron.  His large nose was hooked
and crooked, his lips spotted with weeping sores.  Upon his dark and
diseased gums, his teeth perched like broken, age yellowed marble
tombstones.

The gravelly voice grew louder.  "Maybe you're already dead."

The only ordinary thing about the ratman was his clothes: tennis shoes,
charity-shop khakis, cotton shirt, and a badly weathered black
raincoat, all stained and heavily wrinkled.  It was the uniform of a
lot of street people who, some by their own fault and some not, had
fallen through the cracks in the floorboards of modern society into the
shadowy crawlspace beneath.

The voice softened dramatically as the ratman bent forward, leaned
closer.  "Already dead and in Hell?  Could it be?"

Of all the extraordinary things about the ratman, his eyes were the
most disturbing.  They were intensely green, unusually green, but the
queerest thing was that the black pupils were elliptical like the
pupils of a cat or reptile.  The eyes made the ratman's body seem like
merely a disguise, a rubber suit, as if something unspeakable peered
out of a costume at a world on which it had not been born but which it
coveted.

The ratman lowered his voice even further to a raspy whisper: "Dead, in
Hell, and me the demon assigned to torture you?"

Knowing what was coming, having endured it before, Sammy tried to
scramble to his feet.  But the ratman, quick as wind, kicked him before
he could get out of the way.  The kick caught him in the left shoulder,
just missing his face, and it didn't feel like a sneaker but like a
jackboot, as if the foot inside was entirely of bone or horn or the
stuff of which a beetle's carapace was formed.  Sammy curled into the
fetal position, protecting his head with his folded arms as best he
could.  The ratman kicked him again, again, left foot, right foot, left
foot, almost as if doing a little dance, a sort of jig,
one-kickanduh-two-kick-anduh-one-kick-anduh-two, not making a sound,
neither snarling in rage nor laughing scornfully not breathing hard in
spite of the exertion.

The kicking stopped.

Sammy drew into an even tighter ball, like a pill bug, curling around
his pains.

The alleyway was unnaturally silent except for Sammy's soft weeping,
for which he loathed himself.  The traffic noise from the nearby
streets had completely faded.  The oleander bush behind him no longer
rustled in the breeze.  When Sammy angrily told himself to be a man,
when he swallowed his sobs, the quietude was death perfect.

He dared to open his eyes and peek between his arms, looking toward the
far end of the alley.  Blinking to clear his tear-veiled vision, he was
able to see two cars halted in the street beyond.  The drivers, visible
only as shadowy shapes, waited motionlessly.

Closer, directly in front of his face, an inch-long wingless earwig,
strangely out of its environment of rotting wood and dark places, was
frozen in the process of crossing the alley.  The twin prongs on the
insect's back end appeared wicked, dangerous, and were curled up like
the stinging tail of a scorpion, though in reality it was harmless.

Some of its six legs touched the pavement, and others were lifted in
mid-stride.  It didn't move even one of its segmented antennae, as if
frozen by fear or poised to attach Sammy shifted his gaze to the end of
the alley Out in the street, the same cars were stalled in the same
spots as before.  The people in them sat like mannequins.

The insect again.  Unmoving.  As still as if dead and pinned to an
entomologist's specimen board.

Warily Sammy lowered his crossed arms from his head.  Groaning, he
rolled onto his back and looked up reluctantly at his assailant.

Looming, the ratman seemed a hundred feet tall.  He studied Sammy with
solemn interest.  "Do you want to live?"  he asked.

Sammy was surprised not by the question but by his inability to answer
it.  He was caught between the fear of death and the need to die.  Each
morning he was disappointed when he woke and found that he was still
among the living, and each night when he curled up in his rag-and-paper
bedding, he hoped for endless sleep.  Yet day after day he struggled to
obtain sufficient food, to find a warm place on those rare cold nights
when California's climatic grace deserted it, to stay dry when it
rained so as to avoid pneumonia, and he looked both ways before
crossing a street.

Perhaps he did not want to live, but wanted only the punishment of
living.

"I'd like it better if you wanted to live," the ratman said quietly
"More fun for me."

Sammy's heart was beating too thunderously Each pulse throbbed hardest
in the bruised flesh that marked the impact points of the ratman's
ferocious kicks.

"You've got thirty-six hours to live.  Better do something, don't you
think?  Hmmmm?  The clock is running.  Ticktock, ticktock."

"Why are you doing this to me?"  Sammy asked plaintively.

Instead of replying, the ratinan said, "Midnight tomorrow the rats will
come for you."

"I've never done anything to you."

The scars on the tormentor's brutal face grew livid.  .... chew out
your eyes..."

"Please."

His pale lips tightened as he spoke, revealing more of his rotting
teeth: '6..  strip away your lips while you scream, nibble your
tongue..."

As the ratman grew increasingly agitated, his demeanor became not more
feverish but cold.  His reptilian eyes seemed' to radiate a chill that
found its way into Sammy's flesh and into the deepest reaches of his
mind.

"Who are you?"  Sammy asked, not for the first time.

The ratman did not answer.  He swelled with rage.  His thick, filthy
fingers curled to form fists, uncurled, curled, uncurled.  He kneaded
the air as if he hoped to squeeze blood from it.

What are you?  Sammy wondered but dared not ask.

"Rats," hissed the ratman.

Afraid of what was about to happen, although it had happened before,
Sammy scooted backward on his butt, toward the oleander bush that half
concealed his packing crate, trying to put some distance between
himself and the towering hobo.

"Rats," the ratman repeated, and he began to tremble.

It was starting.

Sammy froze, too terrified to move.

The ratman's trembling became a shudder.  The shudder escalated into
violent shaking.  His oily hair whipped about his head, his arms
jerked, his legs jigged, and his black raincoat flapped as if he were
in a cyclone, but no wind huffed or howled.  The March air was as
preternaturally still as it had been since the hulking vagrant's
appearance, as if the world were but a painted stage and the two of
them the only actors upon it.

Becalmed on reefs of blacktop, Sammy Shamroe finally stood.  He was
driven to his feet by fear of the roiling tide of claws, sharp teeth,
and red eyes that would soon rise around him.

Beneath his clothes, the ratraan's body churned like a burlap sack full
of angry rattlesnakes.  He was ... changing.  His face melted and
reformed as if he stood in a forge controlled by some mad deity intent
on molding a series of monstrosities, each of which would be more
terrible than the one before it.  Gone were the livid scars, gone were
the reptilian eyes, gone the wild beard and tangled hair, gone the
cruel mouth.  For a moment his head was nothing but a mass of
undifferentiated flesh, a lump of oozing mush, red with blood, then
red-brown and darker, glistening, like something that had been poured
out of a dog-food can.  Abruptly the tissue solidified, and his head
was composed of rats clinging to one another, a ball of rats, tails
drooping like Rastafarian dreadlocks, fierce eyes as scarlet as drops
of radiant blood.  Where hands should have hung from his sleeves, rats
bristled out of frayed cuffs.

The heads of other rodents began to poke from between the buttons of
his bulging shirt.

Though he had seen all of this before, Sammy tried to scream.  His
swollen tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth, so he made only a
panicky muffled sound in the back of his throat.  A scream wouldn't
help anyway He had screamed before, during other encounters with his
tormentor, and no one had responded.

The ratman came apart as if he were a rickety scarecrow in a sundering
storm, pieces of his body dropping away When each part hit the
pavement, it was an individual rat.  Whiskered, wet-nosed,
sharp-toothed, squealing, the repellent creatures swarmed over one
another, long tails lashing left and right.  More rats poured out of
his shirt and from under the cuffs of his trousers, far more than his
clothes could possibly have contained: a score of them, two score,
eighty more than a hundred.

Like a deflating balloon that had been crafted in the form of a man,
his clothes settled slowly to the pavement.  Then each garment was
transformed as well.  The wrinkled lumps of cloth sprouted heads and
limbs and produced more rodents, until both the ratman and his reeking
wardrobe had been replaced by a seething mound of vermin squirming over
and under one another with the boneless agility that made their kind so
repulsive.

Sammy could not get his breath.  The air grew even more leaden than it
had been.  Whereas the wind had died earlier, an unnatural stillness
now seemed to settle over deeper levels of the natural world, until the
fluidity of oxygen and nitrogen molecules declined drastically, as if
the atmosphere had begun to thicken into a liquid, which he could draw
into his lungs only with the greatest effort.

Now that the ratman's body had disintegrated into scores of squirming
beasts, the transformed corpus abruptly dispersed.  The fat, sleek rats
erupted out of the mound, fleeing in all directions, scuttling away
from Sammy but also swarming around him, over his shoes and between his
legs.  That hateful, living tide spilled into the shadows along the
buildings and into the vacant lot, where it either drained into holes
in the building walls and in the earth-holes that Sammy could not seer
simply vanished.

A sudden breeze harried crisp dead leaves and scraps of paper ahead of
it.  The swish of tires and the rumble of engines arose as cars on the
main street moved past the mouth of the alley A bee buzzed by Sammy's
face.

He was able to breathe again.  He stood for a moment in the bright noon
light, gasping.

The worst thing was that it had all happened in sunshine, in the open
air, without smoke and mirrors and clever lighting and silk threads and
trapdoors and the standard tools of a magician's craft.

Sammy had crawled out of his crate with the good intention of starting
his day in spite of his hangover, maybe look for discarded aluminum
cans to redeem at a recycling center, maybe do a little panhandling
along the boardwalk.  Now the hangover was gone, but he still didn't
feel like facing the world.

On unsteady legs, he returned to the oleander bush.  The boughs were
heavily laden with red flowers.  He pushed them aside and stared at the
large wooden crate under them.

He picked up a stick and poked at the rags and newspapers inside the
big box, expecting a couple of rats to erupt from hiding.  But they had
gone elsewhere.

Sammy dropped to his knees and crawled into his haven, letting the
draperies of oleander fall shut behind him.

From his pile of meager possessions in the back of the crate, he
removed an unopened bottle of cheap burgundy and unscrewed the cap.  He
took a long pull of the warmish wine.

Sitting with his back against the wooden wall, clutching the bottle in
both hands, he tried to forget what he had seen.  As far as he could
see, forgetting was his only hope of coping.  He could not manage the
problems of everyday life any more.  So how could he expect to deal
with something as extraordinary as the ratman?

A brain steeped in too many grams of cocaine, peppered with too many
other drugs, and marinated in alcohol could produce the most amazing
zoo of hallucinated creatures.  And when his conscience got the better
of him and he struggled to fulfill one of his periodic pledges of
sobriety, withdrawal led to delirium tremens, which was populated by an
even more colorful and threatening phantasmagoria of beasts.  But none
of them was as memorable and as deeply disturbing as the ratman.

He took another generous swallow of wine and leaned his head back
against the wall of the crate, holding fast to the bottle with both
hands.

Year by year, day by day, Sammy had found it increasingly difficult to
distinguish between reality and fantasy He had long ago ceased to trust
his perceptions.  Yet of one thing he was dismayingly certain: the
ratman was real.  Impossible, fantastical, inexplicable-but real.

Sammy expected to find no answers to the questions that haunted him.

But he could not stop asking: what was this creature; where did it come
from; why did it want to torment and kill a grizzled, beaten down
street person whose death-or continued existence-was of little or no
consequence to the world?

He drank more wine.

Things Bun Tickt.  Tickt.

Cop instinct.

When the citizen in the gray cords, white shirt, and dark-gray jacket
entered the restaurant, Connie noticed him and knew he was bent in some
way When she saw that Harry had also noticed, her interest in the guy
increased dramatically because Harry had a nose that would make a
bloodhoand envious.

Cop instinct is less instinct than a sharply honed talent for
observation and the good sense to correctly interpret whatever is
observed.  With Connie it was more a subconscious awareness than a
calculated monitoring of everyone who crossed her line of sight.

The suspect stood just inside the door, near the cash register, waiting
while the hostess seated a young couple at a table near one of the big
front windows.

He appeared ordinary at first glance, even harmless.  But on closer
inspection, Connie could identify the incongruities that had caused her
subconscious to recommend a closer look at the man.  No signs of
tension were visible in his rather bland face, and his posture was
relaxed-but his hands were fisted tightly at his sides, as if he could
barely control an urgent need to strike at someone.  His vague smile
reinforced the air of absentmindedness that clung to him-but the smile
kept coming and going, flickering uncertainly, a subtle testament to
inner turmoil.  His sportcoat was buttoned, which was odd because he
wasn't wearing a tie and because the day was warm.  More important, the
coat did not hang properly; its outer and inner pockets seemed filled
with something heavy that pulled it out of shape, and it bulged over
his belt buckle-as if concealing a handgun jammed under the waistband
of his pants.

Of course, cop instinct wasn't always reliable.  The coat might just be
old and out of shape.  The guy might actually be the absentminded
professor he appeared to be; in which case his coat might be stuffed
with nothing more sinister than a pipe, tobacco pouch, slide rule,
calculator, lecture notes, and all sorts of items he had slipped into
his pockets without quite realizing it.

Harry whose voice had trailed off in mid-sentence, slowly put down his
chicken sandwich.  He was intently focused on the man in the misshapen
coat.

Connie had picked up a few shoestring french fries.  She dropped them
onto the plate instead of eating them, and she wiped her greasy fingers
on her napkin, all the while trying to watch the new customer without
obviously staring at him.

The hostess, a petite blonde in her twenties, returned to the reception
area after seating the couple by the window, and the man in the
Ultrasuede coat smiled.  She spoke to him, he replied, and the blonde
laughed politely as if what he'd said was mildly amusing.

When the customer said something more and the hostess laughed again,
Connie relaxed slightly She reached for a couple of fries.

The newcomer seized the hostess by her belt, jerked her toward him, and
grabbed a handful of her blouse.  His assault was so sudden and
unexpected, his moves so cat-quick, that he had lifted her off the
floor before she began to scream.  As if she weighed nothing, he threw
her at nearby diners.

"Oh, shit."  Connie pushed back from the table and came to her feet,
reaching under her jacket and behind to the revolver that was holstered
in the small of her back.

Harry rose, too, his own revolver in hand.  "Police!"

His warning was drowned out by the sickening crash of the young blonde
slamming into a table, which tipped sideways.  The diners toppled out
of their chairs, and glasses shattered.  All over the restaurant people
looked up from their food, startled by the uproar.

The stranger's flamboyance and savagery might just mean he was on
drugsr he might also be genuinely psychotic.

Connie took no chances, dropping into a crouch as she brought her gun
up.  "Police!"

Either the guy had heard Harry's first warning or he had seen them out
of the corner of his eye, because he was already scuttling toward the
back of the restaurant, between the tables.

He had a handgun of his own-maybe a Browning 9mm, judging by the sound
and by the glimpse she got.  He was using it, too, firing at random,
each shot thunderous in the confines of the restaurant.

Beside Connie, a painted terra-cotta pot exploded.  Chips of glazed
clay showered onto her.  The dracaena margenata in the pot toppled
over, raking her with long narrow leaves, and she crouched even lower,
trying to use a nearby table as a shield.

She wanted in the worst way to get a shot at the bastard, but the risk
of hitting one of the other customers was too great.  When she looked
across the restaurant at child's level, thinking maybe she could
pulverize one of the creep's knees with a well-placed round, she could
see him scrambling across the room.  The trouble was, between her and
him, a scattering of panicked, wide-eyed people had taken refuge under
their tables.

"Shit."  She pursued the geek while trying to make as small a target of
herself as possible, aware that Harry was going after him from another
direction.

People were screaming because they were scared, or had been shot and
were in pain.  The crazy bastard's gun boomed too often.  Either he
could change clips with superhuman speed or he had another pistol.

One of the big windows took a direct hit and came down in a jingle
jangle clangor.  A waterfall of glass splashed across the cold Santa Fe
tile floor.

As Connie crept from table to table, her shoes picked up mashed french
fries, ketchup, mustard, bits of oozing cacti, and crunchingtinkling
pieces of glass.  And as she passed the wounded, they cried out or
pawed at her, desperate for help.

She hated to ignore them, but she had to shake them off, keep moving,
try to get a shot at the walking phlegm in the Ultrasuede coat.  What
meager first-aid she might be able to provide wasn't going to help
them.  She couldn't do anything about the terror and pain the
sonofabitch had already wrought, but she might be able to stop him from
doing more damage if she stayed on his ass.

She raised her head, risking a bullet in the brain, and saw the scumbag
was all the way at the back of the restaurant, standing at a swinging
door that had a glass porthole in the center.  Grinning, he squeezed
off rounds at anything that caught his attention, apparently equally
pleased to hit a potted plant or a human being.  He was still
unnervingly ordinary in appearance, round-faced and bland, with a weak
chin and soft mouth.  Even his grin failed to make him look like a
madman; it was more the broad and affable smile of someone who had just
seen a clown take a pratfall.  But there was no doubt he was
crazy-dangerous, because he shot a big saguaro cactus, then a guy in a
checkered shirt, then the saguaro again, and he did have two guns, one
in each hand.

Welcome to the 1990s.

Connie rose from shelter far enough to line up a shot.

Harry was especially quick to take advantage of the lunatic's sudden
obsession with the saguaro.  He came to his feet in another part of the
restaurant and fired.  Connie fired twice.  Chunks of wood exploded
from the door frame beside the psycho's head, and the glass blew out of
the porthole; they had bracketed him by inches with their first
shots.

The geek vanished through the swinging door, which took both Harry's
and Connie's next rounds and kept swinging.  Judging by the size of the
bullet holes, the door was hollow-core, so the slugs maght have gone
through and nailed the sonofabitch on the other side.

Connie ran toward the kitchen, slipping a little on the food strewn
floor.  She doubted they were going to be lucky enough to a find the
creep wounded and squirming like a half-crushed cockroach on the other
side of that door.  More likely, he was waiting for them.  But she
couldn't rein herself in.  He might even step through the door from the
kitchen and cut her down as she approached.  But her juices were up;
she was jazzed.  When her juices were up, she couldn't help but do
everything full-bore, and it didn't even matter that her juices were up
most of the time.

God, she loved this job.

Harry hated this cowboy stuff.

When you were a cop, you knew violence might come down sooner or
later.

You might suddenly find yourself up to your neck in wolves a lot
nastier than any Red Kicking Hood ever had to deal with.

But even if it was part of the job, you didn't enjoy it.

Well, maybe you did if you were Connie Gulliver.

As Harry rushed the kitchen door, going in low and fast with his
revolver ready, he heard her behind him, feet
slapping-crunchingsquishing on the floor, coming full-tilt.  He knew
that if he looked back at her, she would be grinning, not unlike the
maniac who had shot up the restaurant, and although he knew she was on
the side of the angels, that grin never failed to unnerve him.

He skidded to a halt at the door, kicked it, and instantly jumped to
one side, expecting an answering hail of bullets.

But the door slammed inward, swung back out, and no gunfire followed.

So when it swung inward again, Connie burst past him and went into the
kitchen with it.  He followed her, cursing under his breath, which was
the only way he ever cursed.

In the humid, claustrophobic confines of the kitchen, burgers sizzled
on a grill and fat bubbled in a deep-fryer.  Pots of water boiled on a
stovetop.  Gas ovens creaked and popped from the intense heat they
contained, and a bank of microwave ovens hummed softly.

Half a dozen cooks and other employees, dressed in white slacks and
T-shirts, their hair tucked under white string-tied caps, pale as dead
men, stood or cowered amidst the culinary equipment.  They were wrapped
by curling tendrils of steam and meat smoke, looking less like real
people than like ghosts.  Almost as one they turned toward Connie and
Harry.

"Where?"  Harry whispered.

One of the employees pointed toward a half-open door at the back of the
kitchen.

Harry led the way along a narrow aisle flanked on the left by racks of
pots and utensils.  On the right was a series of butcher blocks, a
machine used to cut well-scrubbed potatoes into raw french fries, and
another that shredded lettuce.

The aisle widened into a clear space with deep sinks and heavy duty
commercial dishwashers along the wall to the left.  The half open door
was about twenty feet directly ahead, past the sinks.

Connie moved up to his side as they drew near the door.  She kept
enough distance between them to assure they couldn't both be taken out
by one burst of gunfire.

The darkness past that threshold bothered Harry.  A windowless
storeroom probably lay beyond.  The smiling, moon-faced perp would be
even more dangerous once cornered.

After flanking the door, they hesitated, taking a moment to thin Harry
would gladly have taken half the day to think, giving the perp plenty
of time to stew in there.  But that wasn't how it worked.  Cops were
expected to act rather than react.  If there was a way out of the
storeroom, any delay on their part would allow the perp to escape.

Besides, when your partner was Connie Gulliver, you did not have the
luxury of dawdling or ruminating.  She was never reckless, always
professional and cautious-but so quick and aggressive that it seemed
sometimes as if she had come to homicide investigations by way of a
SWAT team.

Connie snatched up a broom that was leaning against the wall.

Holding it near the base, she poked the handle against the half-open
door, which swung inward with a protracted squeak.  When the door was
all the way open, she threw the broom aside.  It clattered like old
bones on the tile floor.

They regarded each other tensely from opposite sides of the doorway.

Silence in the storeroom.

Without exposing himself to the perp, Harry could see just a narrow
wedge of darkness beyond the threshold.

The only sounds were the chuckling and sputtering of the pots and deep
fryers in the kitchen, the hum of the exhaust fans overhead.

As Harry's eyes adjusted to the gloom beyond the door, he saw geometric
forms, dark gray in the threatening black.  Suddenly he realized it
wasn't a storeroom.  It was the bottom of a stairwell.

He cursed under his breath again.

Connie whispered: "What?"

"Stairs."

He crossed the threshold, as heedless of his safety as Connie was of
hers, because there was no other way to do it.  Stairways were narrow
traps in which you couldn't easily dodge a bullets and dark stairways
were worse.  The gloom above was such that he couldn't see if the perp
was up there, but he figured he made a perfect target with the
backlighting from the kitchen.  He would have preferred to blockade the
stairwell door and find another route onto the second floor, but by
then the perp would be long gone or barricaded so well that it might
cost a couple of other cops' lives to root him out.

Once committed, he took the stairs as fast as he dared, slowed only by
the need to stay to one side, against the wall, where the floorboards
would be the tightest and the least likely to sag and squeak
underfoot.

He reached a narrow landing, moving blindly with his back to the
wall.

Squinting up into utter lightlessness, he wondered how a second floor
could be as perfectly dark as a basement.

From above came soft laughter.

Harry froze on the landing.  He was confident that he was no longer
backlit.  He pressed tighter to the wall.

Connie bumped into him and also froze.

Harry waited for the queer laugh to come again.  He hoped to get a fix
precise enough to make it worth risking a shot and revealing his own
location.

Nothing.

He held his breath.

Then something thumped.  Rattled.  Thumped again.  Rattled.

Thumped again.

He realized some object was rolling and bouncing down the steps toward
them.  What?  He had no idea.  His imagination deserted him.

Thump.  Rattle.  Thump.

Intuitively he knew that whatever was coming down the stairs was not
good.  That's why the perp had laughed.  Something small from the sound
of it, but deadly in spite of being small.  He was infuriated with
himself for being unable to think, to visualize.  He felt stupid and
useless.  A foul sweat suddenly sheathed him.

The object hit the landing and rolled to a stop against his left
foot.

It bumped his shoe.  He jerked back, then immediately squatted, blindly
felt the floor, found the damn thing.  Larger than an egg but roughly
egg-shaped.  With the intricate geometric surface of a pinecone.

Heavier than a pinecone.  With a lever on top.

"Get down!"  He stood and threw the hand grenade back into the upper
hall before following his own advice and dropping as flat as possible
on the landing.

He heard the grenade clatter against something above.

He hoped his throw had sent the damn thing all the way into the
second-floor hall.  But maybe it bounced off a stairwell wall and was
arcing down even now, the timer ticking off the last second or two
before detonation.  Or maybe it had barely landed in the upstairs hall
and the perp had kicked it back at him.

The explosion was loud, bright, cataclysmic.  His ears rang painfully,
every bone seemed to vibrate as the blast wave passed through him, and
his heartbeat accelerated even though it had been racing already Chunks
of wood, plaster, and other debris rained over him, and the stairwell
was filled with the acrid stench of burnt powder like a Fourth of July
night after a big fireworks display.

He had a vivid mental picture of what might have happened if he had
been two seconds slower: his hand dissolving in a spray of blood as he
gripped the grenade upon detonation, his arm tearing loose of his body,
his face crumpling in on itself.  ...

"What the hell?"  Connie demanded, her voice close yet far away,
distorted because Harry's ears were still ringing.

"Grenade," he said, scrambling to his feet.

"Grenade?  Who is this bozo?"

Harry had no clue as to the guy's identity or motivation, but he now
knew why the Ultrasuede jacket had hung so lumpily.  If the perp had
been packing one grenade, why not two?  Or three?

After the brief flash of the explosion, the darkness on the stairs was
as deep as ever.

Harry discarded caution and clambered up the second flight, aware that
Connie was coming close behind him.  Caution didn't seem prudent under
the circumstances.  You always had a chance of dodging a bullet, but if
the perp was carrying grenades, all the caution in the world wouldn't
count when the blast hit.

Not that they were accustomed to dealing with grenades.  This was a
first.

He hoped the lunatic had been waiting to hear them die in the
explosion-and had instead been caught unawares when the grenade
boomeranged on him.  Any time a cop killed a perp, the paperwork was
horrendous, but Harry was willing to sit at a typewriter happily for
days if only the guy in the Ultrasuede coat had been transformed into
wet wallpaper.

The long upstairs corridor was windowless and must have been
night-black before the explosion.  But the grenade had blown one door
off its hinges and had torn holes in another.  Some daylight filtered
through the windows of unseen rooms and into the hallway.

Damage from the explosion was extensive.  The building was old enough
to have lath and plaster construction instead of drywall, and in places
the lath showed through like brittle bones between ragged gaps in the
desiccated flesh of some ancient pharaoh's mummified body.  Splintered
floorboards had torn loose; they were scattered half the length of the
corridor, revealing the subfloor and in some places the charred beams
beneath.

No flames had sprung up.  The snuffing force of the blast had prevented
anything from catching fire.  The thin haze of smoke from the explosion
didn't reduce visibility, except that it stung his eyes and made them
water.

The perp was not in sight.

Harry breathed through his mouth to avoid sneezing.  The acrid haze was
a bitterness on his tongue.

Eight doors opened off the hall, four on each side, including the one
that had been blown entirely from its hinges.  With no more direct
communication than a glance, Harry and Connie moved in concert from the
top of the stairs, careful not to step in any of the holes in the
floor, heading toward the open doorway.  They had to inspect the second
level quickly.  Every window was potentially an escape route, and the
building might have back stairs.

"Elvis"' The shout came from the doorless room they were approaching.

Harry glanced at Connie, and they both hesitated because there was a
weirdness about the moment that was unsettling.

"Elvis"' Though other people might have been on the second floor before
the perp had arrived, somehow Harry knew it was the perp shouting.

"The King!  The Master ofMeinphis!"

They flanked the doorway as they had done at the foot of the statrs.

The perp began shouting titles of Presley hits: "Heartbreak Hotel, Blue
Suede Shoes, Hound Dog Jailhouse...."

Harry looked at Connie, raised one eyebrow.  She shrugged.

"Stuck on You, Little Suter, Good Luck Chad..."

Harry signaled to Connie that he would go through the door first,
staying low, relying on her to lay down a suppressing fire over his
head as he crossed the threshold.

'Are You Lonesome Tonight, A Mess of Blues, In the Ghetto!"

As Harry was about to make his move, a grenade arced out of the room.

It bounced on the hall floor between him and Connie, rolled, and
disappeared into one of the holes made by the first explosion.

No time to fish for it under the floorboards.  No time to get back to
the stairs.  If they delayed, the corridor would blow up around them.

Contrary to Harry's plan, Connie rushed first through the blasted
doorway into the room with the perp, staying low, squeezing off a
couple of rounds.  He followed her, firing twice over her head, and
both of them clattered across the shattered door that had been torn off
its hinges and blown down in the first explosion.  Boxes.

Supplies.  Stacked everywhere.  No sign of the perp.  They both dropped
to the floor, thr themselves down and between piles of boxes.

They were still dropping, scrambling, when the hallway went to pieces
in a flash and a crash behind them.  Harry tucked his head under his
arm and tried to protect his face.

A brief hot wind brought a storm of debris through the doorway, and a
lighting fixture on the ceiling dissolved into glass hail.

Breathing the fireworks stink again, Harry raised his head.  A
wicked-looking piece of wooden shrapnel-as big as the blade of a
butcher's knife, thicker, almost as sharhad missed him by two inches
and embedded itself in a large carton of paper napkins.

The thin film of sweat on his face was as cold as ice-water.

He tipped the expended cartridges from the revolver, fumbled the
speedloader from its pouch and slipped it in, twisted it, dropped it,
snapped the cylinder shut.

"Return to Sender, Suspicious Minds, Surrender!"

Harry was pierced by a longing for the simple, direct, and
comprehensible villains of the Brothers Grimm, like the evil queen who
ate the heart of a wild boar, thinking it was really the heart of her
stepdaughter, Snow White, whose beauty she envied and whose life she
had ordered forfeited.

Connie raised her head and glanced at Harry, who was lying beside
her.

He was covered with dust, chips of wood, and gIimmering bits of glass,
as she no doubt was herself.

She could see that he wasn't getting off on this the way she was.

Harry liked being a cop; to him a cop was a symbol of order and
justice.  Madness like this pained him because order could be imposed
only through violence equal to what the perpetrator dealt out.

And real justice for the victims could never be extracted from a perp
who was so far gone that he couldn't feel remorse or fear
retribution.

The geek shouted again.  "Long Legged Giil, All Shook Up, Baa Don't Get
Hooked on Me!"

Connie whispered: "Elvis Presley didn't sing 'Baby Don't Get Hooked on
Me."' Harry blinked.  "What?"

"That was Mac Davis, for God's sake."

"Rock-a-Hula Baa Kentucky Rain, Flaming Star, I Feel So Bad"' The
geek's voice seemed to be coming from overhead.

Cautiously Connie eased up from the floor, revolver in hand.  She
peered between the stacked boxes, then over them.

At the far end of the room, near the corner, a ceiling trapdoor was
open.  A folding ladder extended from it.

'A' Big Hunk o' Love, Ki's Me Quick, Guitar Man!"

The walking piece of dog vomit had gone up that ladder.  He was
shouting at them from the dark attic above.

She wanted to get hold of the geek and smash his face in, which was not
a measured police response, perhaps, but heartfelt.

Harry spotted the ladder when she did, and as she rose to her feet, he
stood beside her.  She was tense, ready to hit the floor again fast if
another grenade dropped out of that overhead trap.

'Any W You Want Me, Poor B Running Bear:"' "Hell, that wasn't Elvis,
either," Connie said, not bothering to whisper any more.  "Johnny
Preston sang 'Running Bear.

"What does it matter?"

"The guy's an asshole," she said angrily, which was not exactly an
answer.  But the truth was, she didn't know wry it bothered her that
this loser couldn't get his Elvis trivia correct.

"You're the Devil in Disguise, Don't Cry Daddy, Do the Clam!"  in 'Do
the Clam'?"  Harry said.

Connie winced.  "Yeah, I'm afraid that was Elvis."

As sparks squirted from the shorting wires in the damaged light fixture
overhead, they crossed the room on opposite sides of a long waist-high
row of boxes, closing in on the attic access.

From the world beyond the dust-streaked window, faraway sirens
wailed.

Backup and ambulances.

Connie hesitated.  Now that the geek had gone into the attic, it might
be best to flush him out with tear gas, lob up a concussion grenade to
stun him senseless, and just wait for reinforcements.

But she rejected the cautious course.  While it would be safer for her
and Harry, it could be riskier for everyone else in downtown Laguna
Beach.  The attic might not be a dead end.  A service door to the roof
would give the creep a way out.

Evidently Harry had the same thought.  He hesitated a fraction of a
second less than she did, and started up the ladder first.

She didn't object to his leading the way because he was not acting out
of some misguided protective urge, not trying to spare the lady cop
from danger.  She'd come through the previous doorway first, so he led
this time.  They intuitively shared the risk, which was one thing that
made them a good team in spite of their differences.

Of course, though her heart was pounding and her gut was clenched, she
would haveprred to go first.  Crossing a solid bridge was never as
satisfying as walking on a high wire.

She followed him up the ladder, and he hesitated at the top only
briefly before disappearing into the gloom above.  No shot rang out, no
explosion shook the building, so Connie went into the attic, too.

Harry had moved out of the gray light that came up through the trap.

He crouched a few feet away, beside a naked dead woman.

On second glance, it proved to be a mannequin with permanently staring,
dust-coated eyes and an eerily serene smile.  She was bald, and her
plaster skull was marred by a water stain.

The attic was dark but not impenetrable.  Pale daylight sifted through
a series of screened ventilation cut-outs in the eaves and through
larger vane-capped vents in the end walls, revealing cobweb-festooned
rafters under a peaked roof.  The center offered enough headroom for
even a tall man to stand erect, though nearer the wide walls it was
necessary to crouch.  Shadows loomed everywhere, while piles of storage
trunks and crates offered numerous hiding places.

A congregation seemed to have gathered in that high place to conduct a
secret Satanic ceremony.  Throughout the long, wide chamber were the
partial silhouettes of men and women, sometimes lit from the side,
sometimes backlit, more often barely visible, standing or leaning or
lying, all silent and motionless.

They were mannequins similar to the one on the floor beside Harry.

Nevertheless, Connie felt their stares, and her skin grew pebbly with
gooseflesh.

One of them actually might be able to see her, one who was made not of
plaster but of blood, flesh, and bone.

Time seemed suspended in the high redoubt of the mannequins.

The humid air was tainted with dust, the crisp aroma of age yellowed
newspapers, moldering cardboard, and pungent mildew that had sprung up
in some dark corner and would perish with the end of the rainy
season.

The plaster figures watched, breathless.

Harry tried to remember what businesses shared the building with the
rest, but he couldn't recall to whom the mannequins might belong.

From the east end of the long chamber came a frantic hammering, metal
on metal.  The perp must be pounding on the larger vent in the end
wall, trying to break out, willing to risk a drop to the alley,
serviceway, or street below Half a dozen frightened bats erupted from
their roosts and swooped back and forth through the long garret,
seeking safety but reluctant to trade the gloom for bright daylight.

Their small voices were shrill enough to be heard over the rising
shriek of the sirens.

When they passed close enough, the leathery flap of their wings and an
air-cutting whoosh made Harry flinch.

He wanted to wait for backup.

The perp hammered harder than before.

Metal screeched as if giving way.

They couldn't wait, didn't dare.

Remaining in a crouch, Harry crept between piles of boxes toward the
south wall, and Connie slipped away in the opposite direction.  They
would take the perp in a pincer move.  When Harry went as far to the
south side of the room as the sloping ceiling allowed, he turned toward
the east end, where the heavy hammering originated.

On all sides, mannequins struck eternal poses.  Their smooth, round
limbs seemed to absorb and amplify the meager light that passed through
the narrow vents in the eaves; where not clothed by shadows, their hard
flesh had a supernatural alabaster glow.

The hammering stopped.  No clang or pop or final wrenching noise
indicated that the vent had been knocked loose.

Harry halted, waited.  He could hear only the sirens a block away and
the squealing of the bats when they swooped near.

He inched forward.  Twenty feet ahead, at the terminus of the musty
passageway, dim ash-gray light issued from an unseen source to the
left.  Probably the big vent on which the perp had been hammering.

Which meant it was still firmly in place.  If the vent had been knocked
out of its flame, daylight would have flooded that end of the attic.

One by one, the sirens expired down in the street.  Six of them.

As Harry crept forward, he saw a pile of severed limbs in one of the
shadowy niches in the eaves between two rafters, spectrally
illuminated.  He flinched and almost cried out.  Arms cut off at the
elbows.  Hands amputated at the wrists.  Fingers spread as if reaching
for help, pleading, seeking.  Even as he gasped in shock, he realized
the macabre collection was only a heap of mannequin parts.

He proceeded in a duck walk, less than ten feet from the end of the
narrow passageway, acutely aware of the soft but betraying scrape of
his shoes on the dusty floorboards.  Like the sirens, the agitated bats
had fallen silent.  A few shouts and the crackling transmissions of
police-band radios rose from the street outside, but those sounds were
distant and unreal, as if they were the voices in a nightmare from
which he was just waking or into which he was slipping.  Harry paused
every couple of feet, listening for whatever revealing noises the perp
might be making, but the guy was ghost-quiet.

When he reached the end of the aisle, about five feet from the east
wall of the attic, he stopped again.  The vent on which the perp had
been hammering must be just around the last stack of boxes.

Harry held his breath and listened for the breathing of his prey.

Nothing.

He eased forward, looked around the boxes, past the end of the
passageway into the clear area in front of the east wall.  The perp was
gone.

He had not left by the yard-square attic vent.  It was damaged but
still in place, emitting a vague draft and thin, uneven lines of
daylight that striped the floor where the perp's footprints marred the
carpet of dust.

Movement at the north end of the attic caught Harry's attention, and
his trigger finger tensed.  Connie peered around the corner of the
boxes piled on that side of the garret.

Across the wide gap, they stared at each other.

The perp had circled behind them.

Though Connie was mostly in shadows, Harry knew her well enough to be
certain of what she was mouthing silently: shit, shit, shit.

She came out of the northern eaves and crept across the open space at
the east end, moving toward Harry.  She peered warily into the mouths
of other aisles between rows of boxes and mannequins.

Harry started toward her, squinting into the gloomy aisles on his
side.

The garret was so wide, so packed with goods, that it was a maze.  And
it harbored a monster to rival any in mythology.

From elsewhere in the high room came the now-familiar voice: "All Shook
Up, I Feel So Bad, Steamroller Blue'!"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.  He wanted to be somewhere else.

Maybe in the kingdom of "The Twelve Dancing Princesses," with its
twelve gorgeous young heirs to the throne, subterranean castles of
light, trees with leaves of gold, others with leaves of diamonds,
enchanted ballrooms filled with beautiful music.  ... Yeah, that would
be all right.  It was one of the Grimm Brothers' gentler tales.

Nobody in it got eaten alive or hacked to death by a troll.

"Surrender!"

It was Connie's voice this time.

Harry opened his eyes and frowned at her.  He was afraid she would give
away their position.  True, he had not been able to pinpoint the perp
by listening to him; sounds bounced around the attic in strange ways,
which was a protection for them as well as for the madman.

Nevertheless, silence was wiser.

The perp shouted again: "A Mess of Blues, Heartbreak Hotel!"

"Surrender!"  Connie repeated.

"Go Away Little Girl!"

Connie grimaced.  "That wasn't Elvis, you peabrain!  That was Steve
Lawrence.  Surrender."

"Stay Away."

"Surrender."

Harry blinked sweat out of his eyes and studied Connie with
incomprehension.  He had never felt less in control of a situation.

Something was going down between her and the lunatic, but Harry didn't
have a clue as to what it was.

"1 Don't Care If the Sun Don't Shine."

"Surrender."

Suddenly Harry remembered that "Surrender" was the title of a Presley
classic.

"Stay Away" He thought that might be another Presley song.

Connie slipped into one of the aisles, out of Harry's sight, as she
called out: "It's Now or Never."

"What'dlSay?"

Moving away into the maze, Connie answered the perp with two Presley
titles: "Surrender.  I Beg of You."

"1 Feel So Bad."

After a hesitation, Connie responded: "Tell Me Why."

"Don 't Ask Me Why."

A dialogue had been established.  In Presley song titles.  Like some
bizarre television quiz-show contest with no prizes for correct answers
but plenty of peril for wrong ones.

In a crouch, Harry eased into a different aisle from the one that
Connie had taken.  A spider's web wrapped his face.  He pulled it off
and crept deeper into the mannequin-guarded shadows.

Connie resorted to a previously used title: "Surrender."

"Stay Away."

"Are You Lonesome Tonight?"

After a hesitation, the perp admitted: "Lonely Man."

Harry still couldn't get a fix on the voice.  Sweat was really pouring
off him now wispy remnants of the spider web clung to his hair and
tickled his brow, his mouth tasted like the bottom of a pestle in
Frankenstein's laboratory, and he felt as if he'd stepped out of
reality into some drug addict's dark hallucinations.

"Let Yourself Go," Connie advised.

"I Feel So Bad," the perp repeated.

Harry knew he shouldn't be so disoriented by the peculiar twists this
pursuit kept taking.  These were the I 990s, after all, an age of
unreason if ever there had been one, when the bizarre was so common as
to establish a new definition of normality.  Like the holdup men who
had recently taken to threatening convenience store clerks not with
guns but with syringes full of AIDS-tainted blood.

Connie called to the perp, "Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear," which seemed,
to Harry an odd turn in the song-title conversation.

But the perp came right back at her in a voice full of yearning and
suspicion: "You Don't Know Me."

Connie needed only a few seconds to find the right follow-up: "Doncha
Think It's Time?"

And talk about bizarre: Bichard mirez, the serial killer known as the
Night Stalker, was visited regularly in prison by a stream of
attractive young women who found him appealing, exciting, a romantic
figure.  Or what about that guy in Wisconsin not long ago, cooking
parts of his victims for dinner, keeping rows of severed heads in his
refrigerator, and neighbors said, well, yeah, there had been bad smells
coming from his apartment for years, and now and then they heard
screams and high-powered electric saws, but the screaming never lasted
long, and anyway the guy seemed so nice, he seemed to care about
people.  The 1990s.  No decade like It.

"Too Much, " the perp finally said, evidently disbelieving Connie's
professed romantic interest.

"Poor Boy," she said with apparently genuine sympathy.

"Way Down."  The perp's voice, now annoyingly whiny, echoed off the
cobwebbed rafters as he admitted his lack of self-esteem, a very '90s
sort of excuse.

"Wear My King Around Your Neck," Connie said, romancing him as she
prowled through the maze, no doubt intending to blow him away the
moment she caught sight of him.

The perp didn't reply.

Harry kept on the move, too, diligently searching each shadowy niche
and byway, but feeling useless.  He had never imagined that in the last
decade of this strange century, he might have to be an expert on
rock-'n'-roll trivia to be an effective cop.

He hated crap like this, but Connie loved it.  She embraced the chaos
of the times; there was something dark and wild in her.

Harry reached an aisle that was perpendicular to his.  It was
desertedxcept for a couple of naked mannequins that had toppled over
long ago, one atop the other.  Hunkered down, shoulders hunched
protectively, Harry moved on.

"Wear My King Around Your Neck," Connie called out again from elsewhere
in the maze.

Maybe the perp was hesitating because he thought it was an offer that a
guy should make to a gal, not the other way around.  Though definitely
a '90s man, maybe the bastard still had an old-fashioned sense of
gender roles.

"Treat Me Nice," Connie said.

No answer.

"Love Me Tender," Connie said.

The perp still did not respond, and Harry was alarmed that the
conversation had become a monologue.  The creep might be close to
Connie, 'letting her talk so he could get a better, final fix on her.

Harry was about to shout a warning when an explosion shook the
building.  He froze, crossing his arms protectively over his face.  But
the blast had not occurred in the attic; there had been no flash.

From the floor below came cries of agony and terror, confused voices,
shouts of anger.

Evidently other cops had entered the lower room where the ladder gave
access to the attic, and the perp had heard them.  He'd dropped a
grenade through the trapdoor.

The gruesome screams conjured an image in Harry's mind: some guy trying
to keep his intestines from spilling out of his belly.

He knew that he and Connie were in a rare moment of total agreement,
experiencing the same dread and fury.  For once he didn't give a damn
about the perp's legal rights, excessive use of force, or the proper
way of doing things.  He just wanted the bastard dead.

Above the screams, Connie tried to re-establish the dialogue: "Love Me
Tender."

"Tell Me W" the perp demanded, still doubting her sincerity.

"My Baby Left Me," Connie said.

The screams were subsiding on the floor below.  Either the injured man
was dying, or others were moving him out of the room where the grenade
had detonated.

"Anyway You Want Me," Connie said.

The perp was silent for a moment.  Then his voice echoed through the
room, infuriatingly directionless, "I Feel So Bad."

"I'm Yours," Connie said.

Harry couldn't get over the speed with which she thought of the
appropriate titles.

"Lonely Man," the perp said, and indeed he sounded miserable.

"I've Got a Thing About You Baby," Connie said.

She's a genius, Harry thought admiringly.  And seriously obsessed with
Presley.

Counting on the perp being pretty much distracted by Connie's weird
seduction, Harry risked showing himself.  Because he was directly under
the' peak of the roof, he rose slowly to his full height, and surveyed
the garret on all sides.

Some piles of boxes were shoulder-high, but many others were only a few
inches higher than Harry's waist.  A lot of human forms stared back
from the shadows, tucked in among the boxes and even sitting on them.

But all of them must have been mannequins because none moved or shot at
him.

"Lonely Man.  All Shook Up," the perp said despairingly.

"There's Always Me."

"Please Don't Stop Loving Me."

"Can't Help Falling in Love," Connie said.

Standing, Harry had a slightly better sense of the direction from which
the voices arose.  Both Connie and the perp were ahead of him, but at
first he couldn't discern if they were close to each other.

He could not see over the boxes into any of the other avenues of the
maze.

"Don't Be Cruel," the perp pleaded.

"Love Me," Connie urged.

"I Need Your Love Tonight."

They were at the west end of the attic, the south side, and they were
close to each other.

"Stuck on You," Connie insisted.

"Don't Be Cruel."

Harry sensed an escalation in the intensity of the dialogue, subtly
conveyed in the gunman's tone, in the speed of responses, and in his
repetition of the same title.

"I Need Your Love Tonight."

"Don't Be Cruel."

Harry stopped putting caution first.  He hurried toward the voices,
into an area more densely populated by mannequins, groups clustered in
niches between boxes.  Pale shoulders, graceful arms, hands pointing or
raised as if in greeting.  Painted eyes sightless in the gloom, painted
lips eternally parted in half-formed smiles, in greetings never
vocalized, in passionless erotic sighs.

More spiders lived there, too, evidenced by webs that tangled in his
hair and stuck to his clothes.  As he moved, he wiped the gossamer off
his face.  Wispy rags of it dissolved on his tongue and lips, and his
mouth flooded with saliva as nausea gripped him.  He choked down his
gorge and expelled a wad of spittle and spider stuff.

"It's Now or Never," Connie promised from somewhere nearby.

The familiar answering three words had become less of a plea than a
warning: "Don't Be Cruel."

Harry had the feeling the guy wasn't being lulled at all but was
ticking toward a new explosion.

He proceeded another few feet and stopped, turning his head from side
to side, listening intently, afraid he would miss something because the
booming of his own heart was so loud in his ears.

"I'm Yours, Puppet on a String, Let Yourself Go," Connie urged voice
falling to a stage whisper to foster a false sense of intima with her
prey Although Harry respected Connie's skills and instincts, he was
afraid that her eagerness to sucker the perp was distracting her from
the realization that the perp might not be responding out of his
confusion and longing but out of a similar desire to sucker be':
"Playing for Keeps, One Broken Heart for Sale," Connie said.

She sounded as if she was right on top of Harry, in the next aisle,
surely no farther than two aisles away and parallel with him.

"Ain't That Loving You Baby, Crying in the Chapel."  Connie's whisper
had grown more fierce than seductive, as if she was also aware that
something had gone wrong with the dialogue.

Harry tensed, waiting for the perp's response, squinting into the gloom
ahead, then turning to look back the way he had come when he imagined
the smiling, moon-faced killer stealing up behind him.

The attic seemed to be not merely silent but the source of all silence,
as the sun was the source of light.  The unseen spiders moved with
perfect stealth through all the dark corners of that high room, and
millions of dust motes drifted as soundlessly as planets and asteroids
in the airless void of space, and on both sides of Harry, gatherings of
mannequins stared without seeing, listened without hearing, posed
without knowing.

Forced between clenched teeth, hard as a threat, Connie's whisper had
ceased to be an invitation, had become a challenge; and song titles no
longer constituted her entire rap: "Anyway You Want Me, you toad, come
on, come to mama.  Let Yourself Go, dirtbag."

No reply The attic was silent but also eerily still, filled with less
motion than a dead man's mind.

Harry had the strange feeling that he was becoming one of the
mannequins that stood around him, his flesh transformed into plaster,
his bones into steel rods, sinews and tendons changing into bundles of
wire.  He let only his eyes move, and his gaze slid across the
inanimate citizens of the garret.

Painted eyes.  Pale breasts with permanently erect nipples, round
thighs, tight buttocks, curving away into darkness.  Hairless torsos.

Men and women.  Bald heads or matted wigs caked with dust.

Painted lips.  Puckered as if to plant a kiss, or in a playful pout, or
parted slightly as if in erotic surprise at the electricity of a
lover's touch, others formed into shy smiles, some coy some with a
broader curve, the dull gleam of teeth, here a more thoughtful smile,
and there a full and perpetual laugh.  No.  Wrong.  The dull gleam of
teeth.  Mannequin teeth don't gleam.  No saliva on mannequin teeth.

Which one, there, there, in the back of the niche, behind four true
mannequins, one clever mime, peering out between bald and bewigged
heads, almost lost in shadows but moist eyes glistening in the dimness,
no more than six feet away face to face, the smile opening wider as
Harry watched, wider but as humorless as a wound, the weak chin, the
moon face, and one more song title so soft as to be barely audible,
"Blue Moon, " Harry taking in all of this in an instant, even as he was
bringing up the muzzle of his revolver and squeezing the trigger.

The perp opened fire with his Browning 9mm maybe a fraction of a second
before Harry did, and the attic was filled with the crashes and echoes
of shots.  He saw the flash of the pistol's muzzle, which seemed to be
directly in front of his chest, oh God please, and he emptied his
revolver faster than seemed possible, all in a blink if he'd dared to
blink, the weapon bucking so hard that it seemed likely to fly out of
his grip.

Something hit him hard in the gut, and he knew he had been shot, though
he had no pain yet, just a sharp pressure and a flare of heat.  And
before the pain could follow, he was knocked backward, mannequins
toppling into him, driving him against the wall of the aisle.  The
stacked boxes rocked, and some were dislodged into the next branch of
the maze.  Harry was carried to the floor in a clatter of plaster limbs
and hard pale bodies, trapped under them, gasping for breath, trying to
shout for help, able to make no sound louder than a wheeze.  He smelled
the distinct metallic odor of blood.

Someone snapped on the attic lights, a long string of small bulbs
hanging just under the peak of the roof, but that improved visibility
only for a second or two, just long enough for Harry to see that the
perp was part of the weight that held him on the floor.  The moon face
peered down from the top of the heap, between the naked interlocking
limbs and past the hairless skulls of the mannequins, his eyes now as
sightless as theirs.  His smile was gone.  His lips were painted, but
with blood.

Although Harry knew that the lights were not actually going out, it
seemed as though they were on a dimmer being cycled off.  He tried to
call out for help but still could only wheeze.  His gaze shifted from
the moon face toward the fading light bulbs overhead.  The last thing
he saw was a rafter streaming with tattered cobwebs.  Cobwebs that
fluttered like the flags of long-lost nations.  Then he slipped into
darkness as deep as a dead man's dream.

Out of the west-northwest, ominous clouds rolled like silent battalions
of war machines, driven by a high-altitude wind.  Though the day was
still calm and pleasantly warm at ground level, the blue sky steadily
vanished behind those thunderheads.

Janet Marco parked her broken-down Dodge at one end of the alleyway.

With her five-year-old son, Danny, and the stray dog that had recently
attached itself to them, she walked along that narrow backstreet,
examining the contents of one garbage can after another, seeking
survival in the discards of others.

The east side of the alley was flanked by a deep but narrow ravine
filled with immense eucalyptus trees and a tangle of dried brush while
the west side was defined by a series of two- and three-car garages
separated by wrought-iron and painted-wood gates.  Beyond some of the
gates, Janet glimpsed small patios and cobbled courtyards shaded by
palms, magnolias, ficuses, and Australian tree ferns that flourished in
the ocean air.  The houses all faced the Pacific over the roofs of
other houses on lower tiers of the Laguna hills, so they were mostly
three stories tall, vertical piles of stone and stucco and weathered
cedar shingles designed to make maximum use of the expensive real
estate.

Though the neighborhood was affluent, the rewards of scavenging were
pretty much the same there as anywhere else: aluminum cans that could
be returned to a recycling center for pennies, and redeemable
bottles.

However, once in a while she found a treasure: bags of clothes that
were out of style but looked unworn, broken appliances that would fetch
a couple of dollars from a second-hand shop if they needed only minor
repairs, unwanted costume jewelry, or books and old-fashioned
phonograph records that could be resold to specialty shops for
collectors.

Danny toted a plastic garbage bag into which Janet dropped the aluminum
cans.  She carried another bag to hold the bottles.

As they progressed along the alleyway, under a rapidly darkening sky,
Janet repeatedly glanced back at the Dodge.  She worried about the car
and tried never to get more than two blocks from it, keeping it in
sight as much as possible.  The car was not only a means of conveyance;
it was their shelter from the sun and the rain, and a place to store
their meager belongings.  It was home.

She lived in dread of a mechanical breakdown severe enough to be
irreparabler irreparable within their means, which was the same
thing.

But she was most afraid of theft, because with the car gone they would
have no roof over their heads, no safe place to sleep.

She knew that no one was likely to steal such a rolling wreck The
thief's desperation would have to exceed Janet's own, and she could not
conceive of anyone more desperate than she wad.

From a large brown plastic trash can, she extracted half a dozen
aluminum cans that someone had already flattened and that ought to have
been separated for recycling.  She put them in Danny's garbage bag.

The boy watched solemnly.  He said nothing.  He was a quiet child.

His father had intimidated him into being the next thing to a mute, and
in the year since Janet had cut that domineering bastard out of their
lives, Danny had become only slightly less withdrawn.

Janet glanced back at the car.  Still there.

Cloud shadows fell over the alleyway, and a soft salt-scented breeze
arose.  From far out over the sea came a low peal of thunder.

She hurried to the next can, and Danny followed her.

The dog, which Danny had named Woofer, sniffed at the trash containers,
padded to a nearby gate, and poked his snout between the iron bars.

His tail wagged continuously.  He was a friendly mutt, reasonably
well-behaved, the size of a golden retriever, with a black and brown
coat, and a cute face.  But Janet tolerated the cost of feeding him
only because he had drawn so many smiles from the boy in the past few
days.  Until Woofer came along, she had almost forgotten what Danny's
smile was like.

Again, she glanced at the battered Dodge.  It was all right.

She looked toward the other end of the alley, and then toward the
brush-choked ravine and peeling trunks of the huge eucalyptuses across
the way She was afraid not of just car thieves, and not merely of
residents who might object to her rummaging through their garbage.  She
was also afraid of the cop who had been harassing her lately.  No.  Not
a cop.  Something that pretended to be a cop.  Those strange eyes, the
kind and freckled face that could change so swiftly into a creature out
of a nightmare...

Janet Marco had one religion: fear.  She had been born into that cruel
faith without being aware of it, as full of wonder and the capacity for
delight as any child.  But her parents were alcoholics, and their
sacrament of distilled spirits revealed in them an unholy rage and a
capacity for sadism.  They vigorously instructed her in the doctrines
and dogmas of the cult of fear.  She learned of only one god, which was
neither a specific person nor a force; to her, god was merely power,
and whoever wielded it was automatically elevated to the status of
deity.

That she had fallen under the thrall of a wife-beater and control freak
like Vince Marco, as soon as she was old enough to escape her parents,
was no surprise.  By then she was devoted to victiinhood, had a need to
be oppressed.  Vince was lazy, shiftless, a drunkard, a gambler, a
womanizer, but he was highly skilled and energetic when it came to
crushing the spirit of a wife.

For eight years they had moved around the West, never staying longer
than six months in any town, while Vince made a subsistence
living-although not always an honest one.  He didn't want Janet to
develop friendships.  If he remained the only consistent presence in
her life, he had total control; there was no one to advise and
encourage her to rebel.

As long as she was utterly subservient and wore her fear for him to
see, the beatings and torments were less severe than when she was more
stoical and denied him the pleasure of her anguish.  The god of fear
appreciated visible expressions of his disciple's devotion every bit as
much as did the Christian God of love.  Perversely, fear became her
refuge and her only defense against even greater savageries.

And so she might have continued until she was no better than a
shivering, terrorized animal cowering in its burrow... but Danny came
along to save her.  After the baby was born, she began to fear for him
as much as for herself.  What would happen to Danny if Vince went too
far some night and, in an alcoholic frenzy, beat her to death?  How
would Danny cope alone, so small, so helpless?  In time she feared harm
to Danny more than to herself-which should have added to her burden but
which was strangely liberating.  Vince didn't realize it, but he was no
longer the only consistent presence in her life.  Her child, by his
very existence, was an argument for rebellion and a source of
courage.

She still might never have become courageous enough to throw off her
yoke if Vince had not raised his hand to the boy.  One night a year
ago, in a dilapidated rental house with a desert-brown lawn on the
outskirts of Tucson, Vince had come home reeking of beer and sweat and
some other woman's perfume, and had beaten Janet for sport.  Danny was
four then, too small to protect his mother but old enough to feel that
he ought to defend her.  When he appeared in his pajamas and tried to
intervene, his father slapped him repeatedly, viciously, knocked him
down, and kicked at him until the boy scrambled out of the house into
the front yard, weeping and terrified.

Janet had endured the beating, but later, when both her husband and her
boy were asleep, she'd gone to the kitchen and taken a knife from a
wall rack near the stove.  Utterly fearless for the first-and perhaps
last-time in her life, she returned to the bedroom and stabbed Vince
repeatedly in the throat, neck, chest, and stomach.  He woke as the
first wound was inflicted, tried to scream, but only gurgled as his
mouth filled with blood.  He resisted, briefly and ineffectually.

After checking on Danny in the next room to be sure he had not
awakened, Janet wrapped Vince's body in the bloodstained bed sheets.

She tied the shroud in place at his ankles and neck with clothesline,
dragged him through the house, out of the kitchen door, and across the
backyard.

The high moon grew alternately dim and bright as clouds like galleons
sailed eastward across the sky, but Janet was not concerned about being
seen.  The shacks along that stretch of the state route were widely
spaced, and no lights glowed in either of the two nearest homes.

Driven by the grim understanding that the police could take her from
Danny as surely as Vince might have done, she hauled the corpse to the
end of the property and out into the night desert, which stretched
unpopulated to the far mountains.  She struggled between mesquite
shrubs and still-rooted tumbleweeds, across soft sand in some places
and hard tables of shale in others.

When the cold face of the moon shone, it revealed a hostile landscape
of stark shadows and sharp alabaster shapes.  In one of the deeper
shadows-an arroyo carved by centuries of flash floodsJanet abandoned
the corpse.

She stripped the sheets off the body and buried those, but she didn't
dig a grave for the cadaver itself because she hoped that night
scavengers and vultures would pick the bones clean quicker if it was
left exposed.  Once the denizens of the desert had chewed and pecked
the soft pads of Vince's fingers, once the sun and the carrion eaters
got done with him, his identity might be deduced only by dental
records.  Since Vince had rarely seen a dentist, and never the same one
twice, there were no records for the police to consult.  With luck, the
corpse would go undiscovered until the next rainy season, when the
withered remains would be washed miles and miles away, tumbled and
broken and mixed up with piles of other refuse, until they had
essentially disappeared.

That night Janet packed what little they owned and drove away in the
old Dodge with Danny.  She was not even sure where she was going until
she had crossed the state line and driven all the way to Orange
County.

That had to be her final destination because she couldn't afford to
spend more money on gasoline just to get farther away from the dead man
in the desert.

No one back in Tucson would wonder what had happened to Vince.  He was
a shiftless drifter, after all.  Cutting loose and moving on was a way
of life to him.

But Janet was deathly afraid to apply for welfare or any form of
assistance.  They might ask her where her husband was, and she didn't
trust her ability to lie convincingly.

Besides, in spite of carrion-eaters and the dehydrating ferocity of the
Arizona sun, maybe someone had stumbled across Vince's body before it
had become unidentifiable.  If his widow and son surfaced in
California, seeking government aid, perhaps connections would be made
deep in a computer, prompting an alert social worker to call the
cops.

Considering her tendency to succumb to anyone who exerted authority
over her-a deeply ingrained trait that had been only slightly
ameliorated by the murder of her husband-Janet had little chance of
undergoing police scrutiny without incriminating herself.

Then they would take Danny away from her.

She could not allow that.  Would not.

On the streets, homeless but for the rusted and rattling Dodge, Janet
Marco discovered that she had a talent for survival.  She was not
stupid; she had just never before had the freedom to exercise her
wits.

From a society whose refuse could feed a significant portion of c, the
Third World, she clawed a degree of precarious security, feeding
herself and her son with recourse to a charity kitchen for the fewest
possible meals.

She learned that fear, in which she had long been steeped, did not have
to immobilize her.  It could also motivate.

The breeze had grown cool and had stiffened into an erratic wind.

The rumble of thunder was still far away but louder than whenJanet had
first heard it.  Only a sliver of blue sky remained to the east, fading
as fast as hope usually did.

After mining two blocks of trash containers, Janet and Danny headed
back to the Dodge with Woofer in the lead.

More than halfway there, the dog suddenly stopped and cocked his head
to listen for something else above the fluting of the wind and the
chorus of whispery voices that were stirred from the agitated
eucalyptus leaves.  He grumbled and seemed briefly puzzled, then turned
and looked past Janet.  He bared his teeth, and the grumble sharpened
into a low growl.

She knew what had drawn the dog's attention.  She didn't have to
look.

Nevertheless she was compelled to turn and confront the menace for
Danny's sake if not her own.  The Laguna Beach cop, that cop, was about
eight feet away.

He was smiling, which is how it always started with him.  He had an
appealing smile, a kind face, and beautiful blue eyes.

As always, there was no squad car, no indication of how he had arrived
in the alleyway.  It was as if he had been lying in wait for her among
the peeling trunks of the eucalyptuses, clairvoyantly aware that her
scavenging would bring her to this alley at this hour on this very
day.

"How're you, Ma'am?"  he asked.  His voice was initially gentle, almost
musical.

Janet didn't answer.

The first time he approached her last week, she had responded timidly,
nervously, averting her eyes, as excruciatingly respectful of authority
as she had been all her lilexcept for that one bloody night outside of
Tucson.  But she had quickly discovered that he was not what he
appeared to be, and that he preferred a monologue to a dialogue.

"Looks like we're in for a little rain," he said, glancing up at the
troubled sky.

Danny had moved against Janet.  She put her free arm around him,
pulling him even closer.  The boy was shivering.

She was shivering, too.  She hoped Danny didn't notice.

The dog continued to bare his teeth and growl softly.

Lowering his gaze from the stormy sky to Janet again, the cop spoke in
that same lilting voice: "Okay, no more farting around.

Time to have some real fun.  So what's going to happen now is...

you've got till dawn.  Understand?  Huh?  At dawn, I'm going to kill
you and your boy."

His threat did not surprisejanet.  Anyone with authority over her had
always been as a god, but always a savage god, never benign.  She
expected violence, suffering, and imminent death.  She would have been
surprised only by an exhibition of kindness from someone with power
over her, for kindness was infinitely rarer than hatred and cruelty.

In fact, her fear, already nearly paralyzing, might have been made even
greater only by that unlikely show of kindn Kindness would have seemed,
to her, nothing more than an attempt to mask some unimaginably evil
motive.

The cop was still smiling, but his freckled, Irish face was no longer
friendly.  It was chillier than the coolish air coming off the sea in
advance of the storm.

"Did you hear me, you dumb bitch?"

She said nothing.

"Are you thinking that you ought to run, get out of town, maybe go up
to L.A. where I can't find you?"

She was thinking something rather like that, either Los Angeles or
south to San Diego.

"Yes, please, try to run," he encouraged.  "That'll make it more fun
for me.  Run, resist.  Wherever you go, I'll find you, but it'll be a
lot more exciting that way."

Janet believed him.  She had been able to escape her parents, and she
had escaped Vince by killing him, but now she had come up against not
merely another of the many gods of fear who had ruled her but the God
of fear whose powers exceeded understanding.

His eyes were changing, darkening from blue to electric green.

Wind suddenly gusted strongly through the alley, whipping dead leaves
and a few scraps of paper ahead of it.

The cop's eyes had become so radiantly green, there seemed to be a
light source behind them, a fire within his skull.  And the pupils had
changed, too, until they were elongated and strange like those of a
cat.

The dog's growl became a frightened whine.

In the nearby ravine the eucalyptus trees shook in the wind, and their
soft soughing grew into a roar like that of an angry mob.

It seemed to Janet that the creature masquerading as a cop had
commanded the wind to rise to lend more drama to his threat, though
surely he did not have so much power as that.

"When I come for you at sunrise, I'll break open your bodies, eat your
hearts."

His voice had changed as completely as had his eyes.  It was deep,
gravelly, the malevolent voice of something that belonged in Hell.

He took a step toward them.

Janet backed up two steps, pulling Danny along.  Her heart was
hammering so hard, she knew her tormentor could hear it.

The dog also retreated, alternately whining and growling, his tail
tucked between his legs.

"At dawn, you sorry bitch.  You and your snot-nosed little brat.

Sixteen hours.  Only sixteen hours, bitch.  Ticktock... ticktock...

ticktock...."

The wind died in an instant.  The whole world fell silent.  No rustling
of trees.  No distant thunder.

A twig, bristling with half a dozen long eucalyptus leaves, hung in the
air a few inches to her right and a foot in front of her face.  It was
motionless, abandoned by the whooping wind that had supported it, but
still magically suspended like the dead scorpion in the souvenir
acrylic paperweight that Vince had once bought at an Arizona
truckstop.

The cop's freckled face stretched and bulged with amazing elasticity,
like a rubber mask behind which a great pressure had been exerted.  His
green, catlike eyes appeared ready to pop out of his wildly deformed
skull.

Janet wanted to run for the car, her haven, home, lock the door, safe
in their home, and drive like hell, but couldn't do it, dared not turn
her back on him.  She knew she would be brought down and torn apart in
spite of the promised sixteen-hour head start, because he wanted her to
watch his transformation, demanded it, and would be furious if
ignored.

The powerful were intensely proud of their power.  The gods of fear
needed to preen and to be admired, to see how their power humbled and
terrified those who were powerless before them.

The cop's distended face melted, his features running together, eyes
liquefying into red pools of hot oil, the oil soaking into his doughy
cheeks until he was eyeless, nose sliding into his mouth, lips
spreading out across his chin and cheeks, then no chin or cheeks any
more, just an oozing mass.  But his warlike flesh didn't steam or drip
to the ground, so the presence of heat was probably an illusion.

Maybe all of it was an illusion, hypnosis.  That would explain a lot,
raise new questions, yes, but explain a lot.

His body was pulsing, writhing, changing inside his clothes.

Then his clothes were dissolving into his body, as if they had never
been real clothes but just another part of him.  Briefly the new form
he assumed was covered with matted black fur: an immense elongated head
began taking shape on a powerful neck, hunched and gnarled shoulders,
baleful yellow eyes, a ferocity of wicked teeth and two-inch claws, a
movie werewolf.

On each of the four previous occasions this thing had appeared before
her, it had 'manifested itself differently, as if to impress her with
its repertoire.  But she was unprepared for what it became now.

It relinquished the wolf incarnation even before that body had
completely taken form, and assumed a human guise once more, though not
the cop.  Vince.  Even though the facial features were less than half
developed, she believed it was going to become her dead husband.  The
dark hair was the same, the shape of the forehead, the color of one
malevolent pale eye.

The resurrection of Vince, buried beneath Arizona sands for the past
year, shookJanet more than anything else the creature had done or
become, and at last she cried out in fear.  Danny screamed, too, and
clung even more tightly to her.

The dog did not have the fickle heart of a stray.  He stopped whining
and responded as if he had been with them since he was a pup.  He bared
his teeth, snarled, and snapped at the air in warning.

Vince's face remained less than half formed, but his body took shape,
and he wad naked as he had been when she had overwhelmed him in his
sleep.  In his throat, chest, and belly, she thought she saw the wounds
left by the kitchen knife with which she had killed him: gaping gashes
that were bloodless, but dark and raw and terrible.

Vince raised one arm, reaching toward her.

The dog attacked.  Collarless life on the streets had not left Woofer
weak or sickly.  He was a strong, well-muscled animal, and when he
launched himself at the apparition, he seemed to take flight as readily
as a bird.

His snarl was clipped off, and he was miraculously halted in midair,
body in the arc of attack, as if he were only an image on a videotape
after someone pushed the "pause" button.  Flash-frozen.

Foamy slaver shone like frost on his black lips and in the fur around
his muzzle, and his teeth gleamed as coldly as rows of small sharp
icicles.

The eucalyptus twig, clothed in silvery-green leaves, hung unsupported
to Janet's right, the dog to her left.  The atmosphere seemed to have
crystallized, trapping Woofer for eternity in his moment of courage,
yet Janet was able to breathe when she remembered to try.

Still half-formed, Vince stepped toward her, passing the dog.

She turned and ran, pulling Danny with her, expecting to freeze in
mid-step.  What would it feel like?  Would darkness fall over her when
she was paralyzed or would she still be able to see Vince walk into
view from behind her and come eye to eye again?  Would she drop into a
well of silence or be able to hear the dead man's hateful voice?  Feel
the pain of each blow that he rained on her or be as insensate as the
levitated eucalyptus twig?

Like flood waters, a tide of wind roared through the alleyway, nearly
knocking her over.  The world was filled with sound again.

She spun around and looked back in time to see Woofer return to life in
midair and finish his interrupted leap.  But there was no longer anyone
for him to attack.  Vince was gone.  The dog landed on the pavement,
slipped, skidded, rolled over, and sprang to his feet again, snapping
his head around in fear and confusion, looking for his prey as if it
had vanished before his eyes.

Danny was crying.

The threat seemed to have passed.  The backstreet was deserted but for
Janet, her boy, and the dog.  Nevertheless, she hurried Danny toward
the car, eager to get away, glancing repeatedly at the brush filled
ravine and at the deep shadows between the huge trees as she passed
them, half expecting the troll to climb out of its lair again, ready to
feed on their hearts sooner than it had promised.

Lightning flickered.  The roar of thunder was louder and closer than
before.

The air smelled of the rain to come.  That ozone taint reminded Janet
of the stink of hot blood.

Harry Lyon was sitting at a corner table at the rear of the burger
restaurant, clasping a water glass in his right hand, his left hand
fisted on his thigh.  Now and then he took a sip of water, and each sip
seemed colder than the one before it, as if the glass-absorbed a chill,
instead of heat, from his hand.

His gaze traveled over the toppled furniture, ruined plants, broken
glass, scattered food, and congealing blood.  Nine wounded had been
carried away, but two dead bodies lay where they had fallen.  A police
photographer and lab technicians were at work.

Harry was aware of the room and the people in it, the periodic flash of
the camera, but what he saw more clearly was the remembered moon face
of the perpetrator peering down at him through the tangled limbs of the
mannequins.  The parted lips wet with blood.  The twin windows of his
eyes and the view of Hell beyond.

Harry was no less surprised to be alive now than when they had pulled
the dead man and the department-store dummies off him.

His stomach still ached dully where the plaster hand of the mannequin
had poked into him with the full weight of the perp behind It.

He'd thought he'd been shot.  The perp had fired twice at close range,
but evidently both rounds had been deflected by the intervening plaster
torsos and limbs.

of the five rounds that Harry had fired, at least three had done major
damage.

Plainclothes detectives and techs passed in and out of the nearby,
bullet-torn kitchen door, on their way to or from the second floor and
attic.  Some spoke to him or clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good work, Harry."

"Harry, you okay?"

"Nice job, man."

"You need anything, Harry?"

"Some shitstorm, huh, Harry?"

He murmured "thanks" or "yes" or "no" or just shook his head.

He wasn't ready for conversation with any of them, and he certainly
wasn't ready to be a hero.

A crowd had gathered outside, pressing eagerly against police barriers,
gawking through both broken and unbroken windows.  He tried to ignore
them because too many of them seemed to resemble the perp, their eyes
shining with a fever glaze and their pleasant everyday faces unable to
conceal strange hungers.

Connie came through the swinging door from the kitchen, righted an
overturned chair, and sat at the table with him.  She held a small
notebook from which she read.  "His name was James Ordegard.

Thirty-one.  Unmarried.  Lived in Laguna.  Engineer.  No police
record.

Not even a traffic citation."

"What's his connection with this place?  Ex-wife, girlfriend work
here?"

"No.  So far we can't find a connection.  Nobody who works here
remembers ever seeing him before."

"Carrying a suicide note?"

"Nope.  Looks like random violence."

"They talk to anyone where he works?"

She nodded.  "They're stunned.  He was a good worker, happy-" "The
usual model citizen."

"That's what they say."

The photographer took a few more shots of the nearest corpse-a woman in
her thirties.  The strobe flashes were jarringly bright, and Harry
realized that the day beyond the windows had grown overcast since he
and Connie had come in for lunch.

"He have friends, family?"  Harry asked.

"We have names, but we haven't talked to them yet.  Neighbors
either."

She closed the notebook.  "How you doin'?"

"I've been better."

"How's your gut?"

"Not bad, almost normal.  It'll be a lot worse tomorrow.  Where the
hell did he get the grenades?"

She shrugged.  "We'll find out."

The third grenade, dropped through the attic trapdoor into the room
below, had caught a Laguna Beach officer by surprise.  He was now in
Hoag Hospital, desperately clinging to life.

"Grenades."  Harry was still disbelieving.  "You ever hear anything
like it?"

He was immediately sorry he had asked the question.  He knew it would
get her started on her favorite subject-the pre-millennium cotillion,
the continuing crisis of these new Dark Ages.

Connie frowned and said, "Ever hear anything like it?  Not like, maybe,
but just as bad, worse, lots worse.  Last year in Nashville, a woman
killed her handicapped boyfriend by setting his wheelchair on fire."

Kl Harry sighed.

She said, "Eight teenagers in Boston raped and killed a woman.

You know what their excuse was?  They were bored.  Bored.  The city was
at fault, you see, for doing so little to provide kids with free
leisure activities."

He glanced at the people crowding the crime-scene barriers beyond the
front window-then quickly averted his eyes.

He said, "Why do you collect these nuggets?"

"Look, Harry, it's the Age of Chaos.  Get with the times."

"Maybe I'd rather be an old fogey."

"To be a good cop in the nineties, you've gotta be of the nineties.

You gotta be in sync with the rhythms of destruction.  Civilization is
coming down around our ears.  Everyone wants a license, no one wants
responsibility, so the center won't hold.  You've gotta know when to
break a rule to save the system-and how to surf on every random wave of
madness that comes along."

He just stared at her, which was easy enough, much easier than
considering what she had said, because it scared him to think she might
be right.  He couldn't consider it.  Wouldn't.  Not right now,
anyway.

And the sight of her lovely face was a welcome distraction.

Although she did not measure up to the current American standard of
ultimate gorgeousness set by beer-commercial bimbos on television, and
though she did not possess the sweaty exotic allure of the female rock
stars with mutant cleavage and eight pounds of stage makeup who
unaccountably aroused a whole generation of young males, Connie
Gulliver was attractive.  At least Harry thought so.

Not that he had any romantic interest in her.  He did not.  But he was
a man, she was a woman, and they worked closely together, so it was
natural for him to notice that her dark-brown-almost-black hair was
beautifully thick with a silken luster though she cropped it short and
combed it with her fingers.  Her eyes were an odd shade of blue, violet
when light struck them at a certain angle, and might have been
irresistibly enticing if they had not been the watchful, suspicious
eyes of a cop.

She was thirty-three, four years younger than Harry.  In rare moments
when she let her guard down, she looked twenty-five.

Most of the time, however, the dark wisdom acquired from police work
made her seem older than she was.

"What're you staring at?"  she asked.

"Just wondering if you're really as hard inside as you pretend to
be."

"You ought to know by now."

"That's just it-I ought to."

"Don't get Freudian on me, Harry."

"I won't."  He took a sip of water.

"One thing I like about you is, you don't try to psychoanalyze
everyone.  All that stuff's a load of crap."

"I agree."

He wasn't strrprised to find they shared an attitude.  In spite of
their many differences, they were enough alike to work well as
partners.  But because Connie avoided self-revelation, Harry had no
idea whether they had arrived at their similar attitudes for similaror
totally opposed-reasons.

Sometimes it seemed important to understand why she held certain
convictions.  At other times Harry was equally sure that encouraging
intimacy would lead to a messier relationship.  He hated messiness.

Often it was wise to avoid familiarity in a professional association,
keep a comfortable distance, a buffer zone-specially when you were both
carrying firearms.

In the distance, thunder rolled.

A cool draft slipped across the jagged edges of the big broken window
and all the way to the back of the restaurant.  Discarded paper napkins
fluttered on the floor.

The prospect of rain pleased Harry.  The world needed to be cleansed,
freshened.

Connie said, "You going to check in for a mind massage?"

Following a shooting, they were encouraged to take a few sessions of
counseling.

"No," Harry said.  "I'm fine."

"Why don't you knock off, go home?"

"Can't leave you with everything."

"I can handle it here."

"What about all the paperwork?"

"I can do that, too."

"Yeah, but your reports are always full of typos."

She shook her head.  "Your clock's wound too tight, Harry."

"It's all computers, but you don't even bother to run the spellcheck
program."

"I just had grenades thrown at me.  Fuck spell-check."

He nodded and got up from the table.  "I'll go back to the office and
start writing up the report."

Accompanied by another long, low rumble of thunder, a couple of morgue
attendants in white jackets approached the dead woman.

Under the supervision of an assistant coroner, they prepared to remove
the victim from the scene.

Connie handed her notebook to Harry.  For his report, he would need
some of the facts she had collected.

"See you later," she said.

"Later."

One of the attendants unfolded an opaque body bag.  It had been doubled
so tightly upon itself that the layers of plastic separated with a
sticky crackling, unpleasantly organic noise.

Harry was surprised by a wave of nausea.

The dead woman had been facedown with her head turned away from him.

He had heard another detective say that she had been shot in the chest
and face.  He didn't want to see her when they rolled her over to put
her into the bag.

Quelling his nausea with an effort of will, he turned away and headed
for the front door.

Connie said, "Harry?"

Reluctantly he looked back.

She said, "Thanks."

"You, too."

That was probably the only reference they would ever make to the fact
that their survival had depended on being a good team.

He continued toward the front door, dreading the crowd of onlookers.

From behind him came a wet, suction-breaking sound as they lifted the
woman out of the congealing blood that half glued her to the floor.

Sometimes he could not remember why he had become a cop.  It seemed not
a career choice but an act of madness.

He wondered what he might have become if he had never entered police
work, but as always his mind blanked on that one.  Perhaps there was
such a thing as destiny, a power infinitely greater than the force
which drove the earth around the sun and kept the planets in alignment,
moving men and women through life as iftheywere only pieces on a game
board.  Perhaps free will was nothing more than a desperate illusion.

The uniformed officer at the front door stepped aside to let him out.

"It's a zoo," he said.

Harry wasn't sure if the cop was referring to life in general or just
to the mob of onlookers.

Outside, the day was considerably cooler than when Harry and Connie had
gone into the restaurant for lunch.  Above the screen of trees, the sky
as as gray as cemetery granite.

Beyond police sawhorses and a barrier of taut yellow crime-scene tape,
sixty or eighty people jostled one another and craned their necks for a
better view of the carnage.  Young people with new-wave haircuts stood
shoulder to shoulder with senior citizens, businessmen in suits next to
beach boys in cutoffs and Hawiian shirts.  A few were eating huge
chocolate-chip cookies bought at a nearby bakery, and they were
generally festive, as if none of tbem would ever die.

Harry was uncomfortably aware that the crowd took an interest in him
when he stepped out of the restaurant.  He avoided meeting anyone's
gaze.  He didn't want to see what emptiness their eyes might reveal.

He turned right and moved past the first of the large windows, which
was still intact.  Ahead was the broken pane where only a few toothlike
shards still bristled from the frame.  Glass littered the concrete.

The sidewalk was empty between the police barriers and the front of the
building-and then a young man of about twenty slipped under the yellow
tape where it bridged the gap between two curbside trees.  He crossed
the sidewalk as if unaware that Harry was approaching, his eyes and
attention fixed intently on something inside the restaurant.

"Please stay behind the barrier," Harry said.

The man-more accurately a kid in well-worn tennis shoes, jeans, and a
Tecate beer T shirt-topped at the shattered window, giving no
indication that he had heard the warning.  He leaned through the frame,
fiercely focused on something inside.

Harry glanced into the restaurant and saw the body of the woman being
maneuvered into a morgue bag.

"I told you to stay behind the barrier."

They were close now.  The kid was an inch or two shorter than Harry's
six feet, lean, with thick black hair.  He stared at the corpse, at the
morgue attendants' glistening latex gloves which grew redder by the
moment.  He seemed unaware that Harry was at his side, looming over
him.

"Did you hear me?"

The kid was unresponsive.  His lips were parted slightly in breathless
anticipation.  His eyes were glazed, as though he'd been hypnotized.

Harry put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

Slowly the kid turned from the slaughter, but he still had a faraway
look, staring through Harry.  His eyes were the gray of lightly
tarnished silver.  His pink tongue slowly licked his lower lip, as if
he had just taken a bite of something tasty.

Neither the punk's failure to obey nor the arrogance of his blank stare
was what set Harry off.  Irrationally, perhaps, it was that tongue, the
obscene pink tip leaving a wet trail on lips that were too full.

Suddenly Harry wanted to hammer his face, split his lips, break out his
teeth, drive him to his knees, shatter his insolence, and teach him
something about the value of life and respect for the dead.

He grabbed the kid, and before he quite knew what was happenIng, he was
half shoving and half carrying him away from the window, back across
the sidewalk.  Maybe he hit the creep, maybe not, he didn't think so,
but he manhandled him as roughly as if he had caught him in the act of
mugging or molesting someone, wrenched and jerked him around, bent him
double, and forced him under the crime-scene tape.

The punk went down hard on his hands and knees, and the crowd moved
back to give him a little room.  Gasping for breath, he rolled onto his
side and glared up at Harry.  His hair had fallen across his face.  His
T-shirt was torn.  Now his eyes were in focus and his attention won.

The onlookers murmured excitedly.  The scene in the restaurant was
passive entertainment, the killer dead by the time they arrived, but
this was real action right in front of their eyes.  It was as if a
television screen had expanded to allow them to step through the glass,
and now they were part of a real cop drama, right in the middle of the
thrills and chills; and when he looked at their faces, Harry saw that
they were hoping the script was colorful and violent, a story worth
recounting to their families and friends over dinner.

Abruptly he was sickened by his own behavior, and he turned from the
kid.  He walked fast to the end of the building, which extended to the
end of the block, and slipped under the yellow tape at a spot where no
crowd was gathered.

The department car was parked around the corner, two-thirds of the way
along the next tree-lined block With the onlookers behind him and out
of sight, Harry began to tremble.  The trembling escalated into violent
shivering.

Halfway to the car he stopped and leaned one hand against the rough
trunk of a tree.  He took slow deep breaths.

A peal of thunder shook the sky above the canopy of trees.

A phantom dancer,ø made of dead leaves and litter, spun down the center
of the street in the embrace of a whirlwind.

He had dealt much too harshly with the kid.  He'd been reacting not to
what the kid had done but to everything that had happened in the
restaurant and the attic.  Delayed-stress syndrome.

But more than that: he had needed to strike out at something, someone,
God or man, in frustration over the stupidity of it all, the injustice,
the pure blind cruelty of fate.  Like some grim bird of despair, his
mind kept circling back to the two dead people in the restaurant, the
wounded, the cop clinging to a thread of life at Hoag Hospital, their
tortured husbands and wives and parents, bereaved children, mourning
friends, the many links in the terrible chain of grief that was forged
by each death.

The kid had just been a convenient target.

Harry knew he ought to go back and apologize, but couldn't.  It was not
the kid he dreaded facing as much as that ghoulish crowd.

"The little creep needed a lesson anyway," he said, justifying his
actions to himself.

He had treated the kid more like Connie might have done.  Now he even
sounded like Connie.

... you gotta be in sync with the rhythms of destruction...

civilization is coming down around our ears...gotta know when to break
a rule to save the system ... sub on every random wave of ma'lnees that
comes a......

Harry loathed that attitude.

Violence, madness, envy, and hatred would not consume them all.

Compassion, reason, and understanding would inevitably prevail.

Bad times?  Sure, the world had known plenty of bad times, hundreds of
millions dead in wars and pogroms, the official murderous lunacies of
fascism and communism, but there had been a few precious eras of peace,
too, and societies that worked at least for a while, so there was
always hope.

He stopped leaning on the tree.  He stretched, trying to loosen his
cramped muscles.

The day had started out so well, but it sure had gone to hell in a
hurry.

He was determined to get it back on trace Paperwork would help.

Nothing like official reports and forms in triplicate to make the world
seem ordered and rational.

Out in the street, the whirlwind had gathered more dust and detritus.

Earlier the ghost dancer had appeared to be waltzing along the
blacktop.  Now it was doing a frantic jitterbug.  As Harry took a step
away from the tree, the column of debris changed course, rigged toward
him, and burst upon him with startling power, forcing him to shut his
eyes against the abrasive grit.

For one crazy moment he thought he was going to be swept up as Dorothy
had been, and spun off to Oz.  Tree limbs rattled and shook overhead,
shedding more leaves on him.  The huffing and keening of the wind
briefly swelled into a shriek, a howl-but in the next instant fell into
graveyard stillness.

Someone spoke directly in front of Harry voice low and raspy and
strange: "Ticktock, ticktock."

Harry opened his eyes and wished he hadn't.

A hulking denizen of the streets, fully six-feet-five, odious and clad
in rags, stood before him, no more than two feet away.  His face was
grossly disfigured by scars and weeping sores.  His eyes were narrowed,
little more than slits, and gummy white curds clogged the corners.  The
breath that came between the hobo's rotten teeth and across his
suppurating lips was so foul that Harry gagged on the stench.

"Ticktock, ticktock," the vagrant repeated.  He spoke quietly but the
effect was like a shout because his voice seemed to be the only sound
in the world.  A preternatural silence draped the day Feeling
threatened by the size and by the extravagant filthiness of the
stranger, Harry took a step backward.  The man's greasy hair was matted
with dirt, bits of grass, and leaf fragments; dried food and worse was
crusted in his tangled beard.  His hands were dark with grime, and the
underside of every ragged, overgrown fingernail was tar-black.  He was
no doubt a walking petri dish in which thrived every deadly disease
known to man, and an incubator of new viral and bacterial horrors.

"Ticktock, ticktock."  The hobo grinned.  "You'll be dead in sixteen
hours."

"Back off," Harry warned.

"Dead by dawn."

The hobo opened his squinched eyes.  They were crimson from lid to lid
and corner to corner, without irises or pupils, as if there were only
panes of glass where eyes should have been and only a store of blood
within the skull.

"Dead by dawn," the hobo repeated.

Then he exploded.  It wasn't anything like a grenade blast, no killing
shock waves or gush of heat, no deafening boom, just a sudden end to
the unnatural stillness and a violent influx of wind, whoosh!  The hobo
appeared to disintegrate, not into particles of flesh and gouts of
blood but into pebbles and dust and leaves, into twigs and flower
petals and dry clods of earth, into pieces of old rags and scraps of
yellowed newspapers, bottle caps, glittering specks of glass, torn
theater tickets, bird feathers, string, candy wrappers, chewinggum
foil, bent and rusted nails, crumpled paper cups, lost buttons....

The churning column of debris burst over Harry.  He was forced to close
his eyes again as the mundane remains of the fantastic hobo pummeled
him.

When he could open his eyes without risk of injury, he spun around,
looking in every direction, but the airborne trash was gone, dispersed
to all corners of the day.  No whirlwind.  No ghost dancer.

No hobo: he had vanished.

Harry turned around again in disbelief, gaping.

His heart knocked fiercely.

From another street, a car horn blared.  A pickup truck turned the
corner, appraaching him, engine growling.  On the other side of the
street, a young couple walked - hand in hand, and the woman $ laughter
was like the ringing of small silver bells.

Suddenly Harry realized just how unnaturally quiet the day had become
between the appearance and departure of the rag-clothed giant.  Other
than the gravelly and malevolent voice and what few sounds of movement
the hobo made, the street had been as silent as any place a thousand
leagues beneath the sea or in the vacuum of space between galaxies.

Lightning flashed.  The shadows of tree limbs twitched on the sidewalk
around him.

Thunder drummed the fragile membrane of the sky drummed harder, the
heavens grew blacker as if lightning-burnt, the air temperature seemed
to drop ten degrees in an instant, and the laden clouds split.  A
scattering of fat raindrops snapped against the leaves, ponged off the
hoods of parked cars, painted dark blotches on Harry's clothes,
splattered his face, and drove a chill deep into his bones.

The world appeared to be dissolving beyond the windshield of the parked
car, as if the clouds had released torrents of a universal solvent.

Silver rain sluiced down the glass, and the trees outside seemed to
melt as readily as green crayons.  Hurrying pedestrians fused with
their colorful umbrellas and deliquesced into the gray downpour.

Harry Lyon felt as if he would be liquefied as well, rendered into an
insensate solution and swiftly washed away His comfortable world of
granite reason and steely logic was eroding around him, and he was
powerless to halt the disintegration.

He could not decide whether he had actually seen the burly vagrant or
merely halucinated him.

God knew, an underclass of the dispossessed wandered the American
landscape these days.  The more money the government spent to reduce
their numbers, the more of them there were, until it began to seem as
if they were not the result of any public policy or lack of it but a
divine scourge.  Like so many people, Harry had learned to i look away
from them or through them because there seemed to be nothing he could
do to help them in any significant way... and because their very
existence raised disturbing questions about the stability of his own
future.  Most were pathetic and harmless.  But some were undeniably
strange, their faces enlivened by the ticks and twitches of neurotic
compulsions, driven by obsessive needs, the gleam of madness in their
eyes, the capacity for violence evident in the unremitting coiled
tension of their bodies.  Even in a town like Laguna Beach-portrayed in
travel brochures as a pearl of the Pacific, one more California
paradise-Harry could no doubt find at least a few homeless men whose
demeanor and appearance were as hostile as that of the man who had
seemed to come out of the whirlwind.

He could not, however, expect to find one of them with scarlet eyes
lacking irises and pupils.  He was not confident, either, about the
probability of locating any street person who could manifest himself
out of a dust devil, or explode into a collection of mundane debris and
fly away on the wind.

Perhaps he had imagined the encounter.

That was a possibility Harry was loath to consider.  The pursuit and
execuiionø of James Ordegard had been traumatic.  But he didn't believe
being caught in Ordegard's bloody rampage was sufficiently stressful to
cause hallucinations replete with dirty fingernails and killer
halitosis.

If the filthy giant was real, where had he come from?  Where had he
gone, who had he been, what disease or birth defect had left him with
those terrifying eyes?

Ticktock, ticktock, you'll be all mine.

He twisted the key in the ignition and started the engine.

Paperwork awaited him, soothingly tedious, with blanks to fill in and
boxes to check.  A neatly typed file would reduce the messy Ordegard
case to crisp paragraphs of words on clean white paper, and then none
of it would seem as inexplicable as it did at that moment.

He wouldn't include the crimson-eyed hobo in his report, of course.

That had nothing to do with Ordegard.  Besides, he didn't want to give
Connie or anyone else in Special Projects a reason to make jokes at his
expense.  Dressing for work unfailingly in a coat and tie, being
disdainful of foul language in a profession rife with it, going by the
book at all times, and being obsessive about the neatness of his case
files already made him a frequent target of their humor.  But later, at
home, he might type up a report about the hobo, just for himself, as a
way of bringing order to the bizarre experience and putting it behind
him.

"Lyon," he said, meeting his own eyes in the rearview mirror, "you are
a ridiculous specimen."

He switched on the windshield wipers, and the melting world
solidified.

The afternoon sky was so overcast that the streetlamps, which were
operated by a solar-sensitive switch, were deceived by the false
twilight.  The pavement glistened, shiny black.  All of the gutters
were full of fast-moving, dirty water.

He went south on Pacific Coast Highway, but instead of turning east on
Crown Valley Parkway toward Special Projects, he kept going.  He passed
Kitz Cove, then the turnoff for the Kitz-Carlton Hotel, and drove all
the way into Dana Point.

When he pulled up in front of Enrique Estephan's house, he was somewhat
surprised, although subconsciously he had known where he was headed.

The house was one of those charming bungalows built in the '4Os or
early '505, before soulless stucco tract homes had become the
architecture of choice.  Decoratively carved shutters, scalloped
fascia, and a multiple-pitch roof gave it character.  Rain drizzled off
the fronds of the big date palms in the front yard.

During a brief lull in the downpour, he left the car and ran up the
walkway.  By the time he climbed the three brick steps onto the porch,
the rain was coming down hard again.  There was no wind any more, as if
the great weight of the rain suppressed it.

Shadows waited like a gathering of old friends on the front porch,
among a bench-style swing and white wooden chairs with green canvas
cushions.  Even on a sunny day the porch would be comfortably cool, for
it was sheltered by densely interwoven, redflowering bougainvillaea
that festooned a trellis and spread across the roof.

He put his thumb on the bell push and, above the drumming of the rain,
heard soft chimes inside the house.

A six-inch lizard skittered across the porch floor to the steps, and
out into the storm.

Harry waited patiently.  Enrique Estefan-Ricky to his friends did not
move very fast these days.

When the inner door swung open, Ricky squinted out through the screen
door, clearly not happy to be disturbed.  Then he grinned and said,
"Harry, good to see you."  He opened the screen door, stepped aside.

"Really good to see you."

"I'm dripping," Harry said, pulling off his shoes and leaving them on
the porch.

"That's not necessary," Ricky said.

Harry entered the house in his stocking feet.

"Still the most considerate man I ever met," Ricky said.

"That's me.  Ms.  Manners of the gun-and-handcuff set."

They shook hands.  Enrique Estefan's grip was firm, although his hand
was hot, dry, leathery, padded with too little flesh, almost withered,
all knuckles and meta carpals and phalanges.  It was almost like
exchanging greetings with a skeleton.

"Come on in the kitchen," Ricky said.

Harry followed him across the polished-oak floor.  Ricky shuffled,
never entirely lifting either foot.

The short hallway was illumined only by the light spilling in from the
kitchen at the end and by a votive candle flickering in a ruby glass.

The candle was part of a shrine to the Holy Mother that was set up on a
narrow table against one wall.  Behind it was a mirror in a
silver-leafed frame.  Reflections of the small flame glimmered in the
silver leaf and danced in the looking glass.

"How've you been, Ricky?"

"Pretty good.  You?"

"I've had better days," Harry admitted.

Although he was Harry's height, Ricky seemed several inches shorter
because he leaned forward as if progressing against a wind, his back
rounded, the sharp lines of his shoulder blades poking up prominently
against his pale-yellow shirt.  From behind, his neck looked scrawny.

The back of his skull appeared as fragile as that of an infant.

The kitchen was bigger than expected in a bungalow and a lot cheerier
than the hallway: Mexican-tile floor, knotty-pine cabinetry, a large
window looking onto a spacious backyard.  A Kenny G number was on the
radio.  The air was heavy with the rich aroma of coffee.

"Like a cup?"  Ricky asked.

"If it's not any trouble."

"No trouble at all.  Just made a fresh pot."

While Ricky got a cup and saucer from one of the cabinets and poured
coffee, Harry studied him.  He was worried by what he saw.

Ricky's face was too thin, drawn with deeply carved lines at the
corners of his eyes and framing his mouth.  His skin sagged as if it
had lost nearly all elasticity.  His eyes were rheumy.  Maybe it was
only a backsplash of color from his shirt, but his white hair had an
unhealthy yellow tint, and both his face and the whites of his eyes
exhibited a hint of jaundice.

He had lost more weight.  His clothes hung loosely on him.  His belt
was cinched to theølast hole, and the seat of his pants drooped like an
empty sack.

Enrique Estefan was an old man.  He was only thirty-six, one year
younger than Harry, but he was an old man just the same.

Much of the time, the blind woman lived not merely in darkness but in
another world quite apart from the one into which she had been born.

Sometimes that inner realm was a kingdom of brightest fantasy with pink
and amber castles, palaces of jade, luxury high-rise apartments, Bel
Air estates with vast verdant lawns.  In these settings she was the
queen and ultimate rulerr a famous actress, fashion model, acclaimed
novelist, ballerina.  Her adventures were exciting, C romantic,
inspiring.  At other times, however, it was an evil empire, all shadowy
dungeons, dank and dripping catacombs full of decomposing corpses,
blasted landscapes as gray and bleak as the craters of the moon,
populated by monstrous and malevolent creatures, where she was always
on the run, hiding and afraid, neither powerful nor famous, often cold
and naked.

Occasionally her interior world lacked concreteness, was only a domain
of colors and sounds and aromas, without form or texture, and she
drifted through it, wondering and amazed.  Often there was music-Elton
John, Three Dog Night, Nilsson, Marvin Gaye, Jim Croce, the voices of
her time-and the colors swirled and exploded to accompany the songs, a
light show so dazzling that the real world could never produce its
equal.

Even during one of those amorphous phases, the magic country within her
head could darken and become a fearful place.  The colors grew clotted
and somber; the music discordant, ominous.  She felt that she was being
swept away by an icy and turbulent river, choking on its bitter waters,
struggling for breath but finding none, then breaking the surface and
gasping in lungsful of sour air, frantic, weeping, praying for delivery
to a warm dry shore.

Once in a while, as now, she surfaced from the false worlds within her
and became aware of the reality in which she actually existed.

Muffled voices in adjacent rooms and hallways.  The squeak of
rubber-soled shoes.  The pine scent of disinfectant, medicinal aromas,
sometimes (but not now) the pungent odor of urine.  She was swaddled in
crisp, clean sheets, cool against her fevered flesh.

When she disentangled her right hand from the bedding and reached out
blindly, she found the cold steel safety railing on the side of her
hospital bed.

At first she was preoccupied by the need to identify a strange sound.

She did not try to rise up, but held fast to the railing and was
perfectly still, listening intently to what initially seemed to be the
roar of a great crowd in a far arena.  No.  Not a crowd.  Fire.  The
chuckling-whispering-hissing of an all-consuming blaze.  Her heart
began to pound, but at last she recognized the fire for what it was:
its opposite, the quenching downpour of a major storm.

She relaxed slightlybut then a rustle arose nearby, and she froze
again, wary.  "Who's there?"  she asked, and was surprised that her
speech was thick and slurred.

"Ah, Jennifer, you're with us."

"Jennifer.  My name is Jennifer The voice had been that of a woman.

She sounded past middle-age, professional but caring.

Jennifer almost recognized the voice, knew she had heard it before, but
she was not calmed.

"Who are you?"  she demanded, disconcerted that she was unable to rid
herself of the slur.

"It's Margaret, dear."

The tread of rubber-soled shoes, approaching.

Jennifer cringed, half expecting a blow but not sure why.

A hand took hold of her right wrist, and Jennifer flinched.

"Easy, dear.  I only want to take your pulse."

Jennifer relented and listened to the rain.

After a while, Margaret let go of her wrist.  "Fast but nice and
regular."

Memory slowly seeped back into Jennifer.  "You're Margaret?"

"That's right."

"The day nurse."

"Yes, dear."

"So it's morning?"

"Almost three o'clock in the afternoon.  I go off-duty in an hour.

Then Angelina will take care of you."

"Why am I always so confused when I first... wake up?"

"Don't worry about it, dear.  There's nothing you can do to change
it.

Is your mouth dry?  Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes, please."

"Orange juice, Pepsi, Sprite?"

"Juice would be nice."

"I'll be right back."

Footsteps receding.  A door opening.  Left open.  Above the sound of
the rain, busy noises from elsewhere in the building, other people on
other errands.

Jennifer tried to shift to a more comfortable position in the bed,
whereupon she rediscovered not merely the extent of her weakness but
the fact that she was paralyzed on her left side.  She could not move
her left leg or even wiggle her toes.  She had no feeling in her left
hand or arm.

A deep and terrible dread filled her.  She felt helpless and
abandoned.

It seemed a matter of the utmost urgency that she recall how she had
gotten in this condition and into this place.

She lifted her right arm.  Although she realized that it must be thin
and frail, it felt heavy.

With her right hand, she touched her chin, her mouth.  Dry, rough
lips.

They had once been otherwise.  Men had kissed her.

A memory glimmered in the darkness of her mind: a sweet kiss, murmured
endearments.  It was but a fragment of a recollection, without detail,
leading nowhere.

She touched her right cheek, her nose.  When she explored the left side
of her face, she could feel it with her fingertips, but her cheek
itself did not register her touch.  The muscles in that side of her
face felt... twisted.

After a brief hesitation, she slid her hand to her eyes.  She traced
their contours with her fingertips, and what she discovered caused her
hand to tremble.

Abruptly she remembered not only how she had wound up in this -place
but everything else, -her life back to childhood all in a flash, far
more than she wanted to remember, more than she could -bear.

She snatched her hand away from her eyes and made a thin, awful sound
of grief.  She felt crushed under the weight of memory.

Margaret returned, shoes squeaking softly.

The glass clinked against the nightstand when she put it down.

"I'll just raise the bed so you'll be able to drink."

The motor hummed, and the head of the bed began to lift forcing
Jennifer into a sitting position.

When the bed stopped moving, Margaret said, "What's wrong, dear?  Why,
I'd think you were trying to cry ... if you could."

"Does he still come?"  Jennifer asked shakily.

"Of course, he does.  At least twice a week.  You were even alert on
one of his visits a few days ago.  Don't you remember?"

"No.  I..  .I..."

"He's very faithful."

Jennifer's heart was racing.  A pressure swelled across her chest.

Her throat was so tight with fear that she had trouble speaking: "I
don't... don't "What's the matter, Jenny?"  don't want him here!"

"Oh, now, you don't mean that."

"Keep him out of here."

"He's so devoted."

"No.  He's .  . . he's .  .

"At least twice a week, and he sits with you for a couple of hours,
whether you're with us or wrapped up inside yourself."

Jennifer shuddered at the thought of him in the room, by the bed, when
she was not aware of her surroundings.

She reached out blindly, found Margaret's arm, squeezed it as tightly
as she could.  "He's not like you or me," she said urgently.

"Jenny, you're upsetting yourself" "He's different" Margaret put her
hand on jennifer's, gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Now, I want you to stop this, Jenny."

"He's inhuman."

"You don't mean that.  You don't know what you're saying."

"He's a monster."

"Poor baby.  Relax, honey."  A hand touched Jennifer's forehead, began
to smooth away the furrows, brush the hair back "Don't get yourself
excited.  Everything'll be all right.  You're going to be fine, baby.

Just settle down, easy now, relax, you're safe here, we love you here,
we'll take good care of you...

After more of that, Jennifer grew calmer-but no less afraid.

The aroma of oranges made her mouth water.  While Margaret held the
glass, Jennifer drank through a straw.  Her mouth didn't work quite
right.  Occasionally she had minor difficulty swallowing, but the juice
was cold and delicious.

When she emptied the glass, she let the nurse blot her mouth with a
paper napkin.

She listened to the soothing fall of the rain, hoping that it would
settle her nerves.  It did not.

"Should I turn the radio on?"  Margaret asked.

"No, thank you."

"I could read to you if you'd like.  Poetry.  You always enjoy
listening to poetry."

"That would be nice."

Margaret drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat in it.  As she
sought a certain passage in a book, the turning of the pages was a
crisp and pleasant sound.

"Margaret?"  Jennifer said before the woman could begin to read.

"Yes?"

"When he comes to visit..

"What is it, dear?"

"You'll stay in the room with us, won't you?"

"If that's what you want, of course."

"Good."

"Now how about a little Emily Dickinson?"

"Margaret?"

"Margret?"

"When he comes to visit and I'm... lost inside myself.". . you never
let me alone with him, do you?"

Margaret was silent, and Jennifer could almost see the woman's
disapproving frown.

"Do you?"  she insisted.

"No, dear.  I never do."

Jennifer knew the nurse, was lying.

"Please, Margaret.  You seem like a kind person.  Please."

"Dear, really, he loves you.  He comes so faithfully because he loves
you.  You're in no danger from your Bryan, none at all."

She shivered at the mention of the name.  "I know you think I'm
mentally disturbed... confused.

"A little Emily Dickinson will help."

"I am confused about a lot of things," Jennifer said, dismayed to hear
her voice growing rapidly weaker, "but not about this.  I'm not the
least bit confused about this."

In a voice too full of artifice to convey the powerful, hidden
sinewiness of Dickinson, the nurse began to read: "That Love is all
there is' 4 all we know of Love...."

Half of the large table in Ricky Estefan's spacious kitchen was covered
with a dropcloth on which were arranged the small-scale power tools he
used to craft silver jewelry: a hand-held drill, engraving instrument,
emery wheel, buffer, and less easily identifiable equipment.  Bottles
of fluids and cans of mysterious compounds were neatly arranged to one
side, as were small paintbrushes, white cotton cloths, and steel-wool
pads.

He had been at work on two pieces when Harry interrupted: a strikingly
detailed scarab brooch and a massive belt buckle covered with Indian
symbols, maybe Navajo or Hopi.  His second career.

His forge and mold-making equipment were in the garage.  But when he
worked on the finishing details of his jewelry, he sometimes liked to
sit by the kitchen window where he could enjoy a view of his rose
garden.

Outside, even in the dreary gray deluge, the plentiful blooms were
radiant-yellow and red and coral, some as big as grapefruits.

Harry sat at the uncluttered part of the table with his coffee, while
Ricky shuffled to the other side and put his cup and saucer down among
the cans, bottles, and tools.  He lowered himself into his chair as
stiffly as an octogenarian with severe arthritis.

Three years ago, Ricky Estefan had been a cop, one of the best, Harry's
partner.  He'd been a good-looking guy, too, with a full head of hair,
not yellow-white as it was now but thick and black.

His life had changed when he had unwittingly walked into the middle of
a robbery at a convenience store.  The strung-out gunman had a crack
habit for which he needed financing, and maybe he smelled cop the
moment Ricky stepped through the door or maybe he was in the mood to
waste anyone who even inadvertently delayed the transfer of the money
from the cash register to his pockets.

Whichever the case, he fired four times at Ricky, missing him once,
hitting him once in the left thigh and twice in the abdomen.

"How's the jewelry business?"  Harry asked.

"Pretty good.  I sell everything I make, get more orders for custom
belt buckles than I can fill."

Ricky sipped his coffee and savored it before swallowing.  Coffee was
not on his approved diet.  If he drank much, it played hell with his
stomachr what was left of his stomach.

Getting gutshot is easy; surviving is a bitch.  He was lucky that the
perp's weapon was only a .22 pistol, unlucky that it was fired at close
range.  For beginners, Ricky lost his spleen, part of his liver, and a
small section of his large intestine.  Although his surgeons took every
precaution to keep the abdominal cavity clean the slugs spread fecal
matter, and Ricky quickly developed acute, diffuse, traumatic
peritonitis.  Barely survived it.  Gas gangrene set in, antibiotics
wouldn't stop it, and he underwent additional surgery in which he lost
his gallbladder and a portion of his stomach.  Then a blood
infection.

Temperature somewhere near that on the sunward surface of Mercury.

Peritonitis again, too, and the removal of another piece of the
colon.

Through it all he had maintained anamazingiy upbeat mood and, in the
end, felt blessed that he had retained enough of his gastrointestinal
system to be spared the indignity of having to wear a colostomy bag for
the rest of his life.

He had been off-duty when he'd walked into that store, armed but
expecting no trouble.  He had promised Anita, his wife, to pick up a
quart of milk and tub of soft margarine on his way home from work.

The gunman had never come to trial.  The distraction provided by Ricky
had allowed the store owner-Mr. Wo Tai Han-to pick up a shotgun which
he kept behind the counter.  He'd taken off the back of the perp's head
with a blast from that 12-gauge.

Of course, this being the last decade of the millennium, that had not
been the end of it.  The mother and father of the gunman sued Mr. Han
for depriving them of the affection, companionship, and a, financial
support of their deceased son, and never mind that a crack addict was
incapable of providing any of those things.

Harry drank some coffee.  It was good and strong.  "You hear from Mr.
Han lately?"

"Yeah.  He's real confident about winning on appeal."

Harry shook his head.  "Never can tell what a jury will do these
days."

Ricky smiled tightly.  "Yeah.  I figure I'm lucky I didn't get sued,
too.

He hadn't been lucky in much else.  At the time of the shooting, he and
Anita had been married only eight months.  She stayed with him another
year, until he was on his feet, but when she realized he was going to
be an old man for the rest of his days, she called it quits.  She was
twenty-six.  She had a life to live.  Besides, these days, the clause
of the matrimony vows that mentioned "in sickness and in health, till
death do us part" was widely regarded as not binding until the end of a
lengthy trial period of, say, a decade, sort of like not being vested
in a pension plan until you had worked with the company for five
years.

For the past two years, Ricky had been alone.

It must be Kenny G Day.  Another of his tunes was on the radio.

This one was less melodic than the first.  It made Harry edgy.  Maybe
any song would have made him edgy just then.

"What's wrong?"  Ricky asked.

"How'd you know something's wrong?"

"You'd never in a million years go visiting friends for no reason
during work hours.  You always give the taxpayer his money's worth."

"Am I really that rigid?"

"Do you really need to ask?"

"I must've been a pain in the ass to work with."

"Sometimes."  Ricky smiled.

Harry told him about James Ordegard and the death among the
mannequins.

Ricky listened.  He spoke hardly at all, but when he did have something
to say, it was always the right thing.  He knew how to be a friend.

When Harry stopped and stared for a long while at the roses in the
rain, apparently finished, Ricky said, "That's not everything."

"No," Harry admitted.  He fetched the coffee pot, refreshed their cups,
sat down again.  "There was this hobo."

Ricky listened to that part of it as soberly as he had listened to the
rest.  He did not seem incredulous.  No slightest doubt was visible in
his eyes or attitude.  After he had heard it all, he said, "So what do
you make of it?  " "Could've been seeing things, hallucinating."

"Could you?  You?"

"But for God's sake, Ricky how could it have been real?"

"Is the hobo really weirder than the perp in the restaurant?"

The kitchen was warm, but Harry was chilled.  He folded both hands
around the hot coffee cup.  "Yeah.  He's weirder.  Not by much, maybe,
but worse.  The thing is ... you think maybe I should request
psychiatric leave, take a couple of weeks for counseling?"

"Since when did you start believing those brain flushers know what
they're doing?"

"I don't.  But I wouldn't be happy about some other cop walking around
with a loaded gun, hallucinating."

"You're no danger to anyone but yourself, Harry You're going to worry
yourself to death sooner or later.  Look, as for this guy with red
everybody has something happen to him sometime in his life that he
can't explain, a brush with the unknown."

"Not me," Harry said firmly, shaking his head.

"Even you.  Now if this guy starts driving up in a whirlwind every hour
on the hour, asking if he could have a date, wants to tongue-kiss
you-then maybe you have a problem."

Armies of rain marched across the bungalow roof.

"I'm a tightly wound customer," Harry said.  "I realize it."

"Exactly You're tight.  Not a loose bolt in you, my man."

He and Ricky watched the rain for a couple of minutes, saying
nothing.

Finally Ricky put on a pair of protective goggles and picked up the
silver belt buckle.  He switched on the hand-held buffer, which was
about the size of an electric toothbrush and not loud enough to hinder
conversation, and began cleaning tarnish and minute silver shavings out
of one of the etched designs.

After a while Harry sighed.  "Thanks, Ricky."

"Sure."

Harry took his cup and saucer to the sink, rinsed them off, and put
them in the dishwasher.

On the radio, Harry Connick, Jr was singing about love.

Over the sink was another window.  The hard rain was beating the hell
out of the roses.  Bright petals, like confetti, were scattered across
the soaked lawn.

When Harry returned to the table, Ricky turned off the buffer and
started to get up.  Harry said, "It's okay, I'll let myself out."

Ricky nodded.  He looked so frail.

"See you soon."

"Won't be too long till the season starts," Ricky said.

"Let's take in an Angels game opening week."

"I'd like that," Ricky said.

They both enjoyed baseball.  There was a comforting logic in the
structure and progression of every game.  It was an antidote for daily
life.

On the front porch, Harry slipped into his shoes again and tied the
laces, while the lizard that he had frightened upon arrivalr one just
like it-watched him from the arm of the nearest chair.

Slightly iridescent green and purple scales glimmered dully along each
serpentine curve of its body, as if a handful of semiprecious stones
had been discarded there on the white wood.

He smiled at the tiny dragon.

He felt back in balance again, calm.

As he came off the last step onto the sidewalk and into the rain, Harry
looked toward the car and saw someone sitting in the front passenger
seat.  A shadowy hulking figure.  Wild hair and a tangled beard.  The
intruder was facing away from Harry, but then he turned his head.  Even
through the rain-spotted side window and from a distance of thirty
feet, the hobo was instantly recognizable.

Harry swung back toward the house, intending to shout for Ricky
Estefan, but changed his mind when he recalled how suddenly the vagrant
had vanished before.

He looked at the car, expecting to discover that the apparition had
evaporated.  But the intruder was still there.

In his bulky black raincoat, the man seemed too large for the sedan, as
if he were not in a real car but in one of those scaled-down versions
in a bumper-car pavilion at a carnival.

Harry moved quickly along the front walk, slopping through gray
puddles.  Drawing nearer the street, he saw the well-remembered scars
on the maniacal face-and the red eyes.

As he reached the car, Harry said, "What're you doing in there?"

Even through the closed window, the hobo's reply was clearly audible:
"Ticktock, ticktock, ticktock...."

"Get out of there," Harry ordered.

"Ticktock... ticktoc..."

An indefinable but unnerving quality of the derelict's grin made Harry
hesitate.

.ticktock..."

Harry drew his revolver, held it with the muzzle skyward.  He put his
left hand on the door handle.

.ticktock..."

Those liquid red eyes daunted Harry.  They looked like blood blisters
thit might burst and stream down the grizzled face.  The sight of them,
so inhuman, was enervating.

Before his courage could drain away, he jerked open the door.

He was almost knocked over by a blast of cold wind, and staggered
backward two steps.  It came out of the sedan as if an arctic gale had
been stored up in there, stung his eyes and drew forth tears.

The wind passed in a couple of seconds.  Beyond the open car door, the
front passenger seat was empty.

Harry could see enough of the sedan interior to know for certain that
the vagrant was not in there anywhere.  Nevertheless, he circled the
vehicle, looking through all of the windows.

He stopped at the back of the car, fished his keys out of his pocket,
and unlocked the trunk, covering it with his revolver as the lid swung
up.  Nothing: spare tire, jack, lug wrench, and tool pouch.

Surveying the quiet residential neighborhood, Harry slowly became aware
of the rain again, of which he'd been briefly oblivious.  A vertical
river poured out of the sky.  He was soaked to the skin.

He slammed the trunk lid, and then the front passenger door.  He went
around to the driver's side and got in behind the steering wheel.  His
clothes made wet squishing noises as he sat down.

Earlier, on the street in downtown Laguna Beach, the hobo had reeked of
body odor and had expelled searingly had breath.  But there was no
lingering stink of him in the car.

Harry locked the doors.  Then he returned his revolver to the shoulder
holster under his sodden sportcoat.

He was shivering.

Driving away from Enrique Estefan's bungalow, Harry switched on the
heater, turned it up high.  Water seeped out of his soaked hair and
trickled down the nape of his neck.  His shoes were swelling and
tightening around his feet.

He remembered the softly radiant red eyes staring at him through the
car window, the oozing sores in the scarred and filthy face, the
crescent of broken yellow teeth-and abruptly he was able to identify
the unnerving quality in the hobo's grin which had halted him as he had
first been about to yank open the door.  Gibbering lunacy was not what
made the strange derelict so threatening.  It was not the grin of a
madman.  It was the grin of a predator, cruising shark, stalking
panther, wolf prowling by moonlight, something far more formidable and
deadly than a mere deranged vagrant.

All the way back to Special Projects in Laguna Niguel, the scenery and
the streets were familiar, nothing mysterious about the other motorists
that he passed, nothing otherworldly about the play of headlights in
the nickel-bright rain or the metallic clicking that the cold droplets
made against the skin of the sedan, nothing eerie about the silhouettes
of palm trees against the iron sky.  Yet he was overcome by a feeling
of the uncanny, and he struggled to avoid the conclusion that he had
brushed up against something ...

supernatural.

Ticktock, ticktock...

He thought about the rest of what the hobo had said after appearing out
of the whirlwind: You'll be dead by dawn.

He glanced at his watch.  The crystal was still filmed with rainwater,
the face distorted, but he could read the time: twenty-eight minutes
past three.

When was sunrise?  Six o'clock?  Six-thirty?  Thereabouts, somewhere
between.  At most, fifteen hours away.

The metronomic thump of the windshield wipers began to sound like the
ominous cadence of funeral drums.

This was ridiculous.  The derelict couldn't have followed him all the
way to Enrique's house from Laguna Beach-which meant the hobo was not
real, merely imagined, and therefore posed no threat.

He was not relieved.  If the hobo was imaginary, Harry was in no danger
of dying by dawn.  But as far as he could see, that left a single
alternative explanation, and not one that was reassuring: he must be
having a nervous breakdown.

Harry's side of the office was comforting.  The blotter and pen set
-were perfectly squared with each other and precisely aligned with the
edges of the desk.  The brass clock showed the same time as did his
wristwatch.  The leaves of the potted palm, Chinese evergreens, and
pothos were all clean and glossy The blue screen of the computer
monitor was soothing, as well, and all the Special Projects forms were
installed as macros, so he could complete them and print them without
resort to a typewriter.

Uneven spacing inevitably resulted when one attempted to fill in the
blanks on forms with that antiquated technology He was an excellent
typist, and he could compose case narrative in his head almost as fast
as he could type.  Anyone was capable of filling in blank spaces or
making Ks in boxes, but not everyone was skilled at the part of the job
he liked to call the "essay test."  His case narratives were written in
language both more vivid and succinct than that of any other detective
he had ever known.

As his fingers flew across the keyboard, crisp sentences formed on the
screen, and Harry Lyon was more at peace with the world than he had
been at any time since he had sat at his breakfast table that morning,
eating English muffins with lemon marmalade and enjoying the view of
the meticulously trimmed condominium greenbelt.

When James Ordegard's killing spree was summarized in spare prose
stripped of value-weighted verbs and adjectives, the episode didn't
seem half as bizarre as when Harry actually had been a part of it.  He
hammered out the words, and the words soothed.

He was even feeling sufficiently relaxed to allow himself to get more
casual in the office than was his habit.  He unbuttoned the collar of
his shirt and slightly loosened the knot of his tie.

He took a break from the paperwork only to walk down the hall to the
vending-machine room to get a cup of coffee.  His clothes were still
damp in spots and hopelessly wrinkled, but the frost in his marrow had
melted.

On his way back to the office with the coffee, he saw the hobo.

The hulking vagrant was at the far end of the hall, crossing the
intersection, passing left to right in another corridor.  Facing
forward, never looking toward Harry, the guy moved purposefully, as if
in the building on other business.  Ih a few long strides he was
through the intersection and out of sight.

As Harry hurried along the hall to see where the man had gone, trying
not to spill the coffee, he told himself that it hadn't been the same
person.  There had been a vague resemblance, that was all; imagination
and frayed nerves had done the rest.

His denials were without conviction.  The figure at the end of the
corridor had been the same height as his nemesis, with those bearish
shoulders, that barrel chest, the same filthy mane of hair and tangled
beard.  The long black raincoat had spread around him like a robe, and
he'd had that leonine self-possession, as if he were some mad prophet
mystically transported from the days of the Old Testament and dropped
into modern times.

Harry braked at the end of the hallway by sliding into the
intersection, wincing as hot coffee slopped out of the cup and stung
his hand.  He looked right, where the vagrant had been headed.  The
only people in that corridor were Bob Wong and Louis Yang, loan outs
from the Orange County Sheriff's Department, who were consulting over a
manila file folder.

Harry said, "Where'd he go?"

They blinked at him, and Bob Wong said, "Who?"

"The hairball in the black raincoat, the hobo."

The two men were puzzled.

Yang said, "Hobo?"

"Well, if you didn't see him, you had to smell him."

"Just now?"  Wong asked "Yeah.  Two seconds g.)1

"Nobody came through here," Yang said.

Harry knew they weren't lying to him, weren't part of some immense
conspiracy.  Nevertheless, he wanted to walk past them and inspect all
of the rooms along the corridor.

He restrained himself only because they were already staring at him
curiously.  He suspected he was something of a sightdisheveled, pale,
wild-eyed.

He could not tolerate the idea that he was making a spectacle of
himself He'd built a life on the principles of moderation, orderliness,
and seflcontrol.

Reluctantly he returned to his office.  He took a cork coaster from his
top desk drawer, put it on the blotter, and set the dripping cup of
coffee on it.

He kept a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of Windex in the
bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets.  He used a couple of the
towels to blot his coffee-damp hands, then wiped off the wet cup.

He was pleased to see that his hands were not shaky Whatever the hell
was happening, he would eventually figure it out and deal with it.  He
could deal with anything.  Always had.

Always would.  Self-control.  That was the key.

He took several slow, deep breaths.  With both hands he smoothed his
hair back from his forehead.

Heavy as a slab of slate, the lowering sky had pressed twilight into an
earlier appearance.  It was only a few minutes after five o'clock, an
hour until sunset, but the day had surrendered to a protracted dusk.

Harry turned on the overhead fluorescent lights.

For a minute or two he stood at the partially fogged window, watching
tons of rain crash straight down on the parking lot.  The thunder and
lightning were long past, and the air was too heavy to permit wind, so
the deluge had a tropical intensity a grueling relentlessness that led
the mind to ancient myths involving divine punishment, arks, and lost
continents vanished beneath swollen seas.

Calmed somewhat, he returned to his desk chair and swung around to the
computer.  He was about to call up the case-narrative document that he
had saved before going down the hall for coffee, when he realized that
the screen was not blank, as it should have been.

Another document had been created in his absence.  It consisted of a
single word centered on the screen: TICKTOCK It was nearly six o'clock
when Connie Gulliver returned to the office from the crime scene,
having caught a ride in a Laguna Beach Police Department
black-and-white.  She was grousing about the media, one television
reporter in particular who had dubbed her and Harry "Batwoman and
Batman," for God-alone-knew what reason, maybe because their desperate
pursuit of James Ordegard involved so much derring-do, or maybe just
because there had been a flock of bats in 'the attic where they had
nailed the bastard.  Electronic journalists did not always have
discernibly logical reasons or credible justifications for doing and
saying some of the things they did and said.  Reporting the news was
neither a sacred trust nor a public service to them, it was show
business, where you needed flash and splash more than facts and
figures.  Connie had been around long enough to know all of that and to
be resigned to it, but she was hot about it anyway, haranguing Harry
from the moment she walked through the door.

He was just finishing the paperwork when she arrived, having dawdled
during the past half an hour, waiting for her.  He'd decided to tell
her about the tramp with the blood-red eyes, in part because she was
his partner and he was loath to conceal anything significant from a
partner.  He and Ricky Estephen had always shared everything, which was
one reason he had gone to see Ricky before returning to Special
Projects, the other reason being that he valued Ricky's insights and
advice.  Whether the threatening hobo was real or a symptom of mental
collapse, Connie had a right to know about him.

If that filthy, spectral figure was imaginary, perhaps just talking
about him with someone would puncture the balloon of delusion.

The hobo might never appear again.

Harry also wanted to tell her because telling her gave him a reason to
spend some off-duty time with her.  At least a little socializing
between partners was advisable, helped strengthen that special bond
between cops who had to put their lives on the line for each other.

They needed to talk about what they had been through that afternoon,
relive it together, and thereby transform it from a traumatic
experience into a polished anecdote with which to annoy rookies for
years to come.

And in truth, he wanted to spend some time with Connie because he had
begun to be interested in her not only as a partner but as a woman.

Which surprised him.  They were such opposites.  He had spent so much
time telling himself that she drove him nuts.  Now he couldn't stop
thinking about her eyes, the luster of her hair, the fullness of her
mouth.  Though he had not wanted to admit it, this change in his
attitude had been building up speed for some time, and today gears had
finally shifted in his head.

No mystery about that.  He'd nearly been killed.  More than one A brush
with death was a great clarifier of thoughts and feelings.

He'd not only had a brush with death; he'd been embraced by it, hugged
tight.

He had seldom harbored so many intense emotions all at once:
loneliness, fear, aching self-doubt, joy at just being alive, desire so
acute that it weighed upon his heart and made breathing just a little
more difficult than usual.

"Where do I sign?"  Connie asked, when he told her he had completed the
paperwork.

He spread out all the requisite forms on his desk, including Connie's
own official statement.  He had written it for her, as he always did,
which was against department policy and one of the few rules he had
ever broken.  But they split chores according to their skills and
preferences, and he just happened to be better at this part than she
was.  Her own case narratives tended to be angry in tone instead of
solemnly neutral, as if every crime was the most grievous personal
affront to her, and sometimes she used words like "asshole" or
"shithead" instead of "suspect" or "arrestee," which was guaranteed to
send the defendant's attorney into rapturous spasms of
selfrighteousness in the courtroom.

Connie signed all of the forms that he put in front of her, including
the cleanly typed statement attributed to her, without reading any of
them.  Harry liked that.  She trusted him.

As he watched her scribble her signature, he decided they should go
somewhere special, even with him rumpled and damp, a cozy bar with
plushly padded booths and low lighting and candles on the tables, a
pianist making cocktail music-but not one of those slick guys who did
polyester lounge versions of good tunes and sang "Feelings" once every
half hour, the anthem of sentimental inebriates and mush-heads in all
fifty states.

Connie couldn't stop fuming about being labeled Batwoman and other
abuses suffered at the hands of the media, so Harry had difficulty
finding a moment to insert an invitation to drinks and dinner, which
gave him too much time to look at her.  Not that she looked any less
appealing the longer he watched her.  Just the opposite: when he took
the time to study her face feature by feature, she proved to be more
attractive than he had ever realized.  The problem was, he also began
to see just how tired she was: red-eyed, pale, large dark smudges of
weariness beneath her eyes, shoulders slumped under the weight of the
day.  He began to doubt that she would want to have a drink and rehash
the events of the lunch hour.

And the more aware he became of her exhaustion, the more profoundly
weary he felt himself.

Her bitterness over the electronic news media's tendency to turn
tragedy into entertainment reminded Harry that she had begun the day
angry, as well, troubled by something she had refused to discuss.

As his ardor cooled, he wondered whether it was really such a good idea
to have a romantic interest in a partner in the first place.

Department policy was to split up teams who developed more than a
friendly relationship when off-duty, whether gay or straight.

Long-enforced policies were usually based on a wealth of hard
experience.

Connie finished signing the papers and gave him a once-over.

"This is the first time you've ever looked as if you might consider
shopping at the Gap instead of exclusively at Brooks Brothers."

Then she actually hugged him, which might have stirred his passion
agnnøexcept that it was a buddy hug.  "How's you feel?"

Justa dull ache, that's all, thank you, nothing that would inhibit me
from making passionate, hot, sweary love to you.

He said, "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"God, I'm tired."

"Me, too."

"I think sleep a hundred hours."' "At least ten."

She smiled and, to his surprise, affectionately pinched his cheek "See
you in the morning, Harry."

He watched her as she walked out of the office.  She was still wearing
badly scuffed Reeboks, blue jeans, a red-and-brown checkered blouse,
and a brown corduroy jacket-and the outfit was worse for the wear of
the past ten hours.  Yet he could not have found her more alluring if
she had been shoehorned into a clinging, sequined gown with canyonesque
decolletage.

The room was dreary without her.  The fluorescent light painted hard,
cold edges on the furniture, on every leaf of every plant.

Beyond the steamed window, the premature twilight was giving way to
night, but the stormy day had been so somber that the phase of
demarcation was excruciatingly subtle.  Rain hammered on the anvil of
darkness.

Harry had come full circle from physical and mental exhaustion to
thoughts of passion to exhaustion once more.  It was almost like being
an adolescent boy again.

He shut down the computer, switched off the lights, closed the office
door, and filed copies of the reports in the front office.

Driving home in the depressingly leaden fall of rain, he hoped to God
that he could sleep, and that his sleep would be without dreams.

When he woke refreshed in the morning, perhaps the answer to the
mystery of the crimson-eyed hobo would be apparent.

Halfway home he almost switched on the radio, wanting music.

Just before he touched the controls, he stayed his hand.  He was afraid
that, instead of some top-forty number, he would hear the voice of the
vagrant chanting: ticktock, ticktock, ticktock....

Jennifer must have dozed off.  It was ordinary sleep, however, not the
delirium of the fantasy worlds that so frequently offered her escape.

When she woke, she did not have to shake off clinging visions of
emerald-diamond-sapphire temples or cheering audiences enthralled with
her vocal virtuosity in a Carnegie Hall of the mind.

She was sticky because of the humidity, with a sour taste in her
mouth-stale orange juice and heavy sleep.

Rain was still falling.  It drummed complicated rhythms on the roof of
the hospital.  Private sanitarium, actually.  But not rhythms alone:
chuckling-gurgling-burbling atonal melodies as well.

Sightless, Jennifer had no easy way to know with certainty the hour of
the day or the season.  However, blind for twenty years, she had
developed a refined awareness of her circadian rhythms and was able to
guess the time of year and day with surprising accuracy.

She knew that spring was drawing near.  Perhaps it was March, the end
of the rainy season in southern California.  She knew not the day oc of
the week, but she suspected it was early evening, between six and eight
o'clock.

Perhaps she'd eaten dinner, though she did not remember it.

Sometimes she was barely conscious enough to swallow when they
spoon-fed her, but not sufficiently aware to enjoy what she ate.  On
other occasions, when in a deeper catatonic state, she received
nutrients intravenously.

Although the room was cast in silence, she was aware of another
presence, either because of some indefinable peculiarity of the air
pressure or an odor only subconsciously perceived.  She remained
motionless, trying to breathe as if sound asleep, waiting for the
unknown person to move or cough or sigh and, thereby, provide her with
a clue to identity.

Her companion did not oblige her.  Gradually, Jennifer came to suspect
that she was alone with him.

She knew that a pretense of sleep was safest.

She struggled to stay perfectly still.

Finally she could no longer tolerate continued ignorance.  She said,
"Margaret?"

No one responded.

She knew the silence was false.  She strove to recall the name of the
swing-shift nurse.  "Angelina?"

No reply Only the rain.

He was torturing her.  It was psychological torture, but that was by
far the most effective weapon that could be used against her.  She had
known so much physical and emotional pain that she had developed
defenses against those forms of abuse.

"Who's there?"  she demanded.

"It's me," he said.

Bryan.  Her Bryan.

His voice was soft and gentle, even musical, in no way threatening, yet
it caused ice to form in her blood.

She said, "Where's the nurse?"

"I asked her to leave us alone."

"What do you want?"

"Just to be with you."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

He sounded sincere, but she knew that he was not.  He was congenitally
incapable of sincerity.

"Go away," she pleaded.

"Why do you hurry?  I know what you are."

"What am I?"

She did not respond.

He said, "How can you know what I am?"

"Who better to know?"  she said harshly, consumed by bitterness,
self-loathing, loathing, and despair.

Judging by the sound of his voice, he was standing near the window,
closer to the plink and paradiddle of the rain than to the faint noises
in the corridor She was terrified that he would come to the bed, take
her hand, touch her cheek or brow.

She said, "I want Angelina."

"Not yet.

"Please."

"No."

"Then go away."

"Why do you hurt me?"  he asked again.  His voice remained as gentle as
ever, melodic as that of a choirboy, untouched by anger or frustration,
only sorrow.  "I come twice a week.  I sit with you.

Without you, what would I be?  Nothing.  I'm aware of that."

Jennifer bit her lip and did not reply.

Suddenly she sensed that he was moving.  She could hear no footsteps,
no ørustle of garments.  He could be quieter than a cat when he wished
to be.

She knew he was approaching the bed.

Desperately she sought the oblivion of her delusions, either the bright
fantasies or dark terrors within her damaged mind, she cared not which,
anything other than the horror of reality in that too, too private
sanitarium room.  But she could not retreat at will into those interior
realms; periodic involuntary consciousness was, perhaps, the greatest
curse of her pathetic, debilitated condition.

n She waited, trembling.

She listened.

He was ghost-silent.

The thunderous pummeling of rain on the roof was cut off from one
second to the next, but she understood that the rain had not actually
ceased to fall.  Abruptly the world was clutched in the grip of an
uncanny silence, stillness.

Jennifer brimmed with fear, even into the paralyzed extremities of her
left side.

He took hold of her right hand.

She gasped and tried to pull away.

"No," he said, and tightened his grip.  He was strong.

She called for the nurse, knowing it was useless to do so.

He held her with one hand and caressed her fingers with the other.  He
tenderly massaged her wrist.  He stroked the withered flesh of her
forearm.

Blindly, she waited, trying not to speculate upon what cruelties would
ensue.

He pinched her arm, and a wordless plea for mercy escaped her He
pinched harder, then again, but probably not hard enough to leave a
bruise.

Enduring, Jennifer wondered what his face was like, whether ugly or
plain or handsome.  She intuited that it would not be a blessing to
recover her sight if she were required, just once, to gaze into his
hateful eyes.

He pushed one finger into her ear, and his nail seemed as long and
pointed as a needle.  He twisted it and scraped, pressed harder still,
until the pressure-pain was unbearable.

She screamed, but no one responded.

He touched her pancake breasts, deflated from long years of supine
existence and intravenous nourishment.  Even in her sexless condition,
her nipples were a source of pain, and he knew how to deliver agony.

However, it was not so much anything he did to her that mattered ...

but what he might think to do next.  He was endlessly inventive.

True terror lay in the anticipation of the unknown.

She screamed for someone, anyone, help, surcease.  She begged God for
death.

Her shrieks and cries for help fell into a void.

Finally she was silent and endured.

He released her, but she was acutely aware that he was still at her
bedside.

"Love me," Bryan said.

"Please go away.) Softly: "Love me."

If Jennifer had been capable of producing tears, she would have wept.

"Love me, and I won't have any reason to hurt you again.  All I want is
for you to love me."

She was no more capable of loving him than she was of producing tears
from her ruined eyes.  Easier to love a viper, a rock, or the cold
indifferent blackness between the stars.

"I only need to be loved," he insisted.

She knew that he was incapable of love.  Indeed, he had no concept
whatsoever of the meaning of the word.  He wanted it only because he
could not have it, could not feel it, because it was a mystery to him,
a great unknown.  Even if she were able to love him and convince him of
her love, she would not be saved, for he would be unmoved by love when
at last it was given to him, would deny its existence, and would
continue to torture her out of habit.

Suddenly the rain sound resumed.  Voices in the corridor.  Squeaking
wheels on the tiered cart that carried dinner trays.

The torment was over.  For now.

"I can't stay long this evening," Bryan said.  "Not the usual eternity"
He chuckled at that remark, amused by himself, but to Jennifer it was
only an offensive wet sound in his throat, humorless.

He said, "I've had an unexpected increase in business.  So much to
do.

I'm afraid I've got to run."

As always, he marked his departure by bending over the bed railing and
kissing the numb left side of her face.  She could not feel the
pressure or texture of his lips against her cheek, only a butterfly
wing touch of coolness.  She suspected that his kiss might have felt no
different, maybe only colder, if planted on the still-sensitive right
side of her face.

When he left, he chose to make noise, and she listened to his receding
footsteps.

After a while, Angelina came to feed her dinner.  Soft foods.

Mashed potatoes with gravy.  Pureed beef.  Pureed peas.  Applesauce
with a sprinkling of cinnamon and brown sugar.  Ice cream.  Things she
would have no difficulty swallowing.

Jennifer said nothing about what had been done to her.  From grim
experience, she had learned that she would not be believed.

He must have the appearance of an angel, because everyone but her
seemed disposed to trust him on first sight, attributing to him only
the kindest motives and noblest intentions.

She wondered if her ordeal would ever end.

Ricky Estefan emptied half the box of rigatoni into the big pot of
boiling water.  A head of foam rose instantaneously, and an appealing
starchy smell wafted up in a cloud of steam.  On another burner stood a
smaller pot of fragrantly bubbling spaghetti sauce.

As he adjusted the gas flames, he heard a strange noise toward the
front of the house.  A thump, not especially loud but solid.  He cocked
his head, listened.  Just when he decided that he'd imagined the noise,
it came again: thump.

He went down the hall to the front door, switched on the porch light,
and looked through the fish-eye lens in the peephole.  As far as he
could see, no one was out there.

He unlocked the door, opened it, and cautiously leaned outside to look
both ways.  None of the outdoor furniture had fallen over.  The night
was windless, so the bench swing hung motionless on its chains.

The rain continued to fall hard.  In the street, the vaguely purplish
light of the mercury-vapor lamps revealed rivers along both inn
gutters, nearly to the tops of the curbs, churning toward the drains at
the end of the block, glistening like streams of molten silver.

He was concerned that the thump had signaled storm damage of some kind,
but that seemed unlikely without a good wind.

After he closed the door, he twisted the dead-bolt into place and slid
the security chain home.  Since being gutshot and struggling back from
the brink, he had developed a healthy paranoia.  Well, healthy or
unhealthy, it was a damned fine example of paranoia, shiny from use.

He kept the doors locked at all times, and with nightfall he drew the
drapes shut at every window so no one could peer inside.

His fear embarrassed him.  He had once been so strong, capable, and
self-confident.  When Harry had left earlier, Ricky had pretended to
stay at the kitchen table, working on the belt buckle.

But as soon as he heard the front door close, he shuffled down the hall
to slip the dead-bolt quietly into place while his old friend was still
on the front porch.  His face had been burning with shame, but he'd
been uneasy about leaving a door unlocked even for a few minutes.

Now, as he turned away from the door, the mysterious noise came
again.

Thump.

This time he thought it was located in the living room.  He stepped
through the archway to find the source.

Two table lamps were on in the living room.  A warm amber glow suffused
that cozy space.  The coved ceiling was patterned with twin circles of
light broken by the shadows of lamp shade wires and finials.

Ricky liked light throughout the house in the evening until he went to
bed.  He no longer was comfortable entering a dark room and tben
flicking a switch.

Everything was in order.  He even peered behind the sofa to be
sure...

well, to be sure that nothing was amiss back there.

Thump.

His bedroom?

A door in the living room opened on a small vestibule with a simply but
charmingly coffered ceiling.  Three other doors ringed the vestibule:
guest bath, a cramped guest bedroom, and a master bedroom of modest
dimensions, one lamp aglow in each.  Ricky checked everywhere, closets
too, but found nothing that could have caused the thumping.

He pulled the drapes aside at each window to see if the latches were
engaged and all the panes of glass intact.  They were.

Thump.

This time it seemed to come from the garage.

From the nightstand beside his bed, he got a revolver.  Smith & Wesson
.38 Chief's Special.  He knew it was fully loaded.  He flipped the
cylinder out and checked anyway.  All five rounds were there.

Thump.

He developed a stitch in his lower left abdomen, a painful
stretching-twitching sensation with which he was too familiar, and
although the bungalow was small, he needed more than a minute to reach
the connecting door to the garage.  It was off the hallway, just before
the kitchen.  He leaned against it, one ear to the crack of the jamb,
listening.

Thump.

The sound had definitely come from the garage.

He pinched the dead-bolt turn between thumb and forefinger ... then
hesitated.  He didn't want to go into the garage.

He became aware of a dew of perspiration on his brow.

"Come on, come on," he said, but he didn't respond to his own urging.

He hated himself for being afraid.  Although he remembered the terrible
pain of the bullets smacking through his belly and scrambling his guts,
although he could recall the agony of all the subsequent infections and
the anguish of the months in the hospital under the shadow of death,
although he knew that many other men would have given up when he
persevered, and although he knew that his caution and fear were
justified by all that he had experienced and survived, he hated himself
nonetheless.

Thump.

Cursing himself, he disengaged the lock, opened the door, found the
light switch.  He stepped across the threshold.

The garage was wide enough for two cars, and his blue Mitsubishi tn was
parked on the far side.  The half nearest the house was occupied by his
long wo:kbench, racks of tools, cabinets filled with supplies, and the
gas-fired forge in which he melted small ingots of silver to pour into
the jewelry and buckle molds that he created.

The rataplan of the rain was louder here because there was no drop
ceiling and the garage roof was not insulated.  A damp chill rose off
the concrete floor.

No one was in the nearer half of the large chamber.  None of the
storage cabinets had a compartment big enough to hide a man.

With the .38 in hand, he circled the car, looked inside it, even eased
down onto his creaking knees and peered under it.  Nobody was hiding
there.

The exterior man-size door of the garage was locked from the inside.

So was the only window, which in any case was too small to admit anyone
older than five.

He wondered if the noise had originated on the roof.  For a minute, two
minutes, he stood beside the car, staring up at the rafters, waiting
for the thump to come again.  Nothing.  Just the rain, rain, rain, an
unceasing tattoo.

Feeling foolish, Ricky returned to the house and locked the connecting
door.  He took the revolver into the kitchen with him and put it on the
built-in secretary beside the telephone.

The flames under both the pasta and sauce had gone out.  For a moment
he thought the gas service had failed, but then he saw that the knobs
in front of both burners were in the OFF position.

He knew they had been on when he left the kitchen.  He turned them on
again, and blue flames came to life with a whoosh under the pots.

After adjusting them to the right intensity, he stared at them for a
while; the flames did not subside of their own accord.

Somebody was playing games with him.

He returned to the secretary, picked up the gun, and considered
searching the house again.  But he had already inspected every inch of
the place, and knew for certain that he was alone.

Following a brief hesitation, he searched it again-with the same result
as the first time.

When he returned to the kitchen, no one had turned off the gas The
sauce was boiling so rapidly, it had begun to stick to the bottom of
the pot.  He put the gun aside.  He speared a piece of rigatoni with a
large fork, blew on it to cool it, tasted.  It was slightly overcooked
but okay.

He drained the pasta into a colander in the sink, shook the colander,
dumped the pasta on a plate, and added sauce.

Somebody was playing games with him.

But who?

Rain drizzled through the leafy oleander bushes, encountered the layers
of plastic garbage bags that Sammy had draped across the packing crate,
and drained off the plastic into the vacant lot or out into the
alleyway.  Under the rags that served as bedding, the floor of the
crate was also lined with plastic, so his humble home was relatively
dry.

Even if he had been sitting in water up to his waist, Sammy Shamroe
might not have noticed, for he had already finished one double-liter
jug of wine and had started a second.  He was feeling no painr at least
that's what he told himself.

He had it pretty good, really.  The cheap wine kept him warm
temporarily purged him of self-hatred and remorse, and put him in touch
with certain innocent feelings and naive expectations of childhood.

Two fat blueberry-scented candles, salvaged from someone else's garbage
and anchored now in a pie pan, filled his sanctuary with a pleasant
fragrance and a soft light as cozy as that from an antique Tiffany
lamp.  The close walls of the packing crate.were comforting rather than
claustrophobic.  The ceaseless chorus of the rain was lulling.  But for
the candles, perhaps it had been something like this in the sac of
fetal membranes: snugly housed, suspended weightless in amniotic fluid,
surrounded by the soft liquid roar of Mother's blood rushing through
her veins and arteries, not merely unconcerned about the future but
unaware of it.

Even when the ratman pulled aside the hanging rug that served as a door
over the only opening in the crate, Sammy was not delivered from his
imitation prenatal bliss.  Deep down, he knew that he was in trouble,
but he was too whacked to be afraid.

The crate was eight feet by six, as large as many walk-in closets.

Bearish as he was, the ratman still could have squeezed in across from
Sammy without knocking over the candles, but he remained crouched in
the doorway, holding back the rug with one arm.

His eyes were different from what they had always been before.

Shiny black Without any whites at all.  Pinpoint yellow pupils in the
center, glowing.  Like distant headlights on the night highway to
Hell.

"How're you doing, Sammy?"  the rattnan asked in a tone of voice that
was uncharacteristically solicitous.  "You getting along okay,
Hmmmmmmmm??"

Though a surfeit of wine had so numbed Sammy Shamroe's survival
instinct that he couldn't get back in touch with his fear, he knew that
he should be afraid.  Therefore he remained motionless and watchful, as
he might have done if a rattlesnake had slithered into his crate and
blocked the only way out.

The ratman said, "Just wanted you to know, I won't be stopping around
for a while.  Got new business.  Overworked.  Got to deal with more
urgent matters first.  When it's over, I'll be exhausted, sleep for a
whole day, around the clock."

Being temporarily fearless did not mean that Sammy had become
courageous.  He dared not speak "Did you know how much this exhausts
me, Sammy?  No?  Thinning out the herd, disposing of the lame and the
diseased-it's no piece of cake, let me tell you."

When the ratman smiled and shook his head, shining beads of rainwater
were flung off his beard.  They spattered Sammy.

Even in the comforting womb of his wine haze, Sammy retained -enough
awareness to be amazed by the ratman's sudden garrulousness.  Yet, as
amazing as it was, the huge man's monologue was curiously reminiscent
of something he had heard before, a long time ago in another place,
though he could not recall where or when or from whom.  It wasn't the
gravelly voice or the words themselves that brought Sammy to the edge
of deja vu, but the tonal quality of the ratman's revelations, the
eerie earnestness, the cadences of his speech.

"Dealing with vermin like you," the ratman said, "is draining.

Believe me.  Draining.  It'd be so much easier ill could waste each of
you the first time we meet, make you spontaneously combust or make your
head explode.  Wouldn't that be nice?"

No.  Cold, exciting, interesting for sure, but not nice, Sammy thought,
although his fear remained in abeyance.

"But to fulfill my destiny," the ratman said, "to become what I am
required to become, I have to show you my wrath, make you quiver and be
humbled before me, make you understand the meaning of your
damnation."

Sammy remembered where he had heard this sort of thing before Another
street person.  Maybe eighteen months ago, two years ago, up in Los
Angeles.  A guy named Mike, had a messiah complex, thought he was
chosen by God to make the world pay for its sins, finally went over the
top with the concept, knifed three or four people who were lined up
outside an art-house theater that was showing are-released director's
cut of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure with twenty minutes of
material never seen in the original version.

"Do you know what I am becoming, Sammy?"

Sammy just clutched his remaining two-liter jug.

"I am becoming the new god," said the ratman.  "A new god is needed.  I
have been chosen.  The old god was too merciful.  Things have gotten
out of hand.  It's my duty to Become, and having Become, to rule more
sternly."

In the candlelight, the raindrops remaining in the ratman's hair and
eyebrows and beard glimmered as if a woefully misguided artisan had
decorated him with jewels in the manner of a Faberge' egg.

"When I deal out these more urgent judgments, and when I've had a
chance to rest, I'll be back to see you," the ratman promised.  "I just
didn't want you to think you'd been forgotten.  Wouldn't want you to
feel neglected, unappreciated.  Poor, poor Sammy.  I won't forget
you.

That's not just a promise-it's the sacred word of the new god."

Then the ratman worked a malevolent miracle to insure that he was not
forgotten even in the thousand-fathom oblivion of a deep wine sea.  He
blinked, and when his lids popped up again, his eyes were no longer
ebony and yellow, were not eyes at all any longer, but were balls of
greasy white worms writhing in his sockets.  When he opened his mouth,
his teeth had become razor-sharp fangs.  Venom dripped, a glossy black
tongue fluttered like that of a questing serpent, and a violent
exhalation erupted from him, reeking of putrefied flesh.  His head and
body swelled, burst, but didn't deconstruct into a horde of rats this
time.  Instead, ratman and clothes were transformed into tens of
thousands of black flies that swarmed through the packing crate,
buzzing fiercely, batting against Sammy's face.  The thrumming of their
wings was so loud that it drowned out even the drone of the pouring
rain, and thenThey were gone.

Vanished.

The rug hung heavy and wet over the open section of the crate.

Candle glow flickered and pulsed across the wooden walls.

The air smelled of blueberry-scented wax.

Sammy chugged a couple of long swallows of wine directly from the mouth
of the jug, instead of pouring it first into the dirty jelly jar that
he had been using.  A little of it spilled over his whisker-stubbled
chin, but he didn't care.

He was eager to remain numb, detached.  If he had been in touch with
his fear during the past few minutes, he would no doubt have peed his
pants.

He felt it was also important to remain detached in order to think less
emotionally about what the ratman had said.  Previously, the creature
had spoken little and had never revealed anything of its own
motivations or intentions.  Now it was spouting all this babble about
thinning the herd, judgment, godhood.

It was valuable to know the ratman's mind was filled with the same
crazy stuff that had cluttered up the head of old Mike, stabber of
moviegoers.  Regardless of his ability to appear out of nowhere and
into thin disappear air, in spite of his inhuman eyes and ability to
change shapes, all of that god blather made him seem hardly more
special than any of the countless heirs of Charles Manson and Richard
Ramirez who roamed the world, heeding inner voices killing for
pleasure, and keeping refrigerators filled with the severed heads of
their victims.  If in some fundamental way he was like the other
psychos out there, then even with his special talents he was as
vulnerable as they were.

Though functioning in a wine fog, Sammy could see that this new insight
might be a useful survival tool.  The problem was, he had never been
good at survival.

Thinking about the ratman made his head hurt.  Hell, the mere prospect
of surviving gave him a migraine.  Who wanted to survive?

And why?  Death would only come later if not sooner.  Each survival was
merely a short-term triumph.  In the end, oblivion for everyone.

And in the meantime, nothing but pain.  To Sammy, it seemed that the
only terrible thing about the ratman was not that he killed people but
that he apparently liked to make them suffer first, cranked up the
terror, poured on the pain, did not remove his victims from this world
with kindly despatch.

Sammy tipped the jug and poured wine into the jelly jar that was on the
floor, braced between his splayed legs.  He raised the glass to his
lips.  In the glimmering ruby liquid, he sought a glimmerless,
peaceful, perfect darkness.

Mickey Chan was sitting alone in a back booth, concentrating on his
soup.

Connie saw him as soon as she pushed through the front door of the
small Chinese restaurant in Newport Beach, and she made her way toward
him between black-lacquered chairs and tables with silver-gray
tablecloths.  A red and gold painted dragon coiled across - the
ceiling, serpentined around the light fixtures.

If Mickey saw her coming, he pretended to be unaware.  He sucked soup
from the spoon, then spooned up more, never taking his gaze off the
contents of his bowl.

He was small but sinewy, in his late forties, and wore his hair closely
cropped.  His skin was the shade of antique parchment.

Although he allowed his Caucasian clients to think that he was Chinese,
he was actually a Vietnamese refugee who had fled to the States after
the fall of Saigon.  Rumor had it, he'd been a Saigon homicide
detective or an officer in the South Vietnamese Internal Security
Agency, which was probably true.

Some said that he'd had a reputation as a real terror in the
interrogation room, a man who would resort to any tool or technique to
break the will of a suspected criminal or Communist, but Connie doubted
those stories.  She liked Mickey.  He was tough, but he had about him
the air of a man who had known great loss and was capable of profound
compassion.

As she reached his table, he spoke to her without shifting his
attention from the soup: "Good evening, Connie."

She slid into the other side of the booth.  "You're fixated on that
bowl as if the meaning of life is in it."

"It is," he said, still spooning.

"It is?  Looks like soup to me."

"The meaning of life can be found in a bowl of soup.  Soup always
begins with a broth of some kind, which is like the liquid flow of days
that makes up our lives."

"Broth?"

"Sometimes in the broth are noodles, sometimes vegetables, bits of egg
white, slivers of chicken or shrimp, mushrooms, perhaps rice.

Because Mickey would not look at her, Connie found herself staring
across the table at his soup almost as intensely as he was.

He said, "Sometimes it is hot, sometimes cool.  Sometimes it is meant
to be cool, and then it is good even if there's no slightest warmth in
it.  But if it's not meant to be cool, then it will taste bitter, or
curdle in the stomach, or both."

His strong but gentle voice had a hypnotic effect.  Enthralled Connie
stared at the placid surface of the soup, oblivious now to everyone
else in the restaurant.

"Consider.  Before the soup is eaten," Mickey said, "it has value and
purpose.  After it is eaten, it is valueless to everyone except to
whoever has consumed it.  And in fulfilling its purpose, it ceases to
exist.  Left behind will be only the empty bowl.  Which can symbol
either want and needr the pleasant expectation of other soups to
come."

She waited for him to continue, and only shifted her gaze from his soup
when she realized that he was now staring at her.  She met his eyes and
said, "That's it?"

"Yes."

"The meaning of life?"

"All of it."

She frowned.  "I don't get it."

He shrugged.  "Me neither.  I make up this crap as I go along."

She blinked at him.  "You what?"

Grinning, Mickey said, "Well, it's sort of expected of a Chinese
private detective, you see.  Pithy sayings, impenetrable philosophical
observations, inscrutable proverbs."

He was not Chinese, nor was his real name Mickey Chan.  When he arrived
in the US and decided to put his police background to use by becoming a
private detective, he had felt that Vietnamese names were too exotic to
inspire confidence and too difficult for Westerners to pronounce.  And
he'd known he couldn't make a good living solely from clients of
Vietnamese heritage.  Two of his favorite American things were Mickey
Mouse cartoons and Charlie Chan movies, and it made sense to him to
have his name legally changed.  Because of Disney and Rooney and Mantle
and Spillane, Americans liked people named Mickey; and thanks to a lot
of old movies, the name Chan was subconsciously associated with
investigative genius.  Evidently, Mickey had known what he was doing,
because he had built a thriving business with a sterling reputation,
and now had ten employees.

"You suckered me," she said, indicating the soup.

"You're not the first."

Amused, she said, "If I could pull the right strings, I'd have the
courts change your name to Charlie Mouse.  See how that works."

"I'm glad you can still smile," Mickey said.

A beautiful young waitress with jet-black hair and almond eyes appeared
at the table and asked if Connie would like to order dinner.

"Just a bottle of Tsingtao, please," Connie said.  And to Mickey: "I
don't feel much like smiling, if you want to know the truth.  You sure
as hell ruined my day with that call this morning."

"Ruined your day?  Me?"

"Who else?"

"Maybe a certain gentleman with a Browning and a few grenades?"

"So you heard about that."

"Who hasn't?  Even in southern California it's the kind of story that
gets on the news ahead of the sports report."

"On a slow day maybe."

He finished his soup.

The waitress returned with the beer.

Connie poured the Tsingtao down the side of the chilled pilsner glass
to minimize the head, took a sip' and sighed.

"I'm sorry," Mickey said sincerely.  "I know how much you wanted to
believe you had a family."

"I did have a family," she said.  "They're just all gone."

Between the ages of three and eighteen, Connie had been raised in a
series of state institutions and temporary foster homes, each more
abysmal than the one before it, requiring her to be tough and to fight
back.  Because of her personality, she had not appealed to adoptive
parents and could not escape by that route.  Certain of her character
traits, which she saw as strengths, were considered attitude problems
by other people.  From the youngest age, she had been independent
minded, solemn beyond her years, virtually unable to be a child.  To
act her age, she literally would have had to act, for she had been an
adult in a child's body.

Until seven months ago, she had not given much thought to the identity
of her parents.  There seemed to be no percentage in caring.

For whatever reason, they had abandoned her as a child, and she had no
memory whatsoever of them.

Then one sunny Sunday afternoon, when she went skydiving out of the
airfield at Perris, her ripcord jammed.  She fell four thousand feet
toward brown desert scrub as arid as Hell, with the conviction that she
was dead except for the actual dying.  Her chute deployed at the last
possible moment to allow survival.  Although her landing was rough, she
was lucky; it resulted in only a sprained ankle abraded left hand,
bruises-and a sudden need to know where she'd come from.

Everyone had to exit this life without a clue as to where they were
going, so it seemed essential to know at least something about the
entrance.

During off-duty hours, she could have used official channels, contacts,
and computers to investigate her past, but she preferred Mickey Chan.

She didn't want her colleagues getting involved with her search,
pulling for her and curious-in case she found something she didn't want
to share with them.

As it turned out, what Mickey had learned after six months of prying
into official files was not pretty.

When he handed her the report in his stylish Fashion Island office with
its I 9th-century French art and Biedermeier furniture, he said, "I'll
be in the next room, dictating some letters.  Let me know when you're
finished."

His Asian reticence, the implication that she might need to be alone,
alerted her to just how bad the truth was.

According to Mickey's report, a court had removed her from the' care of
her parents because she had suffered repeated severe physical abuse.

As punishment for unknown transgressions-perhaps merely for being
alive-they beat her, shaved off all of her hair, blindfolded her and
tied her and left her in a closet for eighteen hours at a stretch, and
broke three of her fingers.

When remanded to the care of the court, she had not yet learned to
speak, for her parents had never taught or permitted her to talk.

But speech had come quickly to her, as if she relished the rebellion
that the mere act of speaking represented.

However, she never had the opportunity to accuse her mother and
father.

While fleeing the state to avoid prosecution, they had died in a fiery
head-on collision near the California-Arizona border.

Connie read Mickey's first report with grim fascination, less shaken by
its contents than most people would have been because she had been a
cop long enough to have seen the likes of it many time-and worse.  She
did not feel that the hatred directed against her had been earned by
her shortcomings or because she had been less lovable than other
kids.

It was just how the world worked sometimes.  Too often.  At least she
finally understood why, even at the tender age of three, she had been
too solemn, too wise beyond her years, too independent-minded, just too
damned tough to be the cute and cuddly girl that adoptive parents were
seeking.

The abuse must have been worse than the dry language of the report made
it sound.  For one thing, courts usually tolerated a lot of parental
brutality before taking such drastic action.  For another she had
blocked all memories of it and of her sister, which was an act of some
desperation.

Most children who survived such experiences grew up deeply troubled by
their repressed memories and feelings of wortNessnessr even utterly
dysfunctional.  She was fortunate to be one of the strong ones.  She
had no doubts about her value as a human being or her specialness as an
individual.  Though she might have enjoyed being a gentler person, more
relaxed, less cynical, quicker to laugh, she nevertheless liked herself
and was content in her own way.

Mickey's report hadn't contained entirely bad news.  Connie learned
that she had a sister of whom she'd been unaware.  Colleen.

Constance Mary and Colleen Marie Gulliver, the former born three
minutes before the latter.  Identical twins.  Both abused, both
permanently removed from parental care, eventually sent to different
institutions, they had gone on to lead separate lives.

in the client chair that day a month ago, in front of Mickey's desk, a
shiver of delight had swept along Connie's spine at the realization
that someone existed with whom she shared such a singularly intimate
bond.  Identical twins.  She abruptly understood why she sometimes
dreamed of being two people at once and appeared in duplicate in those
sleeping fantasies.  Though Mickey was still seeking leads on Colleen,
Connie dared to hope she was not alone.

But now, a few weeks later, Colleen's fate was known.  She had been
adopted, raised in Santa Barbara-and died five years ago at the age of
twenty-eight.

That morning, when Connie learned she had lost her sister again, and
forever this time, she had known a more intense grief than at any time
in her life.

She had not wept.

She seldom did.

Instead, she had dealt with that grief as she dealt with all
disappointments, setbacks, and losses: she kept busy obsessively busy
and she got angry.  Poor Harry.  He had taken the brunt of her anger
all morning without having a clue as to the cause of it.  Polite,
reasonable, peice-loving, long-suffering Harry.  He would never know
just how perversely grateful she had been for the chance to chase down
the moon-faced perp, James Ordegard.  She had been able to direct her
rage at someone more deserving of it, and work off the pent-up energy
of the grief that she could not release through tears.

Now she drankTsingtao and said, "This morning, you mentioned
photographs."

The busboy removed the empty soup bowl.

Mickey put a manila envelope on the table.  "Are you sure you want to
look at them?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You can never know her.  The pictures might bring that home."

"I've already accepted it."

She opened the envelope.  Eight or ten snapshots slid out.

The photos showed Colleen as young as five or six, as old as her
mid-twenties, which was nearly as old as she had ever gotten.  She wore
different clothes from those that Connie had ever worn, styled her hair
differently, and was photographed in living rooms and kitchens, on
lawns and beaches, that Connie had never seen.  But in every
fundamental way-height, weight, coloration, facial features, even
expressions and unconscious body attitudes-she was Connie's perfect
double.

Connie had the uncanny feeling that she was seeing photos of herself in
a life that she could not remember having lived.

"Where did you get these?"  she asked Mickey Chan.

"From the Ladbrooks.  Dennis and Lorraine Ladbrook, the couple that
adopted Colleen."

Examining the photographs again, Connie was struck by the fact that
Colleen was smiling or laughing in every one of them.  The few pictures
that had ever been taken of Connie as a child were usually
institutional group shots with a crowd 'of other kids.  She didn't have
a single photograph of herself in which she was smiling.

"What are the Ladbrooks like?"  she asked.

"They're in business.  They work together, own an office-supply store
in Santa Barbara.  Nice people, I think, quiet and unassuming.

They weren't able to have any children of their own, and they adored
Colleen."

Envy darkened Connie's heart.  She coveted the love and years of
normality that Colleen had known.  Irrational, to envy a dead sister.

And shameful.  But she could not help herself Mickey said, "The
Ladbrooks haven't gotten over her death, not even after five years.

They didn't know she was a twin.  They never were given that
information by the child welfare agencies."

Connie returned the photographs to the manila envelope, unable to look
at them any longer.  Self-pity was an indulgence that she loathed, but
that's what her envy was swiftly becoming.  A heaviness, like piled
stones, pressed upon her breast.  Later, in the privacy of her
apartment, maybe she would feel like spending more time with her
sister's lovely smile.

The waitress arrived with moo goo gai pan and rice for Mickey.

Ignoring the chopsticks that were provided with a regular complement of
flatware, Mickey picked up his fork.  "Connie, the Ladbrooks would like
to meet you."

"Why?"

"Like I said, they never knew Colleen had a twin."

"I'm not sure it's a good idea.  I can't be Colleen for them.  I'm
someone different."

"I don't think it would be like that."

After she drank some beer, she said, "I'll think about it."

Mickey dug into his moo goo gai pan as if nothing tastier had ever come
out of any kitchen in the Western hemisphere.

The look and smell of the food made Connie half ill.  She knew that
nothing was wrong with the dinner, only with her reaction to it.

She had more than one reason to be queasy.  It had been a hard day.

Finally she asked the dreadful question that remained.  "How did
Colleen die?"

Mickey studied her for a moment before answering.  "I was ready to tell
you this morning."

"I wasn't ready to hear, I guess."

"Childbirth."

Connie had been prepared for any of the stupid and pointless ways that
death could come suddenly to an attractive twenty-eight year-old woman
in these dark terminal years of the millennium.  She had not been
prepared for this, however, and it jolted her.

"She had a husband."

Mickey shook his head.  "No.  Unwed mother.  I don't know the
circumstances, who the father was, but it doesn't seem to be a sore
point with the Ladbrooks, nothing they consider a stain on her memory
She was a saint in their eyes."

"What about the baby?"

"A girl."

"She lived?"

"Yes," Mickey said.  He put down his fork, drank some water, blotted
his mouth with a red napkin, watching Connie all the while.

"Her name is Eleanor.  Eleanor Ladbrook.  They call her Ellie."

"Ellie," Connie said numbly "She looks a great deal like you."

"Why didn't you tell me this morning?"

"You didn't give me a chance.  Hung up on me."

"I didn't."

"Just about.  Very brusque, you were.  Tell me the rest this evening,
you said."

"Sorry When I heard Colleen was dead, I thought it was over."

"Now you have a family You're someone's aunt."

She accepted the reality of Ellie's existence, but she could not yet
begin to get a handle on what Ellie might mean to her own life, her
future.  After having been alone for so long, she was stunned to learn
for certain that someone of her own flesh and blood was also alive in
this vast and troubled world.

"Having family somewhere, even one, must make a difference," Mickey
said.

She suspected it would make a huge difference.  Ironically, earlier in
the day, she had nearly been killed before learning that she had one
very important new reason to live.

Putting another manila envelope on the table, Mickey said, "The final
report.  The Ladbrooks' address and phone number's in there when you
decide you need them."

"Thank you, Mickey."

"And the bill.  It's in there, too."

She smiled.  "Thank you anyway" As Connie slid out of the booth and
stood, Mickey said, "Life's funny.  So many connections with other
people that we don't even know about, invisible threads linking us to
some we've long forgotten and some we won't meet for years-if ever."

"Yeah.  Funny" "One more thing, Connie."

"What's that?"

"There's a Chinese saying that goes.  . . 'Sometimes life can be as
bitter as dragon tears-'" "This more of your crap?"

"Oh, no.  It's a real saying."  Sitting there, a small man in a large
booth, with his gentle face and crinkled eyes full of good humor,
Mickey Chan seemed like a thin Buddha.  "But that's only part of the,
sayingthe part you already understand.  The whole thing goes...

'Sometimes life can be as bitter as dragon tears.  But whether dragon
tears are bitter or sweet depends entirely on how each man perceives
the taste."" "In other words, life is hard, even cruel-but it's also
what you make of it."

Putting his slender hands flat together without interleaving his
fingers, in the position of oriental prayer, Mickey bowed his head in
her direction with mock solemnity.  "Perhaps wisdom may yet enter
through the thick bone of your Yankee head."

"Anything's possible," she admitted.

She left with the two manila envelopes.  Her sister's captured smile.

The promise of her niece.

Outside, rain was still coming down at a rate that made her wonder if a
new Noah was at work somewhere in the world, even now marching pairs of
animals up a boarding gangway.

The restaurant was in a new strip shopping center, and a deep overhang
kept the pedestrian walkway dry.  A man was standing to the left of the
door.  Peripheral vision gave Connie the impression that he was tall
and husky, but she didn't actually look at him until he spoke to her.

"Have mercy on a poor man, will you, please?  Mercy for a poor man,
lady?"

She was about to step off the curb, out from under the overhang, but
his voice was arresting.  Soft, gentle, even musical, it seemed
radically out of sync with the size of the person she had seen from the
corner of her eye.

Turning, she was surprised by the formidable ugliness of the man, and
wondered how he could possibly earn even a meager living as a beggar.

His unusual size, knotted hair, and unkempt beard gave him the mad
aspect of Rasputin, though that crazed Russian priest had been a
pretty-boy by comparison.  Terrible bands of scar tissue disfigured his
face, and his beak nose was dark with broken blood vessels.  His lips
were marked by oozing blisters.  One glimpse of his diseased teeth and
gums reminded her of those in a corpse she had once seen after it had
been exhumed for poison tests nine years after burial.  And the eyes.

Cataracts.  Thick, milky membranes.  She could barely see the dark
circles of the irises underneath.  His appearance was so threatening
that Connie imagined most people, upon being panhandled by him, turned
and fled rather than approach to press money into his extended hand.

"Mercy on a poor man?  Mercy on the blind?  Spare change for one less
fortunate than you?"

The voice was extraordinary in its own right, but doubly so considering
the source.  Clear, melodious, it was the instrument of a born singer
who would deliver every lyric sweetly It must be the voice alone that,
in spite of his appearance, made it possible for him to live as a
mendicant.

Ordinarily, in spite of his voice, Connie would have told him to buzz
off-though not so politely Some beggars became homeless by no fault of
their own; and having experienced homelessness of a kind when she'd
been an institutionalized child, she had compassion for the genuinely
victimized.  But her job required daily contact with too many street
people for her to be able to romanticize them as a class; in her
experience, many were gravely demented and for their own sakes belonged
in the mental institutions from which dogooders had "main streamed"
them, while others had earned their perdition through alcohol, drugs,
or gambling.

She suspected that in every stratum of society from the mansion to the
gutter, the genuinely innocent were a distinct minority.

For some reason, however, although this guy looked as if he had made
every bad decision and self-destructive choice it was within his power
to make, she fished in her jacket pockets until she found a couple of
quarters and a ten-dollar bill worn soft with age.

To her greater surprise, she kept the quarters and gave him the ten
bucks.

"Bless you, lady.  God bless you and keep you and make His face to
shine upon you."

Astonished at herself, she turned away from him.  She hurried out into
the rain, toward her car.

As she ran, she wondered what had possessed her.  But it really wasn't
hard to figure.  She had been given more than one gift during the
course of the day.  Her life had been spared in the pursuit of
Ordegard.  And they had nailed the creep.  And then there was five
year-old Eleanor Ladbrook.  Ellie.  A niece.  Connie could not recall
many days as fine as this, and she supposed her good fortune had put
her in the mood to give something back when an opportunity arose.

Her life, one wasted perp, and a new direction for her future-not a bad
trade for ten dollars.

She got in the car, slammed the door.  She already had the keys in her
right hand.  She switched on the engine and gunned it because It
chugged a little as if protesting the weather.

Suddenly she was aware that her left hand was clenched in a tight
fist.

She wasn't conscious of having made the fist.  It was as if her hand
had closed in a lightning-quick spasm.

Something was in her hand.

She uncurled her fingers to look at what she held.

The parking-lot lamps shed enough light through the rainsmeared
windshield for her to see the crumpled item.

A ten-dollar bill.  Worn soft with age.

She stared at it in confusion, then with growing disbelief.  It must be
the same ten bucks she thought she had given to the beggar.

But she had given the money to the tramp, had seen his grimy mitt close
around it as he babbled his gratitude.

Bewildered, she looked through the side window of the car toward the
Chinese restaurant.  The beggar was no longer there.

She scanned the entire pedestrian walkway.  He was nowhere in front of
the strip shopping center.

She stared at the crumpled money.

Gradually her good mood faded.  She was overcome by dread.

She had no idea why she should be afraid.  And then she did.  Cop
instinct.

Harry took longer than he expected to get home from Special Projects.

Traffic moved sluggishly, repeatedly clogging up at flooded
intersections.

He lost more time when he stopped at a 7-Eleven to get a couple of
things he needed for dinner.  A loaf of bread.  Mustard.

Every time he went into a convenience store, Harry thought of Ricky
Estefan stopping after work that day for a quart of milk-and buying a
drastic life change instead.  But nothing bad happened in the 7-Eleven,
except that he heard the story about the baby and the birthday party.

A small television on the check-out counter kept the clerk entertained
when business was slow, and it was turned to the news while Harry was
paying for his purchases.  A young mother in Chicago had been charged
with murdering her own infant child.  Her relatives had planned a big
birthday party for her, but when her babysitter failed to show up, it
had looked as if she wouldn't be able to go and enjoy herself.  So she
dumped her two-month-old infant down the chute of her
apartment-building trash incinerator, went to the party, and danced up
a storm.  Her lawyer had already said her defense would be postpartum
depression.

Yet another example of the continuing crisis for Connie's collection of
outrages and atrocities.

The clerk was a slender young man with dark, sorrowful eyes.  In
Iranian-accented English, he said, "What's this country coming to?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Harry said.  "But then again, in your former
country, they don't just let the lunatics run around free, they
actually put them in charge."

"True," the clerk said.  "But here, too, sometimes."

"Can't argue that."

As he was pushing through one of the two glass doors on his way out of
the store, with the bread and mustard in a plastic bag, Harry suddenly
realized he was carrying a folded newspaper under his right arm.  He
stopped with the door half open, took the paper from under his arm, and
stared at it uncomprehendingly.  He was sure he had not picked up a
paper, let alone folded one and put it under his arm.

He returned to the cash register.  When he put the paper on the
counter, it unfolded.

"Did I pay for this?"  Harry asked.

Puzzled, the clerk said, "No, sir.  I didn't even see you pick it
up."

"I don't remember picking it up."

"Did you want it?"

"No, not really."

Then he noticed the headline at the top of the front page: SHOOTOUT AT
LAGUNA BEACH RESTAURANT.  And the subhead: TWO DEAD, TEN WOUNDED.  It
was the late edition with the first story about Ordegard's bloody
rampage.

"Wait," Harry said.  "Yes.  Yes, I guess I'll take it."

On those occasions when one of his cases became newsworthy, Harry never
read about himself in the papers.  He was a cop, not a celebrity.

He gave the clerk a quarter and took the evening edition.

He still didn't understand how the paper had gotten folded and tucked
under his arm.  Blackout?  Or something stranger, more directly related
to the other inexplicable events of the day?

When Harry opened the front door and, dripping, stepped into the foyer
of his condominium, home had never seemed so inviting.  It was a neat
and ordered haven, into which the chaos of the outside world could not
intrude.

He took off his shoes.  They were saturated, probably ruined.  He
should have worn galoshes, but the weather report had not called for
rain until after nightfall.

His socks were wet, too, but he left them on.  He would mop the foyer
tile after he changed into clean, dry clothes.

He stopped in the kitchen to put the bread and mustard on the I"
counter beside the cutting board.  Later he would make sandwiches with
some cold poached chicken.  He was starved.

The kitchen sparkled.  He was so pleased that he had taken the time to
clean up the breakfast mess before going to work.  He would have been
depressed to see it now.

From the kitchen he went through the dining room, down the short hall
to the master bedroom, carrying the evening newspaper.

As he crossed the threshold, he snapped on the lights-and discovered
the hobo on his bed.

Alice never fell down any rabbit hole deeper than the one into which
Harry dropped at the sight of the vagrant.

The man seemed even bigger than he had been out of doors or from a
distance in the Special Projects corridor.  Dirtier.  More hideous.  He
did not have the semi-transparency of an apparition; in fact, with his
masses of tangled hair and intricately layered varieties of grime and
webwork of scars, with his dark clothes so wrinkled and tattered that
they recalled the interment wrappings of an ancient Egyptian mummy, he
was more real than the room itself, like a painstakingly detailed
figure painted by a photorealist and then inserted into a minimalist's
line-drawing of a room.

The tramp's eyes opened.  Like pools of blood.

He sat up and said, "You think you're so special.  But you're just one
more animal, walking meat like all the rest of them."

Dropping the newspaper, pulling his revolver from his shoulder holster,
Harry said, "Don't move."

Ignoring the warming, the intruder swung his legs over the side of the
bed, got up.

The impression of the vagrant's head and body remained in the spread,
pillows, and mattress.  A ghost could walk through snow, leaving no
footprints, and hallucinations had no weight.

"Just another diseased animal."  If anything, the vagrant's voice was
deeper and raspier than it had been on the street in Laguna Beach, the
guttural voice of a beast that had laboriously learned to talk.  "Think
you're a hero, don't you?  Big man.  Big hero.  Well, you're nothing,
less than a pissant, that's what you are.  Nothing!"

Harry couldn't believe it was going to happen again, not twice in one
day, and for God's sake not in his own home.

Backing up one step into the doorway, he said, "You don't lie down on
the floor right now on your face, hands behind your back right now, so
help me God I'll blow your head off" Starting around the bed toward
Harry, the vagrant said, "You think you can shoot anyone you like, push
anyone around if you want to, and that's the end of it, but that's not
the end of it with me, shooting me is never the end of it."

"Stop, right now I mean it!"

The intruder didn't stop.  His moving shadow was huge on the wall.

"Rip your guts out, hold them in your face, make you smell them while
you die."

Harry had the revolver in both hands.  A shooter's stance.  He knew
what he was doing.  He was a good marksman.  He could have hit a
flitting hummingbird at such close range, let alone this great looming
hulk, so there was only one way it could end, the intruder as cold as a
side of beef, blood all over the walls, only one plausible scenariyet
he felt in greater danger than ever before in his life, infinitely more
vulnerable than he had been among the mannequins in the box-maze
attic.

"You people," the vagrant said, rounding the foot of the bed, "are so
much fun to play with."

One last time, Harry ordered him to stop.

But he kept coming, maybe ten feetaway, eight, six.

Harry opened fire, squeezing shots off nice and smooth, not letting the
hard recoil of the handgun pull the muzzle off target, once, twice,
three times, four, and the explosions were deafening in the small
bedroom.  He knew every round did damage, three in the torso, the
fourth in the base of the throat from only inches more than arm's
length, causing the head to snap around as if doing a comic double
take.

The hobo didn't go down, didn't stagger backward, only jerked with each
hit he took.  Inflicted point-blank, the throat wound was ghastly.  The
bullet must have punched all the way through, leaving an even worse
exit wound in the back of the neck, fracturing or t, severing the
spine, but there was no blood, no spray or spout or smallest spurt, as
if the man's heart had stopped beating long ago and all the blood had
dried and hardened in his vessels.  He kept coming, no more stoppable
than an express train, rammed into Harry, knocking the wind out of him,
lifting him, carrying him backward through the doorway, slamming him so
hard against the far hallway wall that Harry's teeth snapped together
with an audible clack and the revolver flipped out of his hand.

Pain spread like a Japanese accordion fan from the small of Harry's
back across both shoulders.  For a moment he thought he was going to
black out, but terror kept him conscious.  Pinned to the wall, feet
dangiing off the floor, stunned by the plastercracking force with which
he'd been hammered, he was as helpless as a child in the iron grip of
his assailant.  But if he could remain conscious, his strength might
flood back into him, or maybe he would think of something to save
himself, anything, a move, a trick, a distraction.

The hobo leaned against Harry crushing him.  The nightmarish face
loomed closer.  The livid scars were encircled by enlarged pores the
size of match heads, packed with filth.  Tufts of wiry black hair
bristled from his flared nostrils.

When the man exhaled, it was like a mass grave venting the gases of
decomposition, and Harry choked in revulsion.

"Scared, little man?"  the vagrant asked, and his ability to speak
seemed unaffected by the hole in his throat and the fact that his vocal
cords had been pulverized and blown out through the back of his neck.

"Scared?"

Harry was scared, yes, he would have been an idiot if he hadn't been
scared.  No amount of weapons training or police work prepared you for
going face to face with the boogeyman, and he didn't mind admitting it,
was prepared to shout it from a rooftop if that's what the vagrant
wanted, but he couldn't get his breath to speak.

"Sunrise in eleven hours," the hobo said.  "Ticktock."

Things were moving in the depths of the tramp's bushy beard.

Crawling.  Maybe bugs.

He shook Harry fiercely, rattling him against the wall.

I" Harry tried to bring his arms up between them, break the big man's
hold.  It was like trying to force concrete to yield.

"First everything and everyone you love," the vagrant snarled.

Then he turned, still holding Harry, and threw him back through the
bedroom doorway.

Harry hit the floor hard and rolled into the side of the bed.

"Then you!"

Gasping and dazed, Harry looked up and saw the hobo filling the
doorway, watching him.  The revolver was at the big man's feet.  He
kicked it into the room, toward Harry, and it spun to a stop on the
carpet, just out of reach.

Harry wondered if he could get to the gun before the bastard came down
on him.  Wondered if there was any point trying.  Four shots, four
hits, no blood.

"Did you hear me?"  the vagrant demanded.  "Did you hear me' Did you
hear me, hero?  Did you hear me?"  He didn't pause for an answer, kept
repeating the question in an increasingly angry and curiously mocking
tone of voice, louder, louder still, "Did you hear me, hero?  Did you
hear me, did you hear me, did you hear me, hear me, hear me?  Did you
hoor me?  DID YOU HEAR ME, DID YOU DID I.O.U DID YOU HERO, DID YOU DID
YOU?"

The hobo was trembling violently, and his face was dark with rage and
hatred.  He wasn't even looking at Harry any longer, but at the
ceiling, howling the words-"DID YOU HEAR ME, DID YOU HEAR ME?"-as if
his fury had become so enormous that one man could no longer be a
satisfactory target for it, screaming at the whole world or even worlds
beyond, voice oscillating between bass thunder and a piercing shriek.

Harry tried to get to his feet by supporting himself against the bed.

The vagrant raised his right hand, and green static electricity
crackled between his fingers.  Light shimmered in the air above his
palm, and suddenly his hand was on fire.

He snapped his wrist and flung a fireball across the room.  It hit the
drapes, and they exploded into flames.

His eyes were not red liquid pools any longer.  Instead, fire licked
out of the sockets, lapping up over his eyebrows, as though he was just
the hollow figure of a man, made of wicker, burning from the inside
out.

Harry was on his feet.  His legs were shaky.

All he wanted was to get out of there.  Burning drapes covered the
window.  The hobo was in the doorway.  No exit.

The vagrant turned and snapped his wrist in the manner of a magician
revealing a dove, and another white-hot churning sphere spun across the
room, smashed into the dresser, burst like a Molotov cocktail,
showering flames.  The dresser mirror shattered.  Wood split, drawers
popped open, and the conflagration spread.

Smoke curled out of his beard, and fire spat from his nostrils.  His
hooked nose blistered and began to melt.  His mouth was open in a
shout, but the only sounds he made were the hiss, pop, and crackle of
combustion.  He exhaled a pyrotechnic cascade, sparks in all the colors
of the rainbow, and then flames shot from his mouth.  His lips curled
up as crisp as deep-fried pork rinds, turned black, and peeled back
from smouldering teeth.

Harry saw snakes of flame wriggle up the wall from the dresser and onto
the ceiling.  In places the carpet was burning.

Already the heat was tremendous.  Soon the air would be full of acrid
smoke.

Bright flares squirted out of the three bullet holes in the vagrant's
chest, red and gold fire instead of blood.  He flicked his wrist once
more, and a third bright sputtering globe erupted øfrom his hand.

The hissing mass streaked at Harry.  He dropped into a crouch.  It
passed over his head, so close that he protected his face with one arm
and cried out when the wake of searing heat washed over him.  The
bedclothes erupted into flames as if they had been soaked in
gasoline.

When Harry looked up, the doorway was empty.  The vagrant was gone.

He scooped the revolver off the floor and rushed into the hall, with
the carpet sprouting flames around his stockinged feet.  He was glad
his socks were sopping wet.

The hallway was deserted, which was good, because he didn't want
another confrontation with... with whatever the hell he'd just had a
confrontation with, not if bullets didn't work.  The kitchen to his
left.  He hesitated, then stepped in front of the doorway, gun at the
ready.  Fire eating the cabinets, curtains flapping like the skirts of
dancers in Hell, smoke rolling toward him.  He kept moving.  The foyer
ahead, living room to the right, where the thing must have gone, thing
not hobo.  He was reluctant to pass the archway, afraid the thing would
plunge out at him, seize him in its incandescent hands, but he had to
get out fast, the place was filling with smoke, and he was coughing,
unable to draw enough clean air.

Edging to the foyer with his back against the hallway wall, facing the
arch, Harry kept the gun in front of him, more because of training and
habit than because he had any faith in its efficacy.

Anyway, only one round remained in the cylinder.

The living room was burning, too, and in the middle stood the fiery
figure, fully engulfed, arms spread wide to embrace the torrid tempest,
consumed by it yet obviously in no pain, perhaps even in a state of
rapture.  Each lambent caress of flame seemed to be a source of
perverse pleasure to the thing.

Harry was sure that it was watching him from within its shrouds of
fire.  He was afraid it might suddenly approach, arms still in a
cruciform posture, to pin him against the wall again.

He crabbed sideways past the archway into the small foyer, as a black
tide of smothering, blinding smoke rolled down the hall from the
bedroom and submerged him.  The last thing Harry saw was his soggy
shoes, and he snatched them up in the same hand with which he held the
gun.  The smoke was so dense that no light penetrated to the foyer even
from the leaping flames behind him.  Anyway his eyes stung and flooded
with tears; he was forced to squeeze them tight shut.  In the tarry
blackness, there was a danger of becoming disoriented, even in such a
small space.

He held his breath.  One inhalation would be toxic enough to bring him
to his knees, choking, dizzy.  But he hadn't been getting clean air
since the master bedroom, so he wasn't going to be able to hold out
long, a few seconds.  Even as he scooped up the shoes, he grabbed for
the doorknob, couldn't find it in the darkness, fumbled, began to
panic, but closed his left hand around it.  Locked.  Deadbolt latch.

His lungs were hot, as if fire had gotten into them.  Chest ached.

Where was the dead-bolt?  Should be above the knob.  He wanted to
breathe, found the dead-bolt, had to breathe, couldn't, disengaged the
lock, was aware of a growing inner darkness more dangerous than the
outer one, grasped the knob, tore the door open, plunged outside.  The
smoke was still around him, sucked out by the cool night, and he had to
weave to the right to find clean air, the first breath of which was
painfully icy in his lungs.

In the garden courtyard, where walkways wound among azaleas and
plum-thorn hedges and lush beds of English primrose, with the U-shaped
building around him, Harry blinked furiously, clearing his vision.  He
saw a few neighbors coming out of their apartments onto the lower
promenade, and above were two people on the second-story promenade by
which all of the upper apartments were accessed.  They'd probably been
drawn by the gunfire, because it was not a neighborhood where that
sound was common.

They were staring in shock at him and at the plumes of oily smoke
churning out of his front door, but he didn't think he'd heard anybody
yelling "fire," so he began to shout it, and then the others picked up
the cry.

Harry sprinted to one of the two alarm boxes along the ground floor
promenade.  He dropped his gun and shoes, and yanked down the lever
that broke the fogged glass.  Bells clanged stridently.

To his right the living-room window of his own condo, which faced the
courtyard, blew out and showered glass onto the concrete deck of the
promenade.  Smoke followed, and whipping pennants of fire, and Harry
expected to see the burning man climb out through the broken window and
continue the pursuit.

Crazily a line from a movie theme song flashed through his mind: Who
you gonna call?  GHOST BUSTERS!

He was living in a Dan Aykroyd movie.  He might have found it funny if
he hadn't been so scared that his thudding heart was halfway up his
throat.

Sirens rose in the distance, fast approaching.

He ran from door to door, pounding with his fists on each.  More soft
explosions.  A strange metallic screech.  Ceaselessly clanging alarm
bells.  Sequenced bursts of shattering glass rang like hundreds of wind
chimes hammered by an erratically gusting storm.  Harry didn't look
back for the source of any of the sounds, kept moving from door to
door.

When the sirens grew to dominate all other sounds and seemed to be only
a couple of blocks away, he was finally confident that everyone in the
building had been alerted and gotten out.  People were scattered across
the courtyard garden, staring up at the roof or watching the street for
the fire engines, horrified and scared, stunned silent or weeping.

He raced back to the first alarm box and pulled on his shoes, which
he'd left there.  He snatched up his revolver, stepped over a border of
azaleas, waded through bloom-laden primrose, and splashed through a
couple of puddles on a concrete walkway.

Only then did he realize the rain had stopped falling during the few
minutes he had been in his apartment.  The ficus and palm trees were
still dripping, as was the shrubbery.  The wet fronds and leaves were
bejeweled with thousands of tiny ruby reflections of the growing
fire.

He turned and, like his neighbors, looked back at the building,
startled to see how fast the blaze was spreading.  The apartment above
his was engulfed.  At broken windows, bloody tongues of flame licked
across the remaining teeth of glass that bristled from the frames.

Smoke billowed, and dreadful light pulsed and sputtered against the
night.

Looking toward the street, Harry was relieved to see that fire trucks
had entered the sprawling Los Cabos complex.  Less than a block away,
the sirens began to die, but the beacons kept flashing.

People had rushed into the street from other buildings, but they
quickly got out of the way of the emergency vehicles.

An intense wave of heat drew Harry's attention to his own building
again.  The blaze had broken through to the roof.

As in a fairy tale, high upon the shingled peak, fire like a dragon was
silhouetted against the dark sky, lashing its yellow and orange and
vermillion tail, spreading huge carnelian wings, scales scintillant,
scarlet eyes flashing, roaring a challenge to all knights and would-be
slayers.

Connie stopped for a pepperoni and mushroom pizza on the way home.  She
ate at the kitchen table, washing the food down with a can of Coors.

For the past seven years, she had rented a small apartment in Costa
Mesa.  The bedroom contained only a bed, a nightstand, and a lamp, no
dresser; her wardrobe was so simple that she was easily able to store
all of her clothes and shoes in the single closet.  The living room
contained a black leather recliner, a floor lamp on one side of the big
chair for when she wanted to read, and an end table on the other side;
the recliner faced a television set and VCR on a wheeled stand.  The
dining area in the kitchen was furnished with a card table and four
folding chairs with padded seats.  The cabinets were mostly empty,
containing only the minimum pots and utensils for cooking quick meals,
a few bowls, four dinner plates, four salad plates, four cups and
saucers, four glasses-always four because that was the number in the
smallest set she could find to buy-and canned goods.  She never
entertained.

Possessions did not interest her.  She had grown up without them,
drifting from one foster home and institution to another with only a
battered cloth suitcase.

In fact she felt encumbered by possessions, tied down, trapped.

She owned not a single knickknack.  The only artwork or decoration on
the walls was a poster in the kitchen, a photograph taken by a skydiver
from five thousand feet-green fields, rolling hills, a dry riverbed,
scattered trees, two blacktop and two dirt roads narrow as threads,
intersecting in the manner of lines on an abstract painting.

She read voraciously, but all her books were from the library.  All
videotapes that she watched were rented.

She owned her car, but that was as much a machine of freedom as it was
a steel albatross.

Freedom was the thing she sought and cherished, in place of jewelry and
clothes and antiques and art, but it was sometimes more difficult to
acquire than an original Rembrandt.  In the long, sweet free-fall
before the parachute had to be deployed, there was freedom.  Astride a
powerful motorcycle on a lonely highway, she could find a measure of
freedom, but a dirt bike in the desert vastness was even better, with
only vistas of sand and rocky outcroppings and withered scrub brush
rolling toward the blue sky in all directions.

While she ate pizza and drank beer, she took the snapshots out of the
manila envelope and studied them.  Her dead sister, so like herself.

She thought about Ellie, her sister's child, living up in Santa Barbara
with the Ladbrooks, no image of her face among the pictures but perhaps
as much like Connie as Colleen had been.  She tried to decide how she
felt about having a niece.  As Mickey Chan suggested, it was a
wonderful thing to have family, not to be alone in the world after
having been alone for as long as she could remember.  A pleasant thrill
shivered through her when she thought about Ellie, but it was tempered
by the concern that a niece might be an encumbrance far heavier than
all the material possessions in the world.

What if she met Ellie and developed an affection for her?

No.  She wasn't concerned about affection.  She had given and received
that before.  Love.  That was the worry.

She suspected that love, though a blessing, could also be a confining
chain.  What freedom might be lost by loving someoner by being loved?

She didn't know because she had never given or received any emotion as
powerful and profound as love-or as what she thought love must be like,
having read of it in so many great novels.  She had read that love
could be a trap, a cruel prison, and she had seen people's hearts
broken by the weight of it.

She had been alone so long.

But she was comfortable in her solitude.

Change involved a terrible risk.

She studied her sister's smiling face in the almost-real colors of
Kodachrome, separated from her by the thin glossy veneer of the
photographic finish-and by five long years of death.

For of all sad word of tongue or pen, the sadest are these: "It might
have been!"

She could never know her sister.  However, she could still know her
niece.  All she needed was the courage.

She got another beer from the refrigerator, returned to the table, sat
down to study Colleen's face for a while longer-and found a newspaper
obscuring the photographs.  The Register A headline caught her eye:
SHOOTOUT AT LAGUNA BEACH RESTAURANT...

TWO DEAD, TEN WOUNDED.

For a long uneasy moment she stared at the headline.  The paper hadn't
been there a minute ago, hadn't been anywhere in the house, in fact,
because she had never bought it.

When she'd gone to get a fresh beer from the refrigerator, her back had
never been turned to the table.  She knew beyond doubt that no one else
was in the apartment.  But even if an intruder had gotten in, she could
not.  possibly have missed seeing him enter the kitchen.

Connie touched the paper.  It was real, but the contact chilled her as
deeply as if she had touched ice.

She picked it up.

It stank of smoke.  Its pages were brown along the cut edges,
feathering to yellow and then to white toward the center, as if it had
been salvaged from a fire just before it burned.

The crowns of the tallest palm trees disappeared into roiling clouds of
smoke.

Stunned and weeping residents moved back as firemen in yellowand-black
slickers and high rubber boots unrolled hoses from the trucks and
pulled them across walkways, flowerbeds.  Other firemen appeared at a
trot, carrying axes.  Some were wearing breathing apparatus so they
could enter the smoke-filled condominiums.

Their swift arrival virtually insured that most of the apartments would
be saved.

Harry Lyon glanced toward his own unit, at the south end of the
building, and a sharp pang of loss stabbed through him.  Gone.  His
alphabetically shelved collection of books, his CDs neatly arranged in
drawers according to type of music and then by the artist's name, his
clean white kitchen, carefully nurtured house plants, the twentynine
volumes of his daily diary which he had been keeping since he was nine
(a separate journal for each year)all gone.  When he 'Ithought of the
ravenous fire eating its way through his rooms, soot sifting over what
little the fire didn't consume, everything glossy turning mottled and
dull, he felt nauseous.

He remembered his Honda in the attached garage behind the building,
started in that direction, then halted because it seemed foolish to
jeopardize his own life to save a car.  Besides, he was the president
of the homeowners' association.  At a time like this he ought to stay
with his neighbors, offer them reassurance, comfort, advice about
insurance and other issues.

As he øholstered his revolver to avoid alarming the firemen, he
remembered something the vagrant had said- to him when he was pinned
against the wall, the breath knocked out of him: Iitrt everything and
everyone you love... then you!

When he thought about those words, considered the ramifications of
them, profound fear crept spider-quick through him, worse than any
fright he'd known so far, as dark as the fire was bright.

He headed for the garages, after all.  Suddenly he desperately needed
the car.

As Harry dodged firemen and rounded the side of the building, the air
was filled with thousands of glowing embers like luminescent moths,
swooping and fluttering, a dance upon the spiraling thermal currents.

High on the roof a cataclysmic crack was followed by a crash that
jarred the night.  A hail of burning shingles clattered down on the
sidewalk and flanking shrubs.

Harry crossed his arms over his head, afraid the flaming cedar shakes
would set his hair on fire, hoping that his clothes were still too damp
to ignite.  Slipping out of the fire fall unharmed, he pushed through a
wet iron gate still cold from the rain.

Behind the building, the wet blacktop was sequined with glass from
exploded rear windows, spangled with puddles.  Every mirrored surface
swarmed with copper and claret images of the bright tempest raging on
the roof of the main building.  Glowing serpents slithered around
Harry's feet as he ran.

The back driveway was still deserted when he reached his garage door
and yanked it up.  But even as it was swinging out of the way, a
fireman appeared and shouted at him to get out of there.

"Police!"  Harry replied.  He hoped that would buy him the few seconds
he needed, though he didn't pause to flash his badge.

Falling embers had seeded a few flames on the long garage roof.

Thin smoke filled his double-wide stall, trickling down from the
smouldering tarpaper between the rafters and the shingles.

Keys.  Harry was suddenly afraid he had left them on the foyer table or
in the kitchen.  Approaching the car, coughing because of the wispy but
bitter smoke, he frantically patted his pockets and was relieved to
hear the keys jingle in his sportcoat.

He reversed out of the garage, shifted gears, drove past the fireman
who had shouted, and escaped the far end of the driveway two seconds
before an approaching fire truck would have turned in and blocked it.

They nearly kissed bumpers as Harry swung the Honda into the street.

When he had driven three or four blocks with uncharacteristic
recklessness, weaving through traffic and running red lights, the radio
snapped on of its own accord.  The vagrant's deep, raspy voice echoed
from the stereo speakers, startling him.

"Gotta rest not, heeo.  Gotta rest."

"What the hell?"

Only a static hiss answered him.  Harry eased up on the accelerator.

He reached toward the radio to switch it off, but hesitated.

"Very tired... a little nap..

Hissing static.

so you have an hour..."

Hissing.

hut I'll be back..."

Hissing.

Harry kept glancing away from the busy street ahead, at the lighted
dial of the radio.  It glowed a soft green but recalled to him the
radiant red eyes-first blood, then firef the vagrant.

big hero..  . just walking meat..

Hissing.

shoot anyone you like.  . .big man... butshootingme... never the end of
it .  . . not me.  . . not me.  .

Hissing.  Hissing.  Hissing.

The car passed through a flooded depression in the pavement.

Phosphorescent white water plumed like angels' wings on both sides.

Harry touched the radio controls, half expecting an electric shock or
worse, but nothing happened.  He punched the OFF button, and the
hissing stopped.

He didn't try to run the next red traffic light.  He eased to a stop
behind a line of cars, struggling to sort through the events of the
past several hours and make sense of them.

Who you gonna call?

He didn't believe in ghosts or ghost busters.

Nevertheless he was shivering, and not merely because his clothes were
still damp.  He switched on the heater.

Who you gonna call?

Ghost or not, at least the vagrant had not been hallucinated.  He
wasn't a sign of mental breakdown.  He was real.  Not human, perhaps,
but real.

That understanding was strangely calming.  The thing Harry feared the
most was not the supernatural or the unknown-but the internal disorder
of madness, a threat that now seemed to have been replaced by an
external adversary, bizarre beyond reckoning and terrifyingly powerful
but, at least, external.

As the light changed to green and the traffic started moving again, he
looked around at the streets of Newport Beach.  He saw that he had
headed west toward the coast and north from Irvine, and for the first
time became consciously aware of where he was going.

Costa Mesa.  Connie Gulliver's apartment.

He was surprised.  The burning apparition had promised to destroy
everyone and everything he loved before destroying him, and all by the
break of dawn.  Yet Harry had chosen to go to Connie before checking in
with his own parents in Carmel Valley.  Earlier he had admitted to a
keener interest in her than he had previously been willing to
acknowledge, but perhaps that admission had not exposed the true
complexity of his feelings even to himself.  He knew that he cared for
her, though the why of his caring was still in part a mystery to him,
considering how utterly different from one another they were and how
tightly closed upon herself she was.  Neither was he sure of the depth
of his caring, except that it was deep, more than deep enough to be the
biggest revelation in a day filled with revelations.

As he passed Newport Harbor, through the gaps between the commercial
buildings on his left, he saw the tall masts of yachts thrusting into
the night, sails furled.  Like a forest of church steeples.  They were
reminders that, like many of his generationhe had been raised without
any specific faith and, as an adult, had never managed to discover a
faith of his own.  It wasn't that he denied the existence of God, only
that he could not find a way to believe.

When you encounter the supernatural, who you gonna call?  If not ghost
busters, then God.  If not God... who you gonna call?

For most of his life Harry had placed his faith in order, but order was
merely a condition, not a force he could call upon for help.  In spite
of the brutalities with which his job brought him into contact, he
continued to believe, as well, in the decency and courage of human
beings.  That was what sustained him now.  He was going to Connie
Gulliver not merely to warn her but to seek her counsel, to ask her to
help him find his way out of the darkness that had descended upon
him.

Who you gonna call?  Your partner.

When he stopped at the next red traffic light, he was surprised again,
but this time not by what he found within himself.  The heater had
warmed the car and chased away the worst of his shivers.

But he still felt a hard coldness over his heart.  This newest surprise
was in his shirt pocket, against his breast, not emotions but something
tangible that he could fish out and hold and see.  Four shapeless dark
lumps.  Metal.  Lead.  Though he could not begin to grasp how they had
wound up in his pocket, he knew what the objects were: the shots that
he had pumped into the vagrant, four lead slugs misshapen by
high-velocity impacts with flesh, bone, and cartilage.

Harry took off his jacket, tie, and shirt to clean up as best he could
in Connie's bathroom.  His hands were so grimy they reminded him of the
vagrant's hands, and required vigorous lathering to come clean.

He washed his hair, face, chest, and arms in the sink' sluicing away
some of his weariness with the soot and ashes, then slicked his hair
back with her comb.

He could not do much with his clothes.  He wiped them with a dry
washcloth to remove the surface grit, but they remained somewhat
spotted and heavily wrinkled.  His white shirt was gray now, fouled by
a vague perspiration odor and the heavier stench of smoke, but he had
to put it on again because he had no other clothes into which he could
change.  In memory, he had never allowed himself to be seen in such a
disheveled state.

He attempted to rescue his dignity by securing the top button on his
shirt and knotting his tie.

More than the dismaying condition of his clothes, the condition of his
body worried him.  His abdomen was sore where the hand of the mannequin
had rammed into him.  A dull ache throbbed in the small of his back and
did not fade altogether until it reached halfway up his spine, a
reminder of the force with which the hobo had slammed him into the
wall.  The back of his left arm, all along the triceps, was tender, as
well, because he had landed on it when the hobo had thrown him out of
the hallway into the bedroom.

While he had been on the move, running for his life, pumped up with
adrenaline, he hadn't been aware of his various pains, but inactivity
revealed them.  He was concerned that his muscles and joints might
begin to stiffen.  He was pretty sure, before the night was out, he
would need to be quick and agile more than once if he hoped to save his
butt.

In the medicine cabinet he found a bottle of Anacin.  He shook four
into the palm of his right hand, then capped the bottle and put it in a
jacket pocket.

When he returned to the kitchen and asked for a glass of water with
which to take the pills, Connie handed him a can of Coors.

He declined.  "I've got to keep a clear head."

"One beer won't hurt.  Might even help."

"I don't drink much."

"I'm not asking you to mainline vodka with a needle."

"I'd prefer water."

"Don't be a prig, for Christ's sake."

He nodded, accepted the beer, popped the tab, and chased the four
aspirin with a long cold swallow.  It tasted wonderful.  Maybe it was
just what he needed.

Starved, he took a slice of cold pizza from the open box on the
counter.  He tore off a mouthful and chewed enthusiastically, with none
of his usual concern for manners.

He had never been to her place before, and he had noticed how Spartan
it was.  "What do they call this style of decor-Early Monk?"

"Who cares about decor?  I'm just showing my landlord a little
courtesy.  If I croak in the line of duty, he can hose the place out in
an hour and have it rented tomorrow."

She returned to the card table and stared at the six objects she had
lined up on it.  A ten-dollar bill worn soft with age.  One heat
discolored newspaper with pages slightly burnt along one edge.

Four misshapen lead slugs.

Joining her, Harry said, "Well?"

"I don't believe in ghosts, spirits, demons, that crap."

"Me neither."

"I saw this guy.  He was just a bum."

"I still can't believe you gave him ten bucks," Harry said.

She actually blushed.  He had never seen her blush before.  The first
thing ever to embarrass her in his company was this indication that she
possessed some compassion.

She said, "He was... compelling somehow."

"So he wasn't 'just a bum."" "Maybe not, if he could get ten bucks out
of me."

"I'll tell you one thing."  He stuffed the last bite of pizza in his
mouth.

"So tell me."

Around the pizza, Harry said, "I saw him burn up alive in my living
room, but I don't think they'll find any charred bones in the ashes.

And even if he hadn't spoken out of the car radio, I'd expect to see
him again, as big and dirty and weird and unburnt as ever.

As Harry got a second piece of pizza, Connie said, "Thought you just
told me you don't believe in ghosts either."

"Don't."

"Then what?"

Chewing, he regarded her thoughtfully.  "You believe me, then?"

"Part of it happened to me, too, didn't it?"

"Yeah.  I guess enough to make you believe me."

"Then what?"  she repeated.

He wanted to sit down at the table, take a load off his feet, but he
figured he was more likely to stiffen up if he settled in a chair.  He
leaned against the counter by the sin "I've been thinking.  ... Every
day, working an investigation, out on the street, we meet people who
aren't like us, who think the law is just a sham to gull the ignorant
masses into obedience.  These people care about nothing but themselves,
satisfying their own desires regardless of the cost to others."

"Hairballs, scumbathey're our business," she said.

"Criminal types, sociopaths.  They have lots of names.  Like the pod
people from Invasion of the Body Snatcher!, they walk among us and pass
for civilized, ordinary human beings.  But even though there's a lot of
them, they're still a small minority and anything but ordinary.  Their
civilization is a veneer, stage makeup concealing the scaly, crawling
savage thing we evolved from, the ancient reptile consciousness."

"So?  This isn't news,', she said impatiently.  "We're the thin line
between order and chaos.  We look into that abyss every day.  Teetering
on that edge, testing myself, proving I'm not one of them, won't l fall
into that chaos, won't become, can't become, like them-that's what
makes this work so exciting.  It's why I'm a cop."

"Really?"  he said, surprised.

That was not at all why he was a cop.  Protecting the genuinely
civilized, guarding them from the pod people among them, preserving
peace and the beauty of order, providing for continuity and
progress-that was why he had become a police officer, at least part of
the reason, and certainly not to prove to himself that he was not one
of the reptilian throwbacks.

While Connie spoke, she turned her eyes from Harry and stared at a
nine-by-twelve manila envelope lying on one of the chairs at the
table.

He wondered what it contained.

"When you don't know where you come from, when you don't know if you
can love," she said quietly, almost as if talking to herself, "when all
you want is freedom, you have to force yourself to take on
responsibility, a lot of it.  Freedom without responsibility is pure
savagery."  Her voice was not merely quiet.  It was haunted.  "Maybe
you come from savagery, you can't be sure, but what you do know about
yourself is you can hate real well even if you can't love, and that
scares you, means maybe you could slide into that abyss yourself...."

Harry stopped chewing halfway through a mouthful of pizza, riveted by
her.

He knew she was revealing herself as she had never done before.

He just didn't fully understand what she was revealing.

As if she had broken out of a trance, her gaze clicked up from the
envelope to Harry, and her soft voice hardened.  "So, all right, the
world is full of these shitheads, scumbags, sociopaths, whatever you
want to call them.  What's your point?"

He swallowed the pizza.  "So suppose an ordinary cop, going about his
business, runs into a sociopath who's worse than the usual scumbags,
infinitely worse."

She had gone to the refrigerator while he was talking.  She took
another beer from it.  "Worse?  In what way?"

"This guy has..."

"What?"

"He has a .  . . gift."

"What gift?  Is this riddle hour?  Spit it out, Harry."

He stepped to the table, stirred one finger through the four lead slugs
lying there.  They rattled against the Formica surface with a sound
that seemed to echo down eternity.

"Harry?"

Though he needed to tell her his theory, he was reluctant to begin.

What he had to say would no doubt forever blow his image as Mr.
Equanimity.

He took a pull on his beer, followed it with a deep breath, and
plunged: "Suppose you had to deal with a sociopath... a psychotic with
paranormal powers that made going up against him like duking it out
with an apprentice God.  Psychic powers."

She was gaping at him.  The ring-pull on the beer can encircled her
index finger, but she wasn't popping it open.  She appeared to be
holding a pose for a painter.

Before she could interrupt, he said, "I don't mean he can just predict
the suit of a playing card chosen randomly from a deck, tell you who's
going to win the next World Series, or levitate a pencil.

Nothing as small-time as that.  Maybe this guy has the power to
manifest himself out of thin air-and vanish into it.  The power to
start fires, to burn without being consumed, to take bulletsøwithout
really being killed.  Maybe he can pin a psychic tag on you the way a
game warden might tag a deer with an electronic transmitter, then keep
track of you when you're out of his sight, no matter where you go or
how far you run.  I know, I know, it's absurd, it's crazy, 'it's like
stumbling into a Spielberg movie, only darker, something by James
Cameron out of David Lynch, but maybe it's true."

Connie shook her head, incredulous.  Opening the refrigerator door and
putting the unpopped beer can back on the shelf, she said, "Maybe two
should be my limit tonight."

He urgently needed to convince her.  He was aware of how quickly the
night was slipping away, how fast dawn was coming.

Turning from the refrigerator, she said, "Where'd he get these amazing
powers?"

"Who knows?  Maybe he lived too long under high-power electric lines,
the magnetic fields caused changes in his brain.  Maybe there was too
much dioxin in his milk when he was a baby, or he ate too many apples
contaminated with some bizarre toxic chemical, his house is right under
a hole in the ozone layer, aliens are experimenting on him to give the
National Enquieer a good story, he ate too damn many Twinkies, he
listened to way too much rap music!  How the fuck do I know?"

She stared at him.  At least she was no longer gaping.  "You're serious
about" "Yeah."

"I know, because in the six months we've worked together, that's the
first time you've ever used the F word."

"Oh.  I'm sorry."

"Of course you are," she said, managing a trace of sarcasm even under
these circumstances.  "But this guy ... he's just a bum."

"I don't think that's his real appearance.  I think he can be anything
he wants to be, manifest himself in any form he chooses, because the
manifestation isn't really him .  . . it's a projection, a thing he
wants us to see."

"Isn't this the next thing to a ghost?"  she asked.  "And didn't we
agree that neither of us believes in ghosts?"

He snatched the ten-dollar bill off the table.  "If I'm so completely
wrong, then how do you explain this?"

"Even if you're right... how do you explain it?"

"Telekinesis."

"What's that?"

"The power to move an object through time and space with only the power
of the mind."

"Then why didn't I see the bill floating through the air into my
hand?"

she asked.

"That's not how it works.  More like teleportation.  It goes from one
place to another, poof, without physically traveling the distance in
between."

She threw her hands up in exasperation.  "Beam me up, Scotty!"

He glanced at his wristwatch.  8:38.  Ticktock... ticktock...

He knew he sounded like a lunatic, better suited to the afternoon
television talk show circuit or late-night radio call-in programs than
to police work.  But he also knew he was right, or at least that he was
circling the periphery of the truth if not yet at the heart of it.

"Look," he said, picking up the fire-browned newspaper and shaking it
at her, "I haven't read it yet, but if you comb through this paper, I
know you'll find a few stories to add to that damn collection of yours,
evidence of the new Dark Ages."  He dropped the paper, and the odor of
smoke puffed from it.  "Let me see, what are some of the stories you've
told me lately, things you picked up from other papers, television?

I'm sure I can remember some of them."

"Harry-" "Not that I want to remember.  I'd rather forget, God
knows."

He started to pace more or less in a circle.  "Wasn't there one about a
judge in Texas sentencing a guy to thirty-five years in jail for
stealing a twelve-ounce can of Spam?  And at the same time, up in Los
Angeles, some rioters beat a guy to death in the street, all of it
recorded by newsmen on videotape, but no one really wants to further
disturb the community by tracking down the killers, not when the
beating was a protest against injustice?"

She went to the table, pulled out a chair, turned it backward, and sat
down.  She stared at the burnt newspaper and other objects.

He kept pacing, speaking with increasing urgency: "And wasn't there one
about a woman who got her boyfriend to rape her eleven year-old
daughter, because she wanted a fourth child but wasn't able to have any
more, so she figured she could be a mother to her little girl's
bastard?  Where was that?  Wisconsin, was it?  Ohio?"

"Michigan," Connie said somberly.

"And wasn't there one about a guy beheading his six-year-old stepson
with a machete-" "Five.  He was five."

"-and a bunch of teenage boys somewhere stabbed a woman a hundred and
thirty times to steal a lousy dollar-" "Boston," she whispered.

"h, yes, and there was that little jewel about the father who beat his
preschooler to death because the boy couldn't remember the alphabet
past G. And some woman in Arkansas or Louisiana or Oklahoma laced her
baby's cereal with crushed glass, hoping to make her sick enough so the
father would get a leave from the Navy and be able to spend some time
at home."

"Not Arkansas," Connie said.  "Mississippi."

Harry stopped pacing, crouched beside her chair, face to face with
her.

"See, you accept all these incredible things, incredible as they are.

You know they happened.  These are the nineties, Connie.  The
premillennium cotillion, the new Dark Ages, when anything can happen
and usually does, when the unthinkable isn't only thinkable but
accepted, when every miracle of science is matched by an act of human
barbarity that hardly raises anyone's eyebrow.  Every brilliant
technological achievement is countered by a thousand atrocities of
human hatred and stupidity.  For every scientist seeking a cure for
cancer there are five thousand thugs willing to hammer an old lady's
skull to applesauce just for the change in her purse."

Troubled, Connie looked away from him.  She picked up one of the
misshapen slugs.  Frowning, she turned it over and over between her
thumb and forefinger.

Spooked by the uncanny speed with which the minutes changed on the
liquid-crystal display of his wristwatch, Harry would not relent.

"So who's to say there couldn't be some guy in a lab somewhere who
discovered something to enhance the power of the human brain, to
magnify and tap the powers we've always suspected are within us but
could never use?  Maybe this guy injected himself with this stuff.  Or
maybe the guy we're after, he's the subject of the experiment, and when
he realized what he'd become, he killed everyone at the lab, everyone
who knew.  Maybe he walks the world among us now, the scariest damn pod
person of them all."

She put down the deformed slug.  She turned to him again.  She had
beautiful eyes.  "The experiment thing makes sense to me."

"But it's probably not anything like that, not anything we could
figure, something different."

"If such a man exists, can he be stopped?"

"He's not God.  No matter what powers he has, he's still a man and a
deeply disturbed one at that.  He'll have weaknesses, points of
vulnerability."

He still crouched beside her chair, and she put one hand against the
side of his face.  The tender gesture surprised him.  She smiled.

"You've got one hell of a wild imagination, Harry Lyon."

"Yeah, well, I've always liked fairy tales."

Frowning again, she took her hand away as if chagrined to have been
caught in a moment of tenderness.  "Even if he's vulnerable, he can't
be dealt with if he can't be found.  How will we track down this
Ticktock?"

"Ticktock?"

"We don't know his real name," she said, "so Ticktock seems as good as
any for the time being."

Ticktock.  It was a fairy-tale villain's name if he had ever heard
one.

Rumpelstiltskin, Mother Gothel, Knucklebone-and Ticktock.

"All right."' Harry stood.  He paced again.  kt "How do we find him?"

"I don't know for sure.  But I know where I want to start.  The Laguna
Beach city morgue."

She twitched at that.  "Ordegard?"

"Yeah.  I want to see the autopsy report if they've done one yet, talk
to the coroner if possible.  I want to know if they found anything
strange."

"Strange?  Like what?"

"Damned if I know.  Anything out of the ordinary."

"But Ordegard's dead.  He wasn't just a... a projection.  He was real,
and now he's dead.  He can't be Ticktock."

Countless fairy tales, legends, myths, and fantasy novels gave Harry a
vast store of incredible concepts from which to draw.  "So maybe
Ticktock has the power to take over other people, slip into their
minds, control their bodies, use them as if they were puppets, then
dispose of them when he wants, or slip out again when they die.

Maybe he was controlling Ordegard, then he moved on to the hobo, and
now maybe the hobo is dead, really dead, his bones in my burned-out
living room, and Ticktock will turn up in some other body next time."

"Possession?"

"Something like it."

"You're beginning to scare me," she said.

"Beginning?  You are a tough broad.  Listen, Connie, just before he
trashed my condo, Ticktock said something like... 'You think you can
shoot anyone you like, and that's the end of it, but not with me,
shooting me isn't the end of it."'Harry tapped the butt of the gun in
his shoulder holster.  "So who'd I shoot today?  Ordegard.  And this
Ticktock is telling me that's not the end of it.  So I want to find out
if there's anything odd about Ordegard's corpse."

She was amazed but not disbelieving.  She was getting in the swing of
it.  "You want to know if there were signs of possession."

"Yeah."

"Exactly what are the signs of possession?"

"Anything odd."

"Like the corpse's skull is empty, no brain, just ashes in there?  Or
maybe the number 666 burnt into the back of his neck?"

"I wish it would be something that obvious, but I doubt it."

Connie laughed.  A nervous laugh.  Shaky.  Brief.

She got up from the chair.  "Okay, let's go to the morgue."

Harry hoped that a talk with the coroner or a quick reading of the
autopsy report would tell him what he needed to know, and that it would
not be necessary to view the corpse.  He didn't want to have to look at
that moon face again.

The large institutional kitchen at Pacific View Care Home in Laguna
Beach was all white tile and stainless steel, as clean as a hospital.

Any rats or roaches creep in here, Janet Marco thought, they better be
able to live on scouring powder, ammonia water, and wax.

Though antiseptic, the kitchen did not smell like a hospital.

Lingering aromas of ham, roast turkey, herb stuffing, and scalloped
potatoes were overlaid by the yeasty, cinnamon fragrance of the sweet
rolls that they were baking for breakfast in the morning.  It was a
warm place, too, and the warmth was welcome after the chill that the
recent storm had brought to the March air.

Janet and Danny were having dinner at one end of a long table in the
southeast corner of the kitchen.  They were in no one's way but enjoyed
a vantage.point from which they could watch the busy staff.

Janet was fascinated by the operation of the big kitchen, which ticked
along like clockwork The workers were industrious and seemed happy in
their busyness.  She envied them.  She wished she could get a job at
Pacific View, in the kitchen or any other department.  But she didn't
know what skills were required.  And she doubted that even the owner,
good man that he was, would hire anyone who lived in a car, washed in
public lavatories, and had no permanent address.

Though she liked watching the kitchen staff, the sight of them
sometimes frustrated the devil out of her.

But she couldn't blame Mr. Ishignra, the owner and operator of Pacific
View, because he was a godsend on nights like this.  Both thrifty and
kind, he was dismayed by waste and by the thought of anyone going
hungry in such a prosperous country.  Invariably, after almost a
hundred patients and the staff had eaten dinner, enough food remained
to provide for ten or twelve people, because recipes could not be
refined to produce precisely the number of portions needed.  Mr.
Ishigura provided these meals free to certain of the homeless.

The food was good, too, really good.  Pacific View was not an ordinary
nursing home.  It was classy.  The patients were rich, or had relatives
who were rich.

Mr. Ishigura did not advertise his generosity, and his door was not
open to everyone.  When he saw street people who seemed, to him, to
have fallen to their fate not entirely by their own doing, he
approached them about the free lunches and dinners at Pacific View
Because he was selective, it was possible to eat there without having
to share the table with some of the moody and dangerous alcoholics and
addicts who made many of the church and mission kitchens so
unappealing.

Janet didn't take advantage of Mr. Ishigura's hospitality nearly as
often as it was available.  Of the seven lunches and seven dinners she
might have eaten at Pacific View each week, she limited herself to no
more than two of each.  Otherwise, she was able to provide for herself
and Danny, and she took pride in every meal that was bought with her
own earnings.

That Tuesday night, she and Danny shared the facilities with three
elderly men, one aged woman whose face was as wrinkled as a crumpled
paper bag but who wore a gaily colored scarf and bright red beret, and
an unfortunately ugly young man with a deformed face.  They were all
ragged but not filthy, unbarbered but clean smelling enough.

She didn't speak to any of them, although she would have enjoyed
conversation.  It had been so long since she had spoken at any length
to anyone but Danny that she was not confident of making chit-chat with
another adult.

Besides, she was leery of encountering someone with a keen curiosity.

She did not want to have to answer questions about herself, her past.

She was, after all, a murderer.  And if Vince's body had been found in
the Arizona desert, she might also be wanted by the police.

She didn't even speak to Danny, who needed no encouragement .1 either
to eat or to mind his manners.  Though he was only five, the boy was
well-behaved and knew how to conduct himself at the table.

Janet was fiercely proud of him.  From time to time, as they ate, she
smoothed his hair or touched the back of his neck or patted his
shoulder, so he would know that she was proud.

God, she loved him.  So little, so innocent, so patiently enduring of
one hardship after another.  Nothing must happen to him.  He must have
his chance to grow up, become something in this world.

She could enjoy dinner only as long as she kept thoughts of the
policeman to a minimum.  The policeman who could change shape.

Who had almost become a werewolf like out of a movie.  Who had become
Vince, while thunder rolled and lightning flashed, and who had halted
Woofer in midair.

After the encounter in that alleyway earlier in the day, Janet had
driven north in the pouring rain, out of Laguna Beach, heading for Los
Angeles, desperate to put a lot of miles between them and the
mysterious creature who wanted to kill them.  It had said that it could
find them no matter where they ran, and she had believed it.  But just
waiting to be killed was intolerable.

She got only as far as Corona Del Mar, the next town up the coast,
before realizing that she must go back.  In Los Angeles, she would have
to learn what neighborhoods were best for scavenging, when the garbage
pickups were scheduled so she could search the cans just ahead of the
sanitation trucks, which communities had the most tolerant police,
where can sand bottles could be redeemed, where to find another
humanitarian like Mr.  Ishigura, and so much more.

Her cash on hand was low at the moment, and she could not afford to
live on their meager savings long enough to learn the ropes in a new
place.  It was Laguna Beach or nowhere.

Maybe the worst thing about being dirt poor was not having any
choices.

She'd driven back to Laguna Beach, mentally chastising herself for the
gasoline she'd wasted.

They parked on a side street and stayed in the car all during the rainy
afternoon.  By the gray storm light, with Woofer dozing in the back
seat, she read to Danny from a thick storybook rescued from a trash
bin.  He loved being read to.  He sat enthralled, while pearl and
silver water shadows played across his face in patterns that matched
the streams of rain shimmering down the windshield.

Now the rain was gone, the day was ended, dinner was finished, and it
was time to return to the old Dodge for the night.  Janet was
exhausted, and she knew Danny would drop quickly into sleep like a
stone sinking in a pond.  But she dreaded closing her eyes, for she was
afraid that the policeman thing would find them while they slept.

When they gathered up their dirty dishes and carried them to the sink
where they always left them, Janet and Danny were approached by a cook
whose first name was Loretta and whose last name was unknown to
Janet.

Loretta was a heavy-set woman of about fifty, with skin as smooth as
porcelain and a brow so free of lines that she must never have had a
worry in her entire life.  Her hands were strong, and red from kitchen
work.  She was carrying a disposable pie tin full of meat scraps.

"That dog still hanging around?"  Loretta asked.  "The cute fella who's
been trailing after you the last few times?"

"Woofer," Danny said.

"He's taken a shine to my boy," Janet said.  "He's out in the alley
now, waiting for us."

"Well, I've got a treat for the cutie," Loretta said, indicating the
meat scraps.

A pretty blond nurse, standing at a nearby butcher's block and drinking
a glass of milk' overheard their conversation.  "Is he really cute?"

"Just a mutt," Loretta said, "no fancy breed, but he oughta be in
pictures, this one."

"I'm a dog nut," the nurse said.  "I have three.  I love dogs.  Can I
see him?"

"Sure, sure, come on," Loretta said.  Then she checked herself and
smiled at Janet.  "You mind if Angelina sees him?"

Angelina was evidently the nurse.

"Heavens no, why would I mind?"  Janet said.

Loretta led the way to the alley door.  The scraps in the pie tin were
not fat and gristle, but choice bits of ham and turkey.

Outside the door in a cone of yellow light from a security lamp, Woofer
sat in patient anticipation, his head cocked to the right, one ear
pricked up and one ear floppy as usual, a quizzical look on his face.

A cool breeze, the first stirring of the air since the storm had
passed, ruffled his fur.

Angelina was instantly captivated.  "He's wonderful:" "He's mine,"
Danny said so softly that it was doubtful anyone but Janet had heard
him.

As if he understood the nurse's praise, Woofer grinned, and his bushy
tail vigorously swept the blacktop.

Maybe he did understand.  Within a day of encountering Woofer, Janet
had decided that he was a smart mutt.

Taking the pie tin full of scraps from the cook, Angelina moved in
front of everyone and squatted down before the dog.  "You are a
cutie.

Look at this, fella.  Does this look good?  Bet you'll like this."

Woofer glanced at Janet, as if seeking permission to feast on the
scraps.  He was just a collarless street dog now but evidently he had
been someone's house pet at one time.  He had the restraint that came
from training and the capacity for reciprocal affection that in
animals-perhaps in people as well-grew from being loved.

Janet nodded.

Only then did the pooch take his dinner, snatching hungrily at the
chunks and slivers of meat.

Unexpectedly, Janet Marco perceived a kinship with the dog that
unnerved her.  Her parents had treated her with the cruelty that some
sick people directed against animals; indeed, they would have dealt
with any cat or dog more humanely than they'd dealt with her.

Vince had been no kinder.  And though there were no indications that
the dog had been beaten or starved, he had surely been abandoned.

Though he was without a collar, he clearly had not been raised wild;
for he was too eager to please and too needful of affection.

Abandonment was just another form of abuse, which meant that Janet and
the dog had shared a host of hardships, fears, and experiences.

She decided to keep the dog regardless of the trouble and expense he
might pose.  There was a bond between them, worthy of respect: they
were both living creatures capable of courage and commitment-and both
in need.

While Woofer ate with canine enthusiasm, the young blond nurse petted
him, scratched behind his ears, and cooed to him.

"Told you he was a cutie," said the cook, Loretta, folding her arms
across her immense bosom and beaming at Woofer.  "Oughta be in movies,
he should.  A regular little charmer."

"He's mine," Danny said worriedly, and again in such a low voice that
only Janet could have heard him.  He was standing at her side, holding
fast to her, and she put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

Halfway through his meal, Woofer suddenly looked up from the pie tin
and regarded Angelina curiously.  His good ear pricked again.

He sniffed at her starched white uniform, her slender hands, then
pushed his head under her knees to get a good whiff of her white
shoes.

He sniffed her hands again, licked her fingers, chuffing and whining,
prancing in place, increasingly excited.

The nurse and cook laughed, thinking that Woofer was reacting only to
the good food and all of the attention, but Janet knew he was
responding to something else.  Mixed up with all the chuffing and
whining were brief low growls as he caught some scent that he didn't
like.  And his tail had stopped wagging.

Without warning and to Janet's great mortification, the dog slipped out
of Angelinas cuddling hands, shot around her, streaked past Danny,
between the cook's legs, and straight through the open door into the
kitchen.

"Woofer, no!"  Janet cried.

The dog didn't heed her, kept going, and everyone in the alleyway went
after him.

The kitchen staff tried to capture Woofer, but he was too quick for
them.  He dodged and feinted, claws clicking on the tile floor.  He
scrambled under food preparation tables, rolled and leaped and abruptly
changed directions again and again to elude grasping hands, exhibiting
all the agility of an eel, panting and grinning and apparently having a
good time.

However, it wasn't entirely fun and doggy games.  At the same time, he
was urgently searching for something, following an elusive scent,
sniffing at the Boor and at the air.  He appeared to be disinterested
in the ovens filled with baking sweet rolls from which flowed a virtual
flood of mouth-watering aromas, and he didn't leap up toward any of the
counters on which food was exposed.  Something else interested him,
whatever he had first detected on the young blond nurse named
Angelina.

"Bad dog," Janet kept repeating as she joined the chase, "bad dog, bad
dog!  " Woofer cast a couple of hurt looks her way but didn't settle
down.

A nurse's aide, unaware of what was happening in the kitchen, pushed
through a pair of swinging doors with a cart of supplies, and the dog
instantly took advantage of the opening.  He shot past the aide,
through the doors, into another part of the care home.

Bad dog.  Not true.  Good dog.  Good.

The food place is full of so many tasty odors, he can't track the other
scent, the strange scent, quick as he wants to.  But on the other side
of the swinging doors is a long, long narrow place with other places
opening off both sides.  Here the hungry-making smells aren't as heavy
Lots of other smells, though, mostly people smells, mostly not
wonderful.  Sharp odors, salty odors, sick-making sweet odors, sour.

Pine.  A bucket of pine in the long, long narrow place.  He real quick
sticks his nose in the bucket of pine, wondering how the whole tree got
in there, but it isn't a tree, only water, dirty-looking water that
smells like a whole pine tree, a bunch of them, all in a bucket.

Interesting.

Hurry on.

Pee.  He can smell pee.  People pee.  Different kinds of people pee.

Interesting.  Ten, twenty, thirty different pee smells, none of them
real strong but there, lots more people pee than he had ever smelled
inside anyplace anytime.  He can tell a lot from the smell of people's
pee, what they ate, what they drank, where they've been today, whether
they've rutted lately, whether they're healthy or sick, angry or happy,
good or bad.  Most of these people haven't rutted in a long time, and
are sick one way or another, some of them bad sick.  None of the pee is
the kind of pee that's fun to smell.

He smells shoe leather, floor wax, wood polish, starch, roses, daisies,
tulips, carnations, lemons, ten-twenty-lots of kinds of sweat,
chocolate good, poop bad, dust, damp earth from a plant pot, soap, hair
spray, peppermint, pepper, salt, onions, the sneeze-making bitterness
of termites in one wall, coffee, hot brass, rubber, paper, pencil
shavings, butterscotch, more pine trees in a bucket, another dog.

Interesting.  Another dog.  Somebody has a dog and brings its scent in
on their shoes, interesting dog, female, and they track the scent
around the long narrow place.  Interesting.  There are countless other
odors-his world is odors more than anything-including that strange
scent, strange and bad, bare-your-teeth bad, enemy, hateful thing,
smelled before, policeman smell, wolf smell, policeman-wolf-thing
smell, there, got it again, this way, this way, follow.

People are chasing him because he doesn't belong here.  All sorts of
places people think you don't belong, though you never smell as bad as
most people, even the clean ones, and though you aren't as big or
crashing around with so much noise and taking up so much space as
people do.

Bad dog, the woman says, and that hurts him because he likes the woman,
the boy, is doing this for them, finding out about the bad
policeman-wolf-thing with the strange smell.

Bad dog.  Not true.  Good dog.  Good.

Woman in white, coming through a door, looking surprised, smelling
surprised, trying to stop him.  Quick snarl.  She jumps back.  So easy
to scare, people.  So easy to fool.

The long narrow place meets another long narrow place.  More doors,
more odors, ammonia and sulphur and more kinds of sick smells, more
kinds of pee.  People live here but also pee here.  So strange.

Interesting.  Dogs don't pee where they live.

Woman in the narrow place, carrying something, looks surprised, smells
surprised, says, Oh, , how cute.

Give her a wag of the tail.  Why not?  But keep going.

That scent.  Strange.  Hateful.  Strong, getting stronger.

An open door, soft light, a space with a sick woman lying on a bed.

He goes in, suddenly wary, looking left and right, because this place
reeks of the strange odor, the bad thing, the floor, the walls, and
especially a chair, where the bad thing sat.  It was here for a long
time, more than once, lots of times.

The woman says, lbho's there?

She stinks.  Faint sour sweat.  Sickness but more than that.

Sadness.

Deep, low, terrible unhappiness.  And fear.  More than anything else,
the sharp, lightning-storm, iron smell of fear.

Who's there?  Who is it?

Running feet in the long narrow space outside, people coming.

Fear so heavy that the strange-bad odor is almost blotted out by the
fear, fear, fear, fear.

Angelina?  Is that you?  Angelina?

The bad scent, thing scent, is all around the bed, up on the bed.

The thing stood here and talked to the woman, not long ago, today,
touching her, touching the white cloth draped over her, its vile
residue there, up there in the bed, rich and ripe up there in the bed
with the woman, and interesting, oh-so-very interesting.

He races back to the door, turns, runs at the bed, leaps, sails, one
paw catching the railing but otherwise clearing all obstacles, up with
the sick and fear-soaked woman", plop.

A woman screamed.

Janet had never been afraid that Woofer would bite anyone.  He was a
gentle and friendly dog, and seemed incapable of harming a soul except,
perhaps, the thing that had confronted them in the alleyway earlier in
the day.

But when she burst into the softly lighted hospital room behind
Angelina, and saw the dog on the patient's bed, for an instant Janet
thought it was attacking the woman.  She pulled Danny against her to
shield him from the savage sight, before she realized Woofer was only
straddling the patient and sniffing her, vigorously sniffing but
nothing worse.

"No," the invalid died, "no, no," as if not merely a dog but something
out of the deeper pits of Hell had leapt upon her.

Janet was ashamed of the commotion, felt responsible, and was afraid of
the consequence.  She doubted that she and Danny would be welcome to
take meals in the Pacific View kitchen any longer.

The woman in the bed was thin-beyond thin, wasted-and so pale, as
softly radiant as a ghost in the lamplight.  Her hair was white and
lusterless.  She seemed ancient, a shriveled crone, but some
indefinable aspect of her made Janet think the poor soul might be much
younger than she appeared.

Obviously weak, she was struggling to rise slightly from her pillows
and ward off the dog with her right arm.  When she became aware of the
arrival of those pursuing Woofer, she turned her head toward the
door.

Her gaunt face might once have been beautiful but was now cadaverous
and, in one respect at least, nightmarish.

Her eyes.

She had none.

Janet shuddered involuntarily-and was glad she had shielded Danny,
after all.

"Get it off me!"  the woman shrieked in terror out of proportion to any
threat that Woofer posed.  "Get it off me!"

At first, glimpsed in the gray and purple shadows, the invalid's
eyelids merely appeared to be closed.  But as the lamplight fell more
directly across her drawn face, the true horror of her condition became
apparent.  Her lids were sewn shut like those of a corpse.

The surgical thread had no doubt long ago dissolved, but upper and
lower lids had grown together.  Nothing existed immediately beneath the
flaps of skin to support them, so they sagged inward, leaving shallow
concavities.

Janet felt sure the woman had not been born without eyes.  Some
terrible experience, not nature, had stolen her vision.  How severe
must the injuries have been, if physicians had concluded it wasn't
possible to install glass eyes even for cosmetic reasons?  Dire
intuition told Janet that this blind and shriveled patient had
encountered someone worse than Vince, and more cold-blooded thanJanet's
own reptilian parents.

As Angelina and a male orderly closed in on' the bed, calling the blind
woman "Jennifer" and assuring her everything was going to be all right,
Woofer leaped to the floor again and foiled them with another
unanticipated move.  Instead of making directly for the door to the
corridor, he streaked into the adjoining bathroom, which was shared
with the room next door, and from there scrambled into the hall.

Holding Danny's hand in hers, Janet led the chase this time, not solely
because she felt responsible for what had happened and was afraid that
their dining privileges at Pacific View were on the verge of being
canceled forever, but because she was eager to leave the shadowed,
stuffy room and its mealy-skinned, eyeless resident.

This time the chase led into the main hall and from there into the
public lounge.

Janet damned herself for ever letting the mutt into their lives.  The
worst thing wasn't even the humiliation he'd brought them with this
prank, but all of the attention he was drawing.  She feared
attention.

Huddling down, keeping quiet, staying in the corners and shadows of
life was the only way to reduce the amount of abuse you had to take.

Besides, she wanted to remain virtually transparent to others at least
until her dead husband had rested under Arizona sands for another year
or two.

Woofer was too fast for them even though he kept his snout to the
floor, sniffing every step of the way.

The evening receptionist in the lounge was a young Hispanic woman in a
white uniform, hair in a ponytail secured by a red ribbon.  Having
risen from her desk to check out the source of the oncoming tumult, she
assessed the situation and acted quickly.  She stepped to the front
door as Woofer flew into the lounge.  She opened it, and let him shoot
past her into the street.

Outside, breathless, Janet halted at the bottom of the front steps.

The care home was east of the coast highway, on a sloped street lined
with Indian laurels and bottlebrush trees.  The mercury-vapor
streetlamps shed a vaguely blue light.  When a fluctuant breeze
shivered branches, the pavement crawled with jittering leaf shadows.

Woofer was about forty feet away, dappled by the blue light, sniffing
continuously at the sidewalk, shrubs, tree trunks, curb.  He tested the
night air most of all, apparently seeking an elusive scent.

From the bottlebrush trees, the storm had knocked down scores of
bristly red blooms which littered the pavement, like colonies of mutant
sea anemones washed up by an apocalyptic tide.  When the dog sniffed at
these, he sneezed.  His progress was halting and uncertain but steadily
southward.

"Woofer!"  Danny shouted.

The mutt turned and looked at them.

"Come back!"  Danny pleaded.

Woofer hesitated.  Then he twitched his head, snapped at the air, and
continued after whatever phantom he was pursuing.

Fighting back tears, Danny said, "I thought he liked me."

The boy's words made Janet regret the unvoiced curses she had heaped
upon the dog during the chase.  She called after him, as well.

"He'll come back," she assured Danny.

"He's not."

"Maybe not now but later, maybe tomorrow or the day after, he'll come
home."

The boy's voice trembled with loss: "How can he come home when there's
no home to find us at?"

"There's the car," she said lamely.

She was more acutely aware than ever that a rusted old Dodge was a
grievously inadequate home.  Being able to provide no better for her
son suddenly made her heart so heavy that it ached.  She was troubled
by fear, anger, frustration, and a desperation so intense that it made
her nauseous.

"Dogs have sharper senses than we do," she said.  "He'll track us
down.

He'll track us down, all right."

Black tree shadows stirred on the pavement, a vision of the dead leaves
of autumns to come.

The dog reached the end of the block and turned the corner, moving out
of sight.

"He'll track us down," she said, but did not believe.

Stink beetles.  Wet tree bark.  The lime odor of damp concrete.

Roasting chicken in a people place nearby.  Geraniums, jasmine, dead
leaves.  The moldy-sour scent of earthworms rutting in the rain-soaked
dirt of flowerbeds.  Interesting.

Most smells now are after-the-rain smells because rain cleans up the
world and leaves its own tang afterwards.  But even the hardest rain
can't wash away all of the old smells, layers and layers, days and
weeks of odors cast off by birds and bugs, dogs and plants, lizards and
people and worms and cats.  He catches a whiff of cat fur, and
freezes.

He clenches his teeth at the scent, flares his nostrils.  He tenses.

Funny about cats.  He doesn't hate them, really, but they're so
chasable, so hard to resist.  Nothing's more fun than a cat at its
best, unless maybe a boy with a ball to throw and then something good
to eat.

He's almost ready to go after the cat, track it down, but then his
snout burns with an old memory of claw scratches and a sore nose for
days.  He remembers the bad things about cats, how they can move so
fast, slash you, then go straight up a wall or tree where you can't go
after them, and you sit below barking at them, your nose stinging and
bleeding, feeling stupid, and the cat licks its fur and looks at you
and then settles down to sleep, until finally you just have to go
somewhere and bite on an old stick or snap a few lizards in two until
you feel better.

Car fumes.  Wet newspaper.  Old shoe full of people foot smell.

Dead mouse.  Interesting.  Dead mouse rotting in the gutter.  Eyes
open.  Tiny teeth bared.  Interesting.  Funny how dead things don't
move.  Unless they're dead long enough, and then they're full of
movement, but it's still not them moving but things in them.  Dead
mouse, stiff tail sticking straight up in the air.  Interesting.

Policeman-wolf-thing.

He snaps his head up and seeks the faint scent.  Mostly this thing has
a scent unlike any creature he's ever met up with before, which is what
makes it interesting.  Partly it's a human odor but only partly.

It's also a thing-that-will-kill-you odor, which you sometimes smell on
people and on certain crazy-mean dogs bigger than you and on coyotes
and on snakes that rattle.  In fact it has more of a thing-that
will-kill-you stink than anything he's ever run across before, which
means he's got to be careful.  Mostly it has its own scent: like yet
not like the sea on a cold night; like yet not like an iron fence on a
hot day; like yet not like the dead and rotting mouse; like yet not
like lightning, thunder, spiders, blood, and dark holes in the ground
that are interesting but scary.  Its faint scent is one fragile thread
in the rich tapestry of night aromas, but he follows it.

Living in the modern age, death for virtue is the Wage.

So it seems in darker hours.

dness cowers.

Ruled by violence and vice We all stand upon thin ice.

Are we brave or are we mice, here upon such thin, thin ice?

Dare we linger, dare we skate?

Dare we laugh or celebrate, knowing we may strain the ice?

Preserve the ice at any price?

The BOok of Counted Sorrows When tempest-tossed, embrace chaos.

-The Book of Counted Sorrows They took the coast highway because a
tanker truck loaded with liquid nitrogen had overturned at the junction
of the Costa Mesa and San Diego freeways, transforming them into
parking lots.

Harry cranked the Honda, weaving from lane to lane, speeding through
yellow traffic lights, running the reds if no cars were approaching on
the cross streets, driving more like Connie in a mood than like
himself.

As relentless as a circling vulture, doom shadowed his every thought.

In Connie's kitchen, he'd spoken confidently of Ticktock's
vulnerability.  But how vulnerable could the guy be if he could laugh
off bullets and bonfires?

He said, "Thanks for not being like the people in one of those movies,
they see huge bats against the full moon, victims with all the blood
drained out, but they keep arguing it can't be happening, vampires
aren't real."

"Or like the priest sees the little girl's head spin three-hundred
sixty degrees, her bed levitates-but he still can't believe there's a
devil, so he consults psychology books to diagnose her."

"What listing you think he looks up in the index?"

Connie said, "Under 'W' for 'Weird shit."' They crossed a bridge over a
back channel of Newport Harbor.

House and boat lights glimmered on the black water.

"Funny," Harry said.  "You go through life thinking people who believe
this stuff are as dumb as lobotomized newts-then something like this
happens, and you're instantly able to accept all kinds of fantastic
ideas.  At heart we're all moon-worshipping savages who know the
world's a lot stranger than we want to believe."

"Not that I've accepted your theory yet, your psycho superman.

He looked at her.  In the instrument-panel light, her face resembled a
sculpture of some goddess from Greek mythology, rendered in hard bronze
with verdigris patina.  "If not my theory, then what?"

Instead of answering him, she said, "If you're gonna drive like me,
keep your eyes on the road."

That was good advice, and he took it in time to avoid making a ton and
a half of Honda jelly against the back of a lumbering old Mercedes
driven by Methuselah's grandmother and sporting a bumper sticker that
said LICENSED TO KILL.  Tires squealing, he whipped around the sedan.

As they passed it, the venerable lady behind the wheel scowled and gave
them the finger.

"Even grandmothers aren't grandmothers any more," Connie said.

"If not my theory then what?"  he persisted.

"I don't know.  I'm just saying-if you're going to surf on the chaos,
better never think you've got the pattern of the currents all figured
out, 'cause that's when a big wave will dump you."

He thought about that, driving in silence for a while.

To their left, the Newport Center hotels and office towers drifted by
as if they were moving instead of the car, great lighted ships sailing
the night on mysterious missions.  The bordering lawns and rows of
palms were unnaturally green and too perfect to be real, like a
gargantuan stage setting.  The recent storm seemed to have swept across
California from out of another dimension, washing the world with
strangeness, leaving behind a residue of dark magic.

"What about your mom and dad?"  Connie asked.  "This guy said he'd
destroy everyone you love, then you."

"They're a few hundred miles up the coast.  They're out of this."

"We don't know how far he can reach."

"If he can reach that far, he is God.  Anyway, remember what I said,
how maybe this guy pins a psychic tag on you?  Like game wardens tag a
deer or bear with an electronic gizmo to learn its migratory habits.

That feels right.  Which means it's possible he can't find my mom and
dad unless I lead him to them.  Maybe all he knows about me is what
I've shown him since he tagged me this afternoon."

"So you came to me first because Because I love you?  he wondered.  But
he said nothing.

He was relieved when she let him off that hook: because we brought
Ordegard down together.  And if this guy was controlling Ordegard, he's
almost as angry with me as with you."

"I had to warn you," Harry said.  "We're in this together."

Though he was aware of her studying him with keen interest, she said
nothing.  He pretended to be oblivious of her analytic stare.

After a while she said, "You think this Ticktock can tune in and hear
us, see us, any time he wants?  Like now?"

"I don't know."

"He can't know everything, like God," Connie said.  "So maybe we're
just a blinking light on his mental tracking board, and he can only see
or hear us when we can see and hear him."

"Maybe.  Probably.  Who knows?"

"We better hope that's how it is.  Because if he's listening and
watching all the time, we don't have a snowball's chance in Hell of
nailing the son of a bitch.  The moment we start getting close, he'll
burn us to the ground as sure as he burned down your condo."

On the shop-lined main street of Corona Del Mar, and along the dark
Newport coast where land was being graded for a new community on the
ocean-facing hills and where enormous earth-moving machines stood like
prehistoric beasts asleep on their feet, Harry had a crawling sensation
along the back of his neck.  Descending the coast highway into Laguna
Beach, it got worse.  He felt as if he were being watched in the same
way that a mouse is watched by a stalking cat.

Laguna was an arts colony and tourist mecca, still renowned for its
beauty even though it had seen better days.  Speckled with golden
lights and adorned with a softening mantle of greenery, serried hills
sloped down from the east to the shores of the Pacific, as graceful as
a lovely woman descending a stairway to the surf.  But tonight the lady
seemed less lovely than dangerous.

The house stood on a bluff above the sea.  The west wall of tinted
glass encompassed a primal view of sky, water, and crashing surf.

When Bryan wished to sleep during the day, electrically operated
Rolladen shutters motored down to banish the sun.  It was night,
however, and while Bryan slept, the huge windows revealed a black sky,
blacker sea, and phosphorescent incoming breakers like marching ranks
of soldier ghosts.

When Bryan slept, he always dreamed.

Though most people's dreams were in black and white, his were in full
color.  In fact the spectrum of colors in his dreams was greater than
in real life, a fabulous variety of hues and shadings that made each
vision enthrallingly intricate.

Rooms in his dreams were not simply vague suggestions of places, and
landscapes were not impressionistic smears.  Every locale in his sleep
was vividly-even excruciatingly detailed.  If he dreamed of a forest,
every leaf was rendered with veining, individually mottled and
shaded.

If snow, every flake was unique.

After all, he was not a dreamer like every other.  He was a slumbering
god.  Creative.

That Tuesday evening Bryan's dreams were, as always, filled with
violence and death.  His creativity was best expressed in imaginative
forms of destruction.

He walked the streets of a fantasy city more labyrinthine than any that
existed in the real world, a metropolis of crowding spires.

When children looked upon him, they were stricken by a plague of such
exquisite virulence that their small faces instantly erupted in masses
of oozing pustules; bleeding lesions split their skin.  When he touched
strong men, they burst into flame and their eyes melted from their
sockets.  Young women aged before his eyes, withered and died in
seconds, transformed from objects of desire into piles of worm-riddled
refuse.  When Bryan smiled at a shopkeeper standing in front of a
corner grocery, the man fell to the pavement, writhing in agony, and
swarms of cockroaches erupted from his ears, nostrils, and mouth.

For Bryan, this was not a nightmare.  He enjoyed his dreams and always
woke from them refreshed and excited.

The city streets faded into the uncountable rooms of an infinite
bordello, with a different beautiful woman waiting to please him in
every richly decorated chamber.  Naked, they prostrated themselves
before him, pleaded to be allowed to provide him with relief, but he
would lie with none of them.  Instead, he slaughtered each woman in a
different fashion, endlessly inventive in his brutalities, until he was
drenched with their blood.

He was not interested in sex.  Power was more satisfying than sex could
ever be, and by far the most satisfying power was the power to kill.

He never tired of their cries for mercy.  Their voices were very much
like the squeals of the small animals that had learned to fear him when
he'd been a child and had just begun to Become.  He had been born to
rule both in the dream world and the real, to help humankind relearn
the humility that it had lost.

He woke.

For long delicious minutes, Bryan lay in a tangle of black sheets, as
pale upon that rumpled silk as the luminescent foam was pale upon the
crest of each wave that broke on the shore below his windows.

The euphoria of the bloody dream stayed with him for a while, and was
immeasurably better than a post-orgasmic glow.

He longed for the day when he could brutalize the real world as he did
the world in his dreams.  They deserved punishment, these swarming
multitudes.  In their self-absorption, they had pridefully assumed that
the world had been made for them, for their pleasure, and they had
overrun it.  But he was the apex of creation, not them.

They must be profoundly humbled, and their numbers reduced.

However, he was still young, not in full control of his power, still
Becoming.  He didn't yet dare to begin the cleansing of the earth that
was his destiny.

Naked, he got out of bed.  The slightly cool air felt good against his
bare skin.

In addition to the sleek, ultra-modern, black-lacquered bed with its
silk sheets, the large room contained no other furniture except two
matching black nightstands and black marble lamps with black shades.

No stereo, television, or radio.  There was no chair in which to relax
and read; books were of no interest to him, for they contained no
knowledge he needed to acquire and no entertainment equal to that he
could provide himself.  When he was creating and manipulating the
phantom bodies in which he patrolled the outer world, he preferred to
lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.

He had no clock.  Didn't need one.  He was so attuned to the mechanics
of the universe that he always knew the hour, minute, and second.  It
was part of his gift.

The entire wall opposite the bed was mirrored floor to ceiling.  He had
mirrors throughout the house; he liked what they showed him of himself,
the image of godhood Becoming in all its grace, beauty, and power.

Except for the mirrors, the walls were painted black.  The ceiling was
black as well.

The black-lacquered shelves of a large bookcase contained scores of
one-pint Mason jars filled with formaldehyde.  Floating therein were
pairs of eyes, visible to Bryan even in deep gloom.  Some were the eyes
of human beings: men, women, and children who had received his
judgment; various shades of blue, brown, black, gray, green.  Others
were the eyes of the animals on which he'd first experimented with his
power years ago: mice, gerbils, lizards, snakes, turtles, cats, dogs,
birds, squirrels, rabbits; some were softly luminescent even in death,
glowing pale red or yellow or green.

Votive eyes.  Offered by his subjects.  Symbols acknowledging his
power, his superiority, his Becoming.  At every hour of the day and
night, the eyes were there, acknowledging, admiring, adoring him.

Look upon me and tremble, said the Lord.  For I am mercy but also am I
wrath.  I am forgivenns but also am I vengeance.  And whatevereth to
thee shall from me.

In spite of the humming vent fans, the room was redolent of blood,
bile, intestinal gases, and an astringent disinfectant that made Connie
squint.

Harry sprayed his left hand with some Binaca breath-freshener.

He cupped his moistened palm over his nose, so the minty fragrance
would block out at least some of the smell of death.

He offered Connie the Binaca.  She hesitated, then accepted it.

The dead woman lay naked and staring on the tilted, stainlesssteel
table.  The coroner had made a large Y incision in her abdomen, and
most of her organs had been carefully removed.

She was one of Ordegard's victims from the restaurant.  Her name was
Laura Kincade.  Thirty years old.  She had been pretty when she'd
gotten out of bed that morning.  Now she was a fright figure from a
grisly carnival funhouse.

The fluorescent lights imparted a milky sheen to her eyes, on which
were reflected twin images of the overhead microphone and the flexible,
segmented-metal cable on which it hung.  Her lips were parted, as if
she were about to sit up, speak into the mike, and add a few comments
to the official record of her autopsy.

The coroner and two assistants were working late, finishing the final
of three examinations of Ordegard and his two victims.  The men looked
weary, both physically and spiritually.

In all her years of police work, Connie had never encountered one of
those hardened forensic pathologists who appeared so frequently in the
movies and on television, carving up corpses while they made crude
jokes and ate pizza, untouched by the tragedies of others.  On the
contrary, although it was necessary to approach such a job with
professional detachment, regular intimate contact with the victims of
violent crime always took its toll one way or another.

Teel Bonner, the chief medical examiner, was fifty but seemed older.

In the harsh fluorescent light, his face looked less tanned than
sallow, and the bags under his eyes were large enough to pack for a
weekend getaway.

Bonner paused in his cutting to tell them that the tape of the Ordegard
autopsy had already been transcribed by a typist.  The transcription
was in a folder on his desk, in the glass-walled office adjacent to the
dissection room.  "I haven't written the summary yet, but the facts are
all there."

Connie was relieved to get into the office and close the door.  The
small room had a vent fan of its own, and the air was relatively
fresh.

The brown vinyl upholstery on the chair was scarred, creased, and
mottled with age.  The standard-issue metal desk was scratched and
dented.

This was no big-city morgue with several dissection rooms and a
professionally decorated office for receptions with reporters and
politicians.  In smaller towns, violent death was still generally
viewed as less glamorous than in larger metropolises.

Harry sat and read from the autopsy transcript while Connie stood at
the glass wall and watched the three men gathered around the corpse in
the outer room.

The cause of James Ordegard's death had been three gunshot wounds to
the chest-which Connie and Harry already knew because all three rounds
had come from Harry's gun.  The effects of the gunshots included
puncture and collapse of the left lung, major damage to the large
intestine, nicks to the common iliac and the celiac arteries, the
complete severing of the renal artery, deep laceration of the stomach
and liver by fragments of bone and lead, and a tear in the heart muscle
sufficient to cause sudden cardiac arrest.

"Anything odd?"  she asked, her back to him.

"Like what?"

"Like what?  Don't ask me.  You're the guy who thinks possession ought
to leave its mark."

In the dissection room, the three pathologists working over Laura
Kincade were uncannily like doctors attending to a patient whose life
they were struggling to preserve.  The postures were the same; only the
pace was different.  But the sole thing that these men could preserve
was a record of precisely the means by' which one bullet had fatally
damaged one fragile human body, the of Laura's death.  They couldn't
begin to answer the bigger question: Why?  Even James Ordegard and his
twisted motivations could not explain the why of it; he was only
another part of the bow.  Explaining why was a task for priests and
philosophers, who floundered helplessly for meaning every day.

"They did a craniotomy," Harry said from the coroner's creaking
chair.

"And?"

"No visible surface hematoma.  No unusual quantity of cerebrospinal
fluid, no indications of excess pressure."

"They do a cerebrotomy?"  she asked.

"I'm sure."  He rustled through the pages of the transcript.  "Yeah,
here."

"Cerebral tumor?  Abscess?  Lesions?"

He was silent for a long moment, scanning the report.  Then: "No,
nothing like that."

"Hemorrhage?"

"None noted."

"Embolism?"

"None found."

"Pineal gland?"

Sometimes the pineal gland could shift out of position and come under
pressure from surrounding brain tissues, resulting in extremely vivid
hallucinations, sometimes paranoia and violent behavior.  But that was
not the case with Ordegard.

Watching the autopsy from a distance, Connie thought of her sister,
Colleen, dead these five years, killed by childbirth.  It seemed to her
that Colleen's death made no more sense than that of poor Laura Kincade
who had made the mistake of stopping at the wrong restaurant for
lunch.

Then again, no death made sense.  Madness and chaos were the engines of
this universe.  Everything was born only to die.  Where was the logic
and reason in that?

"Nothing," Harry said, dropping the report back onto the desk.

The chair springs squeaked and twanged as he got up.  "No unexplained
marks on the body, no peculiar physiological conditions.  If Ticktock
was in possession of Ordegard, there's no clue of it in the corpse."

Connie turned away from the glass wall.  "Now what?"

Teel Bonner pulled open the morgue drawer.

The naked body of James Ordegard lay within.  His white skin had a
bluish cast in some places.  Black-thread stitches had been used to
close the extensive incisions from the autopsy.

The moon face.  Rigor mortis had pulled his lips into a lopsided
smile.

At least his eyes were closed.

"What did you want to see?"  Bonner asked.

"If he was still here."  Harry said.

The coroner glanced at Connie.  "Where else would he be?"

The bedroom floor was covered with black ceramic tile.  Like purling
water, it glistened in places with dim reflections of the ambient light
from the night beyond the windows.  It was cool beneath Bryan's feet.

As he walked to the glass wall that faced the ocean, the huge mirrors
reflected black on black, and his naked form drifted like a wraith of
smoke through the layered shadows.

He stood at the window staring at the sable sea and tarry sky.  The
smooth ebony vista was relieved only by the crests of the combers and
by frostlike patches on the bellies of the clouds.  That frost was a
reflection of the lights of Laguna Beach behind him; his home was on
one of the western-most points of the city.

The view was perfect and serene because it lacked the human element.

No man or woman or child, no structure or machine or artifact
intruded.

So quiet, dark.  So clean.

He longed to eradicate humanity and all its works from large portions
of the earth, restrict people to selected preserves.  But he was not
yet fully in control of his power, still Becoming.

He lowered his gaze from the sky and sea to the pallid beach at the
foot of the bluff.

Leaning his forehead against the glass, he imagined life-and by
imagining, created it.  On the sward just above the tide line, the sand
began to stir.  It rose, forming a cone as big as a man-and then became
a man.  The hobo.  The scarred face.  Reptile eyes.

No such person had ever existed.  The vagrant was strictly a creature
of Bryan's imagination.  Through this construct and others, Bryan could
walk the world without being in danger from it.

Though his phantom bodies could be shot and burned and crushed without
causing harm to him, his own body was dismayingly vulnerable.  When
cut, he bled.  When struck, he bruised.

He assumed that when he had Become, then invulnerability and
immortality would be the final gifts bestowed on him, signaling his
Ascension to godhood-which made him eager to fulfill his mission.

Now leaving only a portion of his consciousness in his real body, he
moved into the hobo on the night beach.  From within that hulking
figure, he gazed up at his house on the bluff.  He saw his own naked
body at the window staring down.

In Jewish folklore there was a creature called a golem.  Made of mud in
the shape of a man, endowed with a form of life, it was most often an
instrument of vengeance.

Bryan could create an infinite variety of golems and through them stalk
his prey, thin the herd, police the world.  But he could not enter the
bodies of real people and control their minds, which he would very much
have enjoyed.  Perhaps that power would be his, as well, when at last
he had Become.

He withdrew his consciousness from the golem on the beach and,
regarding it from his high window, caused it to change shape.  It
tripled in size, assumed a reptilian form, and developed immense
membranous wings.

Sometimes an effect could spiral beyond what he intended, acquire a
life of its own, and resist his efforts at containment.  For that
reason, he was always practicing, refining his techniques and
exercising his power in order to strengthen it.

He had once created a golem inspired by the movie Alien, and used it to
savage the vagrants in an encampment of ten homeless people under a Los
Angeles freeway overpass.  His intention had been to slaughter two of
them, lightning quick, and leave the others with the memory of his
power and merciless judgment.  But then he became excited by their
abject terror at the inexplicable manifestation of that movie
monster.

He thrilled to the feel of his claws ripping through their flesh, the
heat of spurting blood, the rank steaming gush of disembowelment, the
crack of bones as fragile as chalk sticks in his monstrous hands.  The
screams of the dying were piercingly shrill at first but became weak,
tremulous, erotic; they surdered their lives to him as lovers might
have surrendered, so exhausted by the intensity of their passion that
they succumbed only with sighs, whispers, shudders.  For a few minutes
he was the creature that he had created, all razored teeth and talons,
spiked spine and lashing tail, having forgotten about his real body in
which his mind actually reposed.  When he regained his senses, he
discovered he had killed all ten men beneath the overpass and stood in
a charnel house of blood, eviscerated torsos, severed heads and
limbs.

He hadn't been shocked or daunted by the degree of violence he'd
wroughtnly that he'd killed them all in a mindless frenzy.  Learning
control was vital if he were to accomplish his mission and Become.

He had used the power of pyrokinesis to set the bodies afire, searing
them with flames so intense that even bones were vaporized.

He always disposed of those on whom he practiced because he didn't want
ordinary people to know that he walked among them, at least not until
his power had been perfected and his vulnerability was nil.

That was also why for the time being he focused his attentions
primarily on street people.  If they were to report being tormented by
a demon who could change shape at will, their complaints would be
dismissed as the ravings of mentally deranged losers with drug and
alcohol addictions.  And when they vanished from the face of the earth,
no one would care or attempt to discover what had happened to them.

Someday soon, however, he would be able to bring holy terror and divine
judgment to people in all strata of society So he practiced.

Like a magician improving his dexterity.

Control.  Control.

On the beach, the winged form leapt off the sand from which it had been
born.  It flapped into the night, like a truant gargoyle returning to a
cathedral parapet.  It hovered before his window, peering in with
luminous yellow eyes.

Although it was a brainless thing until he projected part of himself
into it, the pterodactyl was nevertheless an impressive creation.  Its
immense leathery wings fluidly fanned the air, and it easily remained
aloft on the updrafts along the bluff.

Bryan was aware of the eyes in the jars behind him.  Staring.

Watching him, astonished, admiring, adoring.

"Be gone," he said to the pterodactyl, indulging in theatrics for his
audience.

The winged reptile turned to sand and rained on the beach below.

Enough play.  He had work to do.

Harry's Honda was parked near the municipal building, under a
streetlamp.

Early spring moths, having come out in the wake of the rain, swooped
close to the light.  Their enormous, distorted shadows played over the
car.

As she and Harry crossed the sidewalk toward the Honda, Connie said,
"Same question.  Now what?"

"I want to get into Ordegard's house and have a look around."

"What for?"

"I don't have a clue.  But it's the only other thing I can think to
do.

Unless you've got an idea."

"Wish I did."

As they approached the car, she saw something dangling from the
rearview mirror, rectangular and softly gleaming beyond the moth
shadows that swarmed over the windshield.  As far as she could recall,
there had been no air-freshener or ornament of any kind tied to the
mirror.

She was the first into the car and got a close look at the silvery
rectangle before Harry did.  It was dangling on a red ribbon from the
mirror shank.  Initially she didn't realize what it was.  She took hold
of it, turned it so the light struck it more cleaM, and saw that it was
a handcrafted belt buckle worked with Southwest motifs.

Harry got in behind the wheel, slammed his door, and saw what she held
in her hand.

"Oh, Jesus," Harry said.  "Oh, Jesus, Ricky Estefan."

Most of the roses had taken a beating from the rain, but a few blooms
had come through the storm untouched.  They bobbed gently in the night
breeze.  The petals caught the light spilling from the kitchen windows
and seemed to magnify it, glowing as if radioactive.

Ricky sat at the kitchen table, from which his tools and current
projects had been removed.  He had finished dinner more than an hour
ago and had been sipping port wine ever since.  He wanted to get a buzz
on.

Before being gutshot, he'd not been much of a drinker, but when he had
wanted a drink, he'd been a tequila and beer man.  A shot of Sauza and
a bottle ofTecate were as sophisticated as he got.  After all the
abdominal surgeries he endured, however, a single jigger of Sauzar any
other hard liquor-gave him intense heartburn and a sour stomach that
lasted the better part of a day.  The same was true of beer.

He learned that he could handle liqueurs well enough, but getting drunk
on Baileys Irish Cream or creme de menthe or Midori required the
ingestion of so much sugar that his teeth would rot long before he did
any damage to his liver.  Regular wines did not go down well, either,
but port proved to be just the thing, sweet enough to soothe his
delicate gut but not so sweet as to induce diabetes.

Good port was his only indulgence.  Well, good port and a little
self-pity now and then.

Watching the roses nodding in the night, he sometimes pulled his gaze
back to a closer point of focus and stared at his reflection in the
window.  It was an imperfect mirror, revealing to him a colorless
transparent countenance like that of a haunting spirit; but perhaps it
was an accurate reflection, after all, because he was a ghost of his
former self and in some ways dead already A bottle of Taylor's stood on
the table.  He refilled his port glass and took a sip.

Sometimes, like now, it was difficult to believe that the face in the
window was actually his.  Before he'd been shot, he had been a happy
man, seldom given to troubled introspection, never a brooder.  Even
during recuperation and rehabilitation, he had retained a sense of
humor, an optimism about the future that no amount of pain could
entirely darken.

His face had become the face in the window only after Anita left.

More than two years later, he still had difficulty believing that she
was goner figuring out what to do about the loneliness that was
destroying him more surely than bullets could have done.

Raising his drink, Ricky sensed something wrong just as he brought it
to his mouth.  Perhaps he subconsciously registered the lack of a
port-wine aromar the faint, foul smell of what had replaced it.  He
stopped as he was about to tilt the glass to his lips, and saw what it
contained: two or three fat, moist, entwined earthworms, alive and
oozing languorously around one another.

Startled, he cried out, and the glass slipped from his fingers.

Because it dropped only a couple of inches onto the table, it didn't
shatter.  But when it tipped over, the worms slithered onto the
polished pine.

Ricky pushed his chair back, blinking furiously-and the worms were
gone.

Spilled wine shimmered on the table.

He halted halfway to his feet, his hands on the arms of his chair,
staring in disbelief at the puddle of ruby-re ort.

He was sure he had seen the worms.  He wasn imagining things.

Wasn't drunk.  Hell, he hadn't even begun to sample the port.

Easing back into his chair, he closed his ey .  Waited a second, two.

Looked.  The wine still glistened on the table.

Hesitantly he touched one index finger to the puddle.  It was wet,
real.

He rubbed his finger and thumb together preading the drop - of wine
over his skin.

He checked the Taylor's to be sure that he hadn't drunk more than he'd
realized.  The bottle was dark, so he had to hold it up to the light to
see the level of the liquid within.  It was a new bottle and the line
of the port was just below the neck.  He had poured only the two
glasses.

Rattled as much by his inability to come up with an explanation as by
what had happened, Ricky went to the sink, opened the cabinet below it,
and got the damp dishcloth from the rack on the back of the door.  At
the table again, he wiped up the spilled wine.

His hands were shaking.

He was angry at himself for being afraid, even though the source of the
fear was understandable.  He worried that e had suffered what the
doctors would call a "small cerebra stroke of which the flickering
hallucination of earthworms was the only sign.  More than anything else
during his long hospitalization, he had dreaded a stroke.

The development of blood clots in the legs and around the sutures in
repaired veins and arteries was one especially dangerous potential
side-effect of major abdominal surgery of the extent that he had
undergone and of the protracted bed rest that followed it.  If one
broke free and traveled to the heart, sudden death might ensue.

If it traveled instead to the brain, obstructing circulation, the
result could be total or partial paralysis, blindness, loss of speech,
and the horrifying destruction of intellectual capacity.  His doctors
had medicated him to inhibit clotting, and the nurses had put him
through a program of passive exercise even when he had been required to
remain flat on his back, but there hadn't been one day during his long
recovery that he hadn't worried about suddenly finding himself unable
to move or talk' unsure of where he was, unable to recognize his wife
or his own name.

At least then he'd had the comfort of knowing, whatever happened, Anita
would be there to take care of him.  Now he had no one.

From now on, he would have to face adversity alone.  If silenced and
badly crippled by a stroke, he would be at the mercy of strangers.

Although his fear was understandable, he also realized that it was to
some extent irrational.  He was healed.  He had his scars, sure.  And
his ordeal had left him diminished.  But he was no more ill than the
average man on the street and probably healthier than a lot of them.

More than two years had passed since his most recent surgery.  His
chances of suffering a cerebral embolism were now only average for a
man his age.  Thirty-six.  Men that young rarely had debilitating
strokes.  Statistically, he was more likely to die in a traffic
accident, from a heart attack, as the victim of violent crime, or
perhaps even from being struck by lightning.

What he feared was not so much paralysis, aphasia, blindness, or any
other physical ailment.  What frightened him, really, was being alone,
and the weirdness with the earthworms had impressed upon him just how
alone he would be if anything untoward happened.

Determined not to be ruled by fear, Ricky put the port-stained
dishcloth aside and righted the overturned glass.  He would sit down
with another drink and think it through.  The answer would be obvious
when he thought about it.  There was an explanation for the worms,
maybe a trick of light that could be duplicated by holding the glass
just so, turning it just so, recreating the precise circumstances of
the illusion.

He picked up the bottle of Taylor's and tipped it toward the glass.

For an instant, though he had held it up to the light only a couple of
minutes ago to check the level of the wine, he expected the bottle to
disgorge oily knots of writhing earthworms.  Only port poured forth.

He put down the bottle and raised the glass.  As he brought it to his
lips, he hesitated, repulsed by the thought of drinking out of a glass
that had contained earthworms slick with whatever cold mucus they
exuded.

His hand was shaking again, his brow was suddenly damp with
perspiration, and he was furious with himself for being so damned silly
about this.  The wine slopped against the sides of the glass,
glimmering like a liquid jewel.

He brought it to his lips, took a short sip.  It tasted sweet and
clean.

He took another sip.  Delicious.

A soft and tremulous laugh escaped him.  "Asshole," he said, and felt
better for making fun of himself.

Deciding that some nuts or crackers would go well with the port, he put
his glass down and went to the kitchen cabinet where he kept cans of
roasted almonds, mixed nuts, and packages of Che-Cri Cheese Crispies.

When he pulled the door open, the cabinet was alive with tarantulas.

Faster and more agile than he'd been in years, he backed away from the
open cabinet, slamming into the counter behind him.

Six or eight of the huge spiders were climbing over cans of Blue
Diamond almonds and Planters party mix, exploring the boxes of
Che-Cri.

They were bigger even than tarantulas should have been, larger than
halved cantaloupes, jittering denizens of some arachnophobe's worst
nightmare.

Ricky squeezed his eyes shut.  Opened them.  The spiders were still
there.

Above the' drumming of his own heart and his shallow noisy breathing,
he could actually hear the hairy legs of the tarantulas brushing
against the cellophane on the packages of cheese crackers.

The chitinous tick-tick-tick of their feet or mandibles against the
stacks of cans.  Low evil hissing.

But then he realized he was misinterpreting the source of the sounds.

The noises were not coming from the open cabinet across the room but
from the cabinets immediately above and behind him.

He looked over his shoulder, up at the pine doors, on the other side of
which should have been nothing but plates and bowls, cups and
saucers.

They were being forced outward by some expanding bulk, just a quarter
of an inch ajar, then half an inch.  Before Ricky could move, the
cabinet doors flew open.  An avalanche of snakes cauaded over his head
and shoulders.

Screaming, he tried to run.  He slipped on the wriggling carpet of
serpents and fell among them.

Snakes thin as whips, snakes thick and muscular, black snakes and
green, yellow and brown, plain and patterned, red-eyed, yelloweyed,
some hooded like cobras, watchful and grinning, supple tongues
fluttering, hissing, hissing.  Had to be dreaming.  Hallucinating.  A
big blacksnake, at least four feet long, bit him, oh Jesus, struck at
the back of his left hand, sinking its fangs deep, blood brimming, and
still it might have been a dream, nightmare, except for the pain.

He had never felt pain in a dream, and certainly not like this.  A
sharp stinging filled his left hand, and then a sharper stabbing agony
shot like an electrical charge through his wrist and all the way along
his forearm to his elbow.

Not a dream.  This was happening.  Somehow.  But where had they come
from?  Wleee?

They were all over him, sixty or eighty of them, slithering.

Another one struck at him, sank fangs through his shirt sleeve and
pierced his left forearm, tripling the pain in it.  Another bit through
his sock, raked teeth down his ankle.

He scrambled to his feet, and the snake that had bitten his arm fell
away, as did the one at his ankle, but the one with its fangs through
his left hand hung fast, as if it had stapled itself to him.  He
grabbed it, tried to jerk it loose.  The flash of pain was so intense,
white-hot, that he almost passed out, and still the snake was clamped
tight to his bleeding hand.

A turmoil of snakes hissed and coiled around him.  He didn't see any
rattlers at a glance, or hear them.  He had too little knowledge to
identify the other species, wasn't sure which were poisonous, or even
if any of them were, including the ones that had already bitten him.

Poisonous or not, more of them were going to bite if he didn't move
fast.

He snatched a meat cleaver from a wall rack of knives.  When he slammed
his left arm down on the nearest counter, the relentless blacksnake
flopped full-length across the tile counter top.  Ricky swung the
cleaver high, brought it down, chopped through the snake, and the steel
blade rang off the ceramic surface underneath.

The hateful-looking head still held fast to his hand, trailing only a
few inches of the black body, and the glittering eyes seemed to be
watching him, alive.  Ricky dropped the cleaver and attempted to pry
open the serpent's mouth, spring its long curved teeth out of his
flesh.  He shouted and cursed, furious with pain, kept prying, but it
was no use.

The snakes on the floor were agitated by his shouting.

He plunged toward the archway between the kitchen and the hall, kicking
snakes out of his way before they could coil and spring at him.  Some
were already coiled, and they struck, but his heavy, loose-fitting
khaki pants foiled them.

He was afraid they would slither over his shoes, under a pants cuff, up
and under one of the legs of his khakis.  But he reached the hall
safely.

The snakes were behind him and not pursuing.  Two tarantulas had fallen
out of the snack cabinet intoøthe herpetological nightmare on the
floor, and the snakes were fighting over them.  Frantically kicking
arachnid legs vanished under rippling scales.

Thump!

Ricky jumped in surprise.

Thump!

Until now he hadn't associated the strange noise, which had plagued him
earlier in the evening, with the spiders and snakes.

Thump!

Thump!

Someone had been playing games with him then, but this was not a game
any more.  This was deadly serious.  Impossible, as fantastic as
anything in a dream, but serious.

Thump!

Ricky couldn't pinpoint the source of the pounding or even tell for
sure if it came from above or below him.  Windows reverberated, and
echoes of each blow vibrated hollowly in the walls.  He sensed that
something was coming, worse than spiders or snakes, something he did
not want to encounter.

Gasping, with the head of the blacksnake still dangling from his left
hand, Ricky turned away from the kitchen toward the front door at the
end of the hall.

His twice-bitten arm throbbed horribly with each beat of his
trip-hammering heart.  No good, dear Jesus, a racing heart spread the
poison faster, if there was any poison.  What he had to do was calm
down, take deep slow breaths, walk instead of run, go to a neighbor's
house, call 911, and get emergency medical attention.

THUMb!

He could have used the telephone in his bedroom, but he didn't want to
go in there.  He didn't trust his own house any more, which was nuts,
yes, crazy, but he felt the place had come alive and turned against
him.

THUMP THUMP THUMP!

The house shook as if riding the back of a bucking earthquake, almost
knocking him down.  He staggered sideways, bounced against the wall.

The ceramic statue of the Holy Virgin toppled off the hall table that
he had set up as a shrine like all of the shrines his mother had kept
in her home.  Since being gutshot, he had been reduced by fear to his
mother's choice of armor against the cruelties of the world.

The statue crashed to the floor, shattered at his feet.

The heavy red-glass container with the votive candle bounced on the
table, causing goblin shadows to dance across the wall and ceiling.

THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP!

Ricky was two steps from the front door when the oak flooring creaked
ominously, pushed upward, and cracked almost as loudly as a
thunderclap.  He stumbled backward.

Something smashed out of the crawlspace under the bungalow, shattering
the floor as if it were an eggshell.  For a moment the blizzard of dust
and splinters and jagged boards made it impossible to glimpse what had
been born into the hallway.

Then Ricky saw a man in the hole, feet planted in the earth about
eighteen inches under the floor of the house.  In spite of standing
below Ricky, the guy loomed, immense and threatening.  His untamed hair
and beard were tangled and dirty, and the visible portions of his face
were grossly scarred.  His black raincoat billowed like a cape around
him as a draft whistled out of the crawlspace and up through the broken
boards.

Ricky knew he was looking at the vagrant who had appeared to Harry out
of a whirlwind.  Everything about him fit the description except his
eyes.

When he glimpsed those grotesque eyes, Ricky froze amidst the fragments
of the Holy Virgin, paralyzed by fear and by the certainty that he had
gone mad.  Even if he had kept backing away or had turned and tried to
run for the rear door, he would not have escaped, for the vagrant
clambered out of the hole and into the hall as lightning-quick as any
striking serpent.  He seized Ricky, swept him off the floor with such
unhuman power that any resistance was pointless, and slammed him
against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster and his spine.

Face to face, washed by the vagrant's foul breath, Ricky gazed into
those eyes and was too terrified to scream.  They were not the pools of
blood that Harry had described.  They were not really eyes at all.

Nestled in the deep sockets were two snake heads, two small yellow eyes
in each, forked tongues fluttering.

Why me?  Ricky wondered.

As if they were a pair of jack-in-the-box fright figures, the snakes
sprang from the vagrant's sockets and bit Ricky's face.

Between Laguna Beach and Dana Point, Harry drove so fast that even
Connie, lover of speed and risk-taking, braced herself and made
wordless noises of dismay when he took some of the turns too sharply.

They were in his own car, not a department sedan, so he didn't have a
detachable emergency beacon to stick on the roof.  He didn't have a
siren either; however, the coast highway was not heavily used at
ten-thirty on a Tuesday night, and by pounding the horn and flashing
the headlights, he was able to clear a way through what little
obstructive traffic he encountered.

"Maybe we should call Ricky, warn him," she said, when they were still
in south Laguna.

"Don't have a car phone."

"Stop at a service station, convenience store, somewhere."

"Can't waste the time.  I figure his phone won't work anyway."

"Why won't it?"

"Not unless Ticktock wants it to work."

They shot up a hill, rounded a curve too fast.  The rear tires dug up
gravel from the shoulder of the highway, sprayed it against the
undercarriage and fuel tank.  The right rear bumper kissed a metal
guardrail, and then they were back on the pavement, rocketing onward
without having braked.

"So let's call Dana Point Police," she said.

"The way we're moving, if we don't stop to call, we'll be there before
they could make it."

"We might be able to use the backup."

"Won't need backup if we're too damned late and Ricky's dead when we
get there."

Harry was sick with apprehension and furious with himself.  He had
endangered Ricky by going to him earlier in the day.  He couldn't have
known the heap of trouble he was bringing down on his old friend at the
time, but later he should have realized Ricky was a target when
Ticktock had promisedfirrt everything and everyone you love.

Sometimes it was hard for a man to admit he loved another man, even in
a brotherly way.  He and Ricky Estefan had been partners, through some
tight scrapes together.  They were still friends, and Harry loved
him.

It was that simple.  But the American tradition of macho self-reliance
mitigated against admitting as much.

Bullshit, Harry thought angrily.

The truth was, he found it difficult to admit he loved anyone, male or
female, even his parents, because love was so damned messy.  It
entailed obligations, commitments, entanglements, the sharing of
emotions.  When you admitted to loving people, you had to let them into
your life in a more major way, and they brought with them all of their
untidy habits, indiscrimanate tastes, muddled opinions, and
disorganized attitudes.

As they roared across the Dana Point city line, the muffler clanging
against a bump in the road, Harry said, "Jesus, sometimes I'm an
idiot."

"Tell me something I don't know," Connie said.

"A really screwed-up specimen."

"We're still in familiar territory."

He had only one excuse for not realizing that Ricky would become a
target: since the fire at his condo less than three hours ago, he had
been reacting instead of acting.  He'd had no other option.

Events had moved so fast, and were so weird, one piece of strangeness
piled atop another, that he hadn't time to think.  A poor excuse, but
he clung to it.

He didn't even know what to think about bizarre crap like this.

Deductive reasoning, every detective's most useful tool, was not
adequate to deal with the supernatural.  He'd been trying inductive
reasoning, which was how he'd come up with the theory of a sociopath
with paranormal powers.  But he wasn't good at it because inductive
reasoning seemed, to him, the next thing to intuition, and intuition
was so illogical.  He liked hard evidence, sound premises, logical
deductions, and neat conclusions tied up in ribbons and bows.

As they turned the corner into Ricky's street, Connie said, "What the
hell?"

Harry glanced at her.

She was staring into her cupped hand.

"What?"  he asked.

Something was cradled in her palm.  Voice quavering, she said, "I
didn't have this a second ago, where the hell did it come from?"

"What is it?"

She held it up for him to see as he pulled under the streetlamp in
front of Ricky's house.  The head of a ceramic figurine.  Broken off at
the neck.

Scraping the tires against the curb, he braked to a hard stop, and his
safety harness jerked tight across his chest.

She said, "It was like my hand snapped shut, spasmed shut, and this was
in it, out of nowhere, for God's sake."

Harry recognized it.  The head of the Virgin Mary that had been at the
center of the shrine on Ricky Estefan's hall table.

Overcome by dark expectations, Harry threw open the door and got out of
the car.  He pulled his gun.

The street was peaceful.  Lights glowed warmly in most of the houses,
including Ricky's.  Music from a neighbor's stereo drifted on the cool
air, so faint he could not quite identify the tune.  The breeze
whispered and softly clattered in the fronds of the big date palms in
Ricky's front yard.

Nothing to worry about, the breeze seemed to say, all is calm here, all
is right with this place.

Nevertheless, he kept his revolver in hand.

He hurried up the front walk, through the night shadows of the palm
trees, onto the bougainvillaea-draped porch.  He was aware that Connie
was wright behind him and that she also had drawn her weapon.

Let Ricky be alive, he thought fervently, please let him be alive.

That was as close to prayer as he had gotten in many years.

Behind the screen door, the front door was ajar.  A narrow wedge of
light projected the pattern of the screen onto the porch floor.

Although he thought no one noticed and would have been mortified to
know it was obvious, Ricky had been obsessive about security ever since
he'd been shot.  He kept everything locked tight.  A door standing open
even an inch or two was a bad sign.

Harry tried to survey the foyer through the gap between the door and
the jamb.  With the screen door in the way, he couldn't get close
enough to the crack to see anything.

Drapes blocked the windows flanking the door.  They were tightly drawn,
overlapping at the center.

Harry glanced at Connie.

With her revolver she indicated the front entrance.

Ordinarily they might have split up, Connie going around to cover the
back while Harry took the front.  But they weren't trying to keep the
perp from getting away, because this was one bastard who couldn't be
cornered, subdued, and cuffed.  They were just trying to stay alive,
and to keep Ricky alive if it was not already too late for him.

Harry nodded and cautiously eased open the screen door.  Hinges
squeaked.  The closure spring sang a long, low swamp-insect note.

He hoped to be silent, but when the outer door defeated him, he put one
hand on the inner door and pushed it, intending to go in low and
fast.

It swung to the right, and he shouldered through the widening gap.  The
door bumped against something' and stopped before there was enough of
an opening.  He shoved it.  Cracking.

Scraping.  A hard clatter.  The door swung all the way open, pushing.

debris of some nature out of the way, and Harry burst inside so
aggressively that he almost plunged through the hole in the hallway
floor.

He was reminded of the shattered corridor in the building in Laguna,
above the restaurant.  If a grenade had done this damage, however, it
had exploded in the crawlspace under the bungalow.  The blast had
driven joists, insulation, and floorboards upward into the hallway.

But he could detect none of the charred, chemical odor of a bomb.

The overhead foyer light shone down onto the bare earth below the
smashed oak flooring and sub-flooring.  Standing perilously near the
edge of the shrine table, the votive candle in the squat red glass
threw off fluttering pennants of light and shadow.

Halfway back the hall, the left-hand wall was spattered with blood, not
buckets of it but enough to signify mortal combat.  On the floor under
the bloodstains, close against the wall, lay the body of a man, twisted
into such an unnatural posture that the fact of death was grimly
obvious at a glance.

Harry could see just enough of the corpse to know beyond a doubt that
it was Ricky.  Never had he felt so sick at heart.  A coldness rose in
the pit of his stomach, and his legs grew weak.

As Harry moved around the hole in the floor, Connie entered the house
after him.  She saw the body, said nothing, but gestured toward the
living-room arch.

Habitual police procedure had tremendous appeal for Harry at the
moment, even if it was pointless to search for the killer in this
instance.  Ticktock, whatever manner of creature he was, would not be
cowering in a corner or clambering out a back window, not when he could
vanish in a whirlwind or a pillar of fire.  And what good were guns
against him, even if he could be found?  Nonetheless, it was calming to
proceed as if they were the first to arrive at an ordinary crime scene;
order was imposed on chaos through policy, method, custom, and
ritual.

Just inside the living-room archway and to the left lay a pile of dark
mud, an eighth of a ton if there was an ounce.  He would have thought
that it had come from under the house, geysering up with the explosion,
except that no mud was splattered in the foyer or hallway.  It was as
if someone had carefully carried the mud into the house in buckets and
heaped it on the living-room carpet.

Curious as it was, Harry gave the mud only a cursory glance before
continuing across the living room.  Later there would be time to ponder
it at length.

They searched the two baths and bedrooms, but found only a fat
tarantula.  Harry was so startled by the spider, he almost squeezed off
a shot.  If it had run toward him instead of out of sight under a
dresser, he might have blown it to bits before realizing what it was.

Southern California, a desert before man had brought in water and made
larger areas of it habitable, was a perfect breeding ground for
tarantulas, but they kept to undeveloped canyons and scrublands.

Though fearsome in appearance, they were shy creatures, living most of
their lives underground, rarely surfacing outside of the mating
season.

Dana Point, or this part of it at least, was too civilized to be of
interest to tarantulas, and Harry wondered how one had found its way
into the heart of the town, where it was as out of place as a tiger
would have been.

Silently they retraced their route through the house, into the foyer,
the hall, then moved past the body.  A quick glance confirmed that
Ricky was far beyond help.  Fragments of the ceramic religious statue
clinked underfoot.

The kitchen was full of snakes.

"Oh shit," Connie said.

One snake was just inside the archway.  Two more were questing among
the chair and table legs.  Most were at the far side of the room, a
tangled mass of squirming, serpentine coils, no fewer than thirty or
forty, perhaps half again as many.  Several seemed to be feeding on
something.

Two more tarantulas were scuttling along a white tile counter, near the
edge, keeping a watch on the teeming serpents below.

"What the hell happened here?"  Harry wondered, and was not surprised
to hear a tremor in his voice.

The snakes began to notice Harry and Connie.  Most of them were
disinterested, but a few slithered forth from the churning mass to
investigate.

A pocket door separated the kitchen from the hall.  Harry quickly slid
it shut.

They checked the garage.  Ricky's car.  A damp spot on the concrete
where the roof had leaked earlier in the day, and a puddle that had not
entirely evaporated.  Nothing else.

Back in the hallway, Harry finally kneltøbeside the body of his
friend.

He had delayed the dreaded examination as long as possible.

Connie said, "I'll see if there's a bedroom phone."

Alarmed, he looked up at her.  "Phone?  No, for God's sake, don't even
think about it."

"We've gotta put in a homicide call."

"Listen," he said, checking his wristwatch, "it's going on eleven
o'clock already.  If we report this, we're going to be tied up here for
hours."

"But-" "We don't have the time to waste.  I don't see how we're ever
going to find this Ticktock before sunrise.  We don't seem to have a
chance in hell.  Even if we find him, I don't know how we could deal
with him.  But we'd be foolish not to try, don't you think?"

"Yeah, you're right.  I don't just want to sit around waiting to be
whacked."

"Okay then," he said.  "Forget the phone."

"I'll just .  . . I'll wait for you."

"Watch out for snakes," he said as she moved up the hall.

He turned his attention to Ricky.

The condition of the corpse was even worse than he anticipated.

He saw the snake head fixed by deep-sunk fangs to Ricky's left hand,
and he shivered.  Pairs of small holes on the face might have been bite
marks.  Both arms were bent backward at the elbows; the bones were not
just broken but pulverized.  Ricky Estefan was so battered that it was
difficult to specify one injury as the cause of death; however, if he
had not been dead when his head had been wrenched a hundred and eighty
degrees around on his shoulders, he had surely died in that savage
moment.  His neck was torn and bruised, his head lolled loosely, and
his chin rested between his shoulder blades.

His eyes were gone.

"Harry?"  Connie called.

Staring into the dead man's empty eye sockets, Harry was unable to
answer her.  His mouth was dry, and his voice caught like a burr in his
throat.

"Harry, you better look at this."

He had seen enough of what had been done to Ricky, too much.

His anger at Ticktock was exceeded only by his fury with himself He
rose from the body, turned, and caught sight of himself in the
silver-leafed mirror above the shrine table.  He was ashen.  He looked
as dead as the man on the floor.  A part of him had died when he'd seen
the body; he felt diminished.

When he met his own eyes, he had to look away from the terror,
confusion, and primitive rage that he saw in them.  The man in the
mirror was not the Harry Lyon he knewr wanted to be.

"Harry?"  she said again.

In the living room, he found Connie crouching beside the pile of mud.

It was not sloppy enough to be mud, actually, just two or three hundred
pounds of moist, compacted earth.

"Look at this, Harry."

She pointed to an inexplicable feature that he had not noticed during
the search of the house.  For the most part, the pile was shapeless,
but sprouting from the formless heap was one human hand, not real but
shaped from moist earth.  It was large, strong, with blunt spatulate
fingers, as exquisitely detailed as if it had been carved by a great
sculptor.

The hand extended from the cuff of a coat sleeve that was also molded
from the dirt, complete with sleeve strap, vent, and three mud
buttons.

Even the texture of the fabric was well realized.

"What do you make of it?"  Connie asked.

"Damned if I know."

He put one finger to the hand and poked at it, half expecting to
discover that it was a real hand coated thinly with mud.  But it was
dirt all the way through, and it crumbled at his touch, more fragile
than it appeared, leaving only the coat cuff and two fingers.

A pertinent memory swam into Harry's mind and out again before he could
catch it, as elusive as a half-glimpsed fish quickening with a flash of
color into the murky depths of a koi pond.  Staring at what remained of
the dirt hand, he felt that he was close to learning something of
tremendous importance about Ticktock.  But the harder he seined for the
memory, the emptier his net.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

Following Connie into the hallway, Harry didn't look toward the body.

He was walking a thin line between control and derangement, filled with
a rage so intense that he could barely contain it, like nothing he had
ever felt before.  New feelings always troubled him because he could
not be sure where they might lead; he preferred to keep his emotional
life as ordered as his homicide files and his CD collection.  If he
looked at Ricky just once more, his anger might grow beyond
containment, and hysteria of a sort might grip him.  He try, felt the
urge to shout at someone, anyone at all, scream until his throat ached,
and he needed to punch someone, too, punch and gouge and kick.  Lacking
a deserving target, he wanted to turn his wrath on inanimate objects,
break and smash anything within reach, stupid and pointless as that
would be, even if it drew the desperately unwanted attention of
neighbors.  The only thing that restrained him from venting his rage
was a mental image of himself in the throes of such a frenzy wild-eyed
and bestial; he could not tolerate the thought of being seen that far
out of control, especially if the one who saw him was Connie
Gulliver.

Outside, she closed the front door all the way.  Together, they walked
to the street.

Just as they reached the car, Harry stopped and surveyed the
neighborhood.  "Listen."

Connie frowned.  "What?"

"Peaceful."

"So?"

"It would've made one hell of a lot of noise," he said.

She was with him: "The explosion that tore up the hall floor.  And he
would have screamed, maybe called for help."

"So why didn't any curious neighbors come out to see what was
happening?  This isn't the big city, this is a fairly tight little
community.  People don't pretend to be deaf when they hear trouble next
door.  They come to help."

"Which means they didn't hear anything," Connie said.

"How's that possible?"

A night bird sang in a tree nearby.

Faint music still came from one of the houses.  He could identify the
tune this time.  "A String of Pearls."

Perhaps a block away a dog let out a lonely sound between a moan and a
howl.

"Didn't hear anything.  ... How's that possible?"  Harry repeated.

Farther away still, a big truck started up a steep grade on a distant
highway Its engine made a sound like the low bellow of a brontosaurus
displaced in time.

His kitchen was all white-white paint, white floor tile, white marble
counters, white appliances.  The only relief from white was polished
chrome and stainless steel where metal frames or panels were required,
which reflected other white surfaces.

Bedrooms should be black Sleep was black except when dreams were
unreeling in the theater of the mind.  And although his dreams always
seethed with color, they were also somehow dark; the skies in them were
always black or churning with contusive storm clouds.

Sleep was like a brief death.  Death was black.

However, kitchens must be white because kitchens were about food, and
food was about cleanliness and energy.  Energy was white: electricity,
lightning.

In a red silk robe, Bryan sat in a shell-white chair with white leather
upholstery in front of a white-lacquered table with a thick glass
top.

He liked the robe.  He had five more of the same.  The fine silk felt
good against his skin, slippery and cool.  Red was the color of power
and authority: the red of a cardinal's cassock, the gold- and
ermine-trimmed red of a king's imperial mantle; the red of a Mandarin
emperor's dragon robe.

At home, when he chose not to be naked, he dressed only in red.

He was a king in hiding, a secret god.

When he went out into the world, he wore drab clothing because he did
not wish to call attention to himself.  Until he had Become, he was at
least marginally vulnerable, so anonynuty was wise.  When his power had
fully developed and he had learned total control of it, he would at
last be able to venture out in costumes that befitted his true station,
and everyone would kneel before him or turn away in awe or flee in
terror.

The prospect was exciting.  To be acknowledged.  To be known and
venerated.  Soon.

At his white kitchen table, he ate chocolate ice cream in fudge sauce,
smothered in maraschino cherries, sprinkled with coconut and crumbled
sugar cookies.  He loved sweets.  Salties, too.  Potato chips, cheese
twirls, pretzels, peanuts, corn chips, deep-fried pork rinds.  He ate
sweets and salties, nothing else, because no one could tell him what to
eat any more.

Grandmother Drackman would have a stroke if she could see what his diet
consisted of these days.  She had raised him virtually from birth until
he was eighteen, and she had been uncompromisingly strict about diet.

Three meals a day, no snacks.  Vegetables, fruits, whole grains,
breads, pasta, fish, chicken, no red meat, skim milk, frozen yogurt
instead of ice cream, minimal salt, minimal sugar, minimal fat, minimal
fun.

Even her hateful dog, a nervous poodle named Pierre, was forced to eat
according to Grandma's rules, which in his case required a vegetarian
regimen.  She believed that dogs ate meat only because they were
expected to eat it, that the word "carnivore" was a meaningless label
applied by know-nothing scientists, and that every species-specially
dogs, for some reasonhad the power to rise above their natural urges
and live more peaceful lives than they usually did.  The stuff in
Pierre's bowl sometimes looked like granola, sometimes like tofu cubes,
sometimes like charcoal, and the closest he ever came to the taste of
flesh was the imitation beef soy gravy spiked with protein powder that
drenched most of what he was served.  A lot of the time, Pierre had a
strained and desperate look, as if maddened by a craving for something
that he could not identify and therefore could not satisfy.  Which was
probably why he'd been so hateful, sneaky, and so given to nervous
peeing in inconvenient places like in Bryan's closet, all over his
shoes.

She was a demon rulemaker, Grandma Drackman.  She had rules for
grooming, dressing, studying, and deportment in every conceivable
social situation.  A ten megabyte computer would offer insufficient
capacity for the cataloguing of her rules.

Pierre the dog had his own rules to learn.  Which chairs he could sit
on, which he could not.  No barking.  No whining.  Meals on a strict
schedule, no table scraps.  Semi-weekly brushing, be still, don't
fuss.

Sit, roll over, play dead, don't claw the furniture...

Even as a child of four or five, Bryan had understood in his own terms
that his grandmother was something of an obsessive compulsive
personality, an anal-retentive wreck, and he had been cautious with
her, polite and obedient, pretending love but never letting her into
his true inner world.  When, at that young age, his specialuess
initially manifested itself in small ways, he was canny enough to
conceal his budding talents from her, aware that her reaction might
be... dangerous to him.  Puberty brought with it a surge of growth not
merely in his body but in his secret abilities, yet still he kept his
own counsel, exploring his power with the help of a host of small
animals that perished in a wide variety of satisfying torments.

Two years ago, only a few weeks after his eighteenth birthday, the
strange and dynamic force within him surged again, as it did
periodically, and though he still didn't feel strong enough to deal
with the entire world, he knew that he was ready to deal with Grandma
Drackman.  She was sitting in her favorite armchair with her feet on an
ottoman, eating carrot sticks, sipping at a glass of sparkling water,
reading an article about capital punishment in the Los Angeles Times,
adding her heartfelt comments about the need for extending compassion
even to the worst of criminals, when Bryan used his newly refined power
of pyrokinesis to set her on fire.  Jeer, did she burn!

In spite of the fact that she had less fat on her bones than did the
average praying mantis, she went up like a tallow candle.  Although one
of her rules was never to raise one's voice in the house, she screamed
nearly loud enough to shatter windows-though not for long.  It was a
controlled burn, focused on grandmother and her clothes, only singeing
the armchair and ottoman, but she herself blazed so white-hot that
Bryan had to squint when he looked at her.  Like a caterpillar dipped
in alcohol and lit with a match, she sizzled and popped and flared even
brighter, then blackened to a crisp and curled up on herself.  Still,
he kept her burning until the charcoal residue of her bones became
ashes and until the ashes became soot and until the soot just
disappeared in a final puff of green sparks.

Then he dragged Pierre out of hiding and fried him, too.

It was a lovely day.

That was the end of Grandma Drackman and her rules.  From then on Bryan
lived according to his own rules.  Soon the whole world would live
according to them as well.

He got up and went to the refrigerator.  It was filled with candies and
dessert toppings.  Not a mushroom or piece of chopped jicama to be
found.  He took a jar of butterscotch topping back to the table and
added some of it to the sundae.

"Ding dong, the witch is dead, the wicked old witch, the witch is
dead," he sang happily By tampering with public records, he had given
Grandma an official death certificate, altered his official age to
twenty-one (so no court would appoint a trustee), and had made himself
the sole heir in her will.  This was child's play, since no locked
office or vault was proof against him; by the exercise of his Greatest
and Most Secret Power, he could go where he wanted, do anything he
wanted, and no one would know he had ever been there.  After taking
possession of the house, he had arranged for it to be gutted and
remodeled to his own taste, eliminating every trace of the
carrot-eating bitch.

Although he had spent more in the past two years than he had inherited,
extravagance was no problem.  He could get any amount of money any time
he needed it.  He didn't need it often because, thanks to his Greatest
and Most Secret Power, he could also take virtually anything else he
wanted and never be caught.

"Here's to you, Grandma," he said, raising a heaping spoonful of ice
cream and fudge sauce.

Although he was unableuite yet-to heal his own injuries or even fade a
bruise, he seemed able to maintain his proper weight and excellent body
tone simply by concentrating on it for a few minutes every day, setting
his metabolism as he might an ordinary thermostat.  Because of this
ability, he was confident that, after another growth surge-or two, his
power would extend to rapid self-healing and eventually to
invulnerability.

Meanwhile, in spite of all the sweets and salties, he had a trim
body.

He was proud of his lean muscularity, which was one reason he sometimes
liked to be naked around the house and enjoyed catching unexpected
glimpses of himself in the many mirrors.

He knew that women would like his body.  If he had cared for women, he
could have had any of them he wanted, maybe even without using any of
his powers.

But sex was of no interest to him.  For one thing, sex was the old
god's biggest mistake.  People had become obsessed with it, and all of
their endless frantic breeding had ruined the world.  Because of sex,
the new god must thin the herd and clean up the planet.  Besides, for
him, orgasm was triggered not by sex but by the violent termination of
a human life.  After using one of his golems to kill someone, when he
brought his entire consciousness back into his real body he often found
the black silk sheets wet with glistening streams of semen.

What would Grandma think of that!

He laughed.

He could do what he wanted and eat what he wanted, and where was his
nagging grandmother?  Burned, dead, gone forever-that's where.

He was twenty years old, and he might live to be a thousand, two
thousand, possibly forever.  When he had lived long enough, he would
most likely forget about his grandmother altogether, and that would be
good.

"Stupid old cow," he said, and giggled.  It tickled him to be able to
talk about her any way he wanted, in what had been her house.

Though he had made the sundae in a large serving dish, he ate every
bite of it.  Exercising his powers was extremely taxing, and he
required both more than the usual amount of sleep and far more calories
per day than other people.  He napped and snacked a lot of the time,
but he assumed the need for food and sleep might entirely vanish when
he had finished Becoming and was, at last, the new god.

When his Becoming was complete, he might never sleep, and take food not
out of necessity but only for the pleasure of it.

After he had scooped up the last spoonful, he licked out the dish.

Grandma Drackman hated that.

He licked it thoroughly.  When he was finished, it looked as clean as
if it had been washed.

"I can do anything I want," he said.  "Anything."

On the table, in a Mason jar, floating in preservative fluid, the eyes
of Enrique Estefan watched him adoringly.

Driving north along the night coast with Ricky lying dead in the
snake-infested house in Dana Point, Harry said, "It's my fault, what
happened to him."

From the passenger seat, Connie said, "The hell it is."

"The hell it isn't."

"I suppose it's your fault he walked into that convenience store after
he got off-duty three years ago."

"Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but no thanks."

"Should I try to make you feel worse?  Look, this thing we're up
against, this Ticktock-there's no way you can figure what he's going to
do next."

"But maybe I can.  I'm getting a handle on him, sort of.  I'm starting
to know what to expect.  It's just that I'm running one step behind the
sonofabitch.  As soon as I saw that belt buckle, I knew it was natural
for him to go after Ricky That's part of what his threat meant.  I just
saw it too late."

"My point exactly.  Maybe there's no way to get ahead of this guy He's
something new, damn new, and he thinks a lot different from the way you
and I think, from the way the average sleazebag thinks, doesn't fit any
psychological profile, so there's no way you or anyone can be expected
to out-think the bastard.  Look, Harry, this is just not your
responsibility."

He snapped at her, not meaning to, not in the least blaming her for
anything, but unable to contain his anger any longer.  "That's what's
wrong with the world these days, Jesus, that's ely what's wrong!

Nobody wants to be responsible for anything.  Everybody wants a license
to be and do any damn thing, nobody wants to pay the bill."

"You're right."

She obviously meant what she said, agreed with him, wasn't just
humoring him, but he would not be defused that easily.

"These days, if your life is screwed up, if you've failed your family
and friends, it's never your fault.  You're a drunkard?  Why, maybe
it's a genetic predisposition.  You're a compulsive adulterer, have a
hundred sex partners a year?  Well, maybe you just never felt loved as
a child, maybe your parents never gave you all the cuddling you
needed.

It's crap, all of it."

"Exactly," she said.

"You just blew some shopkeeper's head off or beat some old lady to
death for twenty bucks?  Why, you're not a bad guy, no, you're not to
blame!  Your parents are to blame, your teachers are to blame, society
is to blame, all of Western culture is to blame, but not you, never
you, how crass to suggest such a thing, how insensitive, how hopelessly
old-fashioned."

"You had a radio show, I'd listen to it every day," she said.

He was passing slow traffic even when he had to cross a double yellow
line.  He had never done that before in his life, not even when he'd
been in a car with a siren and emergency beacons flashing.

He wondered what had gotten into him.  He wondered how he could wonder
about it-but keep doing it anyway, now swinging around a van with a
Rocky Mountain mural on the side, into the oncoming-traffic lane in
what was essentially a blind turn, even though the van was doing five
miles an hour over the speed limit in the first place.

He raged on: "You can walk out on your wife and kids without paying
child support, bilk your investors out of millions, beat some guy's
brains to jelly because he's gay or he showed you disrespect Connie
joined in: "crop your baby in a garbage dumpster because you had second
thoughts about the joys of motherhood-" "cheat on your taxes, defraud
the welfare-" "-sell drugs to grade-school kids-" "-abuse your own
daughter, and still claim you're the victim.

Everyone's a victim these days.  No one's a victimizer.  No matter what
atrocity you commit, you can stake a claim for sympathy, moan about
being a victim of racism, reverse racism, sexism, ageism, classism,
prejudice against fat people, ugly people, dumb people, smart people.

That's why you robbed the bank or blew away that cop, because you're a
victim, there're a million ways to be a victim.

Yeah, sure, you devalue the honest complaints of real victims, but what
the hell, we only go around once, might as well get your piece of the
action, and who cares about those real victims anyway, for God's sake,
they're lash" He was coming up fast behind a slow-moving Cadillac.

A passing lane was provided.  But an equally slow-moving Jeep station
wagon with two bumper stickers on the rear window-t TRAVEL WITH JESUS
and BEACHES, BIKINIS & BEER-was blocking the way.

He couldn't cross the double yellow line again because suddenly a
stream of oncoming traffic appeared behind dazzling headlights.

He thought of blowing his horn, trying to make the Caddy or the Jeep
speed up, but he didn't have the patience for that.

The shoulder of the highway was unusually wide at that point, and he
took advantage of it, accelerating hard as he pulled off the pavement,
passing the Cadillac on the right side.  Even a- he was doing it, he
couldn't believe he was doing it.  Neither could the driver of the
Cadillac; Harry looked over to his left and saw the man staring at
him.

in astonishment, a funny little guy with a pencil mustache and a bad
toupee.  A soft bank of eroded earth, hung with ice plant and wild ivy,
pressed close on the right side of the Honda.  It was just inches away
from the door even where the shoulder was broad ... and then the
shoulder began to narrow.  The Cadillac dropped back, trying to get out
of his way.  Harry accelerated, and the shoulder shrank further.  A
California Highway Department NO STOPPINC sign appeared directly ahead
of him and was absolutely certain to stop him if he hit it.  He swerved
off the diminishing shoulder, onto the blacktop again, fish tailing in
front of the Caddy, got control, and continued north with the Pacific
vastness to his left, as black as his mood.

"Way cooln' Connie said.

He didn't know if she was being sarcastic or approving.  With her love
of speed and risk, it could be either.

"What I'm saying," he told her, struggling to keep his anger white-hot,
"is that I don't want to be like that, always pointing the finger
somewhere else.  When I'm responsible, I want to choke on my
responsibility."

"I hear you."

"I'm responsible for Ricky."

"Whatever you say."

"If I'd been smarter, he'd still be alive."

"Whatever."

He's on my "Fine with me."

"I'm responsible."

"And I'm sure you'll rot in Hell for it."

He couldn't help it: he laughed.  The laughter was dark, and for a
moment he was afraid it was going to turn into tears for Ricky, but she
was not about to let that happen.

She said, "Sit for eternity in a pit of dog vomit, if that's what you
think you deserve."

Though Harry wanted to keep his rage at full blaze, it was dimming-as
it should.  He glanced at her and laughed harder.

She said, "You're such a bad guy, you'll have to eat maggots and drink
demon bile for, oh, maybe a thousand years-" "I hate demon bile-" She
was laughing, too: "-and for sure you'll have to let Satan give you a
high colonic-" "-and watch Hudson Hawk ten thousand times-" "Oh, no,
even Hell has its limits."

They were both howling now, letting off steam, and the laughter didn't
fade for a while.

When silence finally settled between them, Connie was the one to break
it: "You okay?"

"I feel rotten."

"But better?"

"A little."

"You'll be okay."

He said, "I will be, I guess."

"Of course you will.  When everything's said and done, maybe that's the
real tragedy.  Somehow we grow scabs over all the hurts and losses,
even the worst ones, deepest ones.  We go on, and nothing hurts
forever, though sometimes it seems right that it should."

They continued north.  Sea to the left.  Dark hills speckled with house
lights to the right.

They were in Laguna Beach again, but he didn't know where they were
going.  What he wanted to do was keep driving toward the top of the
compass, all the way up the coast, past Santa Barbara, along Big Sur,
over the Golden Gate, into Oregon, Washington, Canada, maybe up into
Alaska, far and away, see some snow and feel the bite of arctic wind,
watch moonlight glimmer on glaciers, then keep right on going across
the Bering Strait, the car handling water with all the magic ease of
some fairy-tale conveyance, then down the frozen coast of what had once
been the Soviet Union, thence into China, stopping for some good
Szechwan cooking.

He said, "Gulliver?"

"Yeah."

"I like you."

"Who doesn't?"

"I mean it."

"Well, I like you too, Lyon."

"Just thought I'd say it."

"Glad you did."

"Doesn't mean we're going steady or anything."

She smiled.  "Good.  By the way, where are we going?"

He resisted suggesting spicy duck in Beijing.  "Ordegard's place.

You wouldn't happen to know the address, I guess."

"I don't just know it-I've been there."

He was surprised.  "When?"

"Between leaving the restaurant and coming back to the office, while
you were typing reports.  Nothing special about the place, creepy, but
I don't think we'll find anything helpful there."

"When you were there before, you didn't know about Ticktock.

Now you'll be looking at things with a different attitude."

"Maybe.  Two blocks ahead, turn right."

He did, and they went up into the hills, along cramped and winding
streets canopied by palms and overgrown eucalyptuses.  A white owl with
a three-foot wingspan swooped from the chimney of one house to the
gabled roof of another, sailing through the night like a lost soul
seeking heaven, and the starless sky pressed down so close that Harry
could almost hear it grinding softly against the high points of the
eastern ridges.

Bryan opened one of the pair of French doors and stepped onto the
master-bedroom balcony.

The doors were unlocked, as were all others in the house.  Though it
was prudent to keep a low profile until he had Become, he feared no
one, never had.  Other boys were cowards, not him.  His power made him
confident to an extent that perhaps no one else in the history of the
world had ever been.  He knew that no one could prevent him from
fulfilling his destiny; his journey to the ultimate throne was
ordained, and all he needed was patience in order to finish Becoming.

The hour before midnight was cool and humid.  The balcony deck was
beaded with dew.  A refreshing breeze swept in from the sea.  His red
robe was belted tightly at the waist, but around his legs the hem
belIed out like a spreading pool of blood.

The lights of Santa Catalina, twenty-six miles to the west, were hidden
by a thick bank of fog lying more than twenty miles offshore and
invisible itself.  In the wake of the rain, the sky remained low,
forbidding any relief from starlight, moonlight.  He could not see his
neighbors' bright windows, for his house sat farthest out on the point,
with the bluff falling away on three sides of the rear yard.

He felt wrapped by a darkness as comforting as his fine silk robe.

The rumble and splash and ceaseless susurration of the surf was
soothing.

Like a sorcerer at a lonely altar high upon a pinnacle of rock, Bryan
closed his eyes and got in touch with his power.

He ceased to feel the cool night air and the chilly dew on the balcony
deck.  He could no longer feel the robe billowing around his legs,
either, or hear the waves breaking on the shore below.

First he reached out to find the five diseased cattle that were
awaiting the axe.  He had marked each of them with a loop of psionic
energy for easy location.  With eyes closed, he felt as if he were
floating high above the earth, and gazing down he saw five special
lights, auras different from all other sources of energy along the
southern coast.  The objects of his blood sport.

Employing clairvoyancer "far-seeing"-he could observe these cattle, one
at a time, as well as their immediate surroundings.

He couldn't hear them, which was occasionally frustrating.  However, he
assumed that he would develop full five-sense clairvoyance when at last
he Became the new god.

Bryan looked in upon Sammy Shamroe, whose torments had been postponed
due to the unanticipated need to deal with the smartass hero cop.  The
booze-soaked loser was not huddled in his crate under the drooping
boughs of alleyway oleander, not sucking down his second double-liter
jug of wine, as Bryan expected.  Instead he was on the move in downtown
Laguna, carrying what appeared to be a thermos bottle, stumbling
drunkenly past shuttered shops, leaning for a moment against the trunk
of a tree to catch his breath and orient himself.  Then he staggered
ten or twenty steps only to lean against a brick wall and hang his
head, evidently considering whether to heave up his guts.  Deciding
against regurgitation, he staggered forth again, blinking furiously,
squinting, head thrust forward, an uncharacteristic look of
determination on his face, as if he had some meaningful destination in
mind, although he was most likely on a random ramble, driven by
irrational ox-stupid motivations that would be explicable only to
someone whose brain, like his, was pickled in alcohol.

Leaving Sam the Sham, Bryan next looked in upon the bigshot hero
jackass and, by association, his bitch-cop partner.  They were in the
hero's Honda, pulling into the driveway of a contemporary house with
weathered-cedar siding and lots of big windows, high in the hills.

They were talking.  Couldn't hear what they were saying.

'nc Animated.  Serious.  The two cops got out of the car, unaware that
they were being observed.  Bryan looked around.  He recognized the
neighborhood because he had lived all his life in Laguna Beach, but he
didn't know to whom the house belonged.

In a few minutes he would visit Lyon and Gulliver more directly.

Finally he tuned in on Janet Marco and her ragamuffin child, where they
were huddled in their dilapidated Dodge in the parking lot beside the
Methodist Church.  The boy appeared to be asleep on the back seat.  The
mother was behind the steering wheel, slumped down in the seat and
against the driver's door.  She was wide awake, keeping a watch on the
night around the car.

He had promised to kill them at dawn, and intended to meet his
self-imposed deadline.  Dealing with them and two cops, after recently
expending.  so much energy to torment and waste Fnrique Estephen, would
be taxing.  But with a nap or two between now and sunrise, with a
couple of bags of potato chips and some cookies and possibly another
sundae, he believed he would be able to crush all of them in ways that
would be wonderfully satisfying.

Ordinarily he would manifest himself through a golem at least two or
three times during the last six hours of the mother's and son's lives,
harassing them to bring the sharpest possible edge to their terror.

Killing was pure pleasure, intense and orgiastic.  But the houraand
sometimes days of torment that preceded most of his killings were
almost as much fun as the moment when, at last, blood flowed.  He was
excited by the fear the cattle showed, by the horror and awe that he
engendered in them; he was thrilled by their stunned disbelief and
hysteria when they failed in their pathetic attempts to hide or run, as
they all did sooner or later.  But withJanet Marco and her boy, he
would have to forego the foreplay, visit them only once more, at dawn,
when they would receive a bill of pain and blood for having polluted
the world with their presence.

Bryan needed to conserve his energy for the bigshot cop.  He wanted the
great and mighty hero to suffer more torment than usual.  Humble him.

Break him.  Reduce him to a begging, sniveling baby There was a coward
in the hotshot hero.  Cowards hid in all of them.  Bryan intended to
make the coward crawl on his belly revealing what a weakling he really
was, a jellyfish, nothing but a fraidy-cat hiding behind his badge and
gun.  Before he killed the two cops, he was going to run them to
exhaustion, take them apart piece by piece, and make them wish they had
never been born.

He stopped far-seeing and withdrew from the Dodge in the church parking
lot.  He returned his full consciousness to his body on the
master-bedroom balcony.

High waves tilted out of the lightless west and crashed onto the shore
below, reminding Bryan Drackman of the gleaming highrises in the cities
of his dreams, which toppled to the pull of his power and drowned
millions of screaming people in tides of glass and splintered steel.

When he had completed his Becoming, he would never need to rest again
or preserve energy His power would be that of the universe, endlessly
renewable and beyond measure.

He returned to the black bedroom and slid the balcony door shut behind
him.

He slipped off his red robe.

Naked, he stretched out on the bed, head propped up on two goose-down
pillows in black silk cases.

A few slow, deep breaths.  Close the eyes.  Make the body limp.

Clear the mind.  Relax.

In less than a minute he was ready to create.  He projected a
substantial measure of his consciousness to the side yard of the modern
house with weathered-cedar siding and big windows, high in the hills,
where the cop's Honda stood in the driveway.

The nearest streetlamp was half a block away.  Shadows were everywhere
and deep.

In the deepest, a section of the lawn began to churn.  The grass folded
into the earth beneath it as if an invisible tilling machine was at
work, and the dirt boiled up with only a soft, wet sound like thick
cake batter being folded over a rubber spatula.  All of it-grass, soil,
stones, dead leaves, earthworms, beetles, a cigar box containing the
feathers and crumbled bones of a pet parakeet buried by a child long
agrose in a swarthy, seething column as tall and broad as a large
man.

Out of that mass, the hulking figure took shape from the top down.

The hair appeared first, tangled and greasy.  Then the beard.

A mouth cracked open.  Crooked, discolored teeth sprouted.  Lips with
oozing sores.

One eye opened.  Yellow.  Malevolent.  Inhuman.

He is in a dark alley, padding along, seeking the scent of the thing
that-will-kill-you, knowing he's lost it but sniffing for it anyway
because of the woman, because of the boy, because he's a good dog,
good.

Empty can, metal smell, rust.  Puddle of rainwater, drops of oil
shining on top.  Dead bee floating in the water.  Interesting.  Not as
interesting as a dead mouse but interesting.

Bees fly, bees buzz, bees hurt you like a cat can hurt you, but this
bee is dead.  First dead bee he's ever seen.  Interesting, that bees
can die.  He can't remember ever seeing a dead cat, either, so now he
wonders if cats can die like bees.

Funny to think maybe cats can die.

What could kill them?

They can go straight up trees and places nothing else can go, and slash
your nose with their sharp claws so fast you don't see it coming, so if
something is out there that kills cats, it can't be good for dogs
either, not good at all, something quicker than cats and mean.

Interesting.

He moves along the alley.

Somewhere in a people place, meat is cooking.  He licks his chops
because he's still hungry Piece of paper.  Candy wrapper.  Smells
good.

He puts a paw on it to hold it down, and licks it.  The wrapper tastes
good.  He licks, licks, licks, but that's all of it, not much, just a
little sweet on the paper.

That's the way it usually is, a few licks or bites and then it's all
gone, seldom as much as he wants, never more than he wants.

He sniffs the paper just to be sure, and it sticks to his nose, so he
shakes his head, flinging the paper free.  It swoops up into the air
and then floats along the alley on the breeze, up and down, side to
side, like a butterfly.  Interesting.  All of a sudden alive and
flying.

How can that be?  Very interesting.  He trots after it, and it floats
up there, so he jumps, snaps at it, misses, and now he wants it, really
wants it, has to have it, jumps, snaps, misses.  What's going on here,
what is this thing?  Just a paper and now it's flying like a
butterfly.

He really really really need it.  He trots and jumps and snaps and gets
it this time, chews on it, but it's only paper, so he spits it out.  He
stares at it, stares and stares at it, waiting, watching, ready to
pounce, not going to be fooled, but it doesn't move any more, dead as
the bee.

PoIicn -wolf thing' The thing-that-will-kill-you.

That strange and hateful scent suddenly comes to him on a breeze from
the sea, and he twitches.  He sniffs, seeking.  The bad thing is out in
the night, standing in the night, somewhere near the sea.

He follows the odor.  At first it is faint, almost fading away at
times, but then it grows stronger.  He begins to get excited.  He is
getting closer, not yet really close, but a little closer all the time,
moving from alley to street to park to alley to street again.  The bad
thing is the strangest, most interesting thing he has ever smelled,
ever.

Bright lights.  Beep-beep-b'eeeeeeep.  Car.  Close.  Could've been dead
in a puddle like a bee.

He chases after the bad thing's scent, moving faster, ears pricked,
alert and watchful, but still relying on his nose.

Then he loses the trail.

He stops, turns, sniffs the air this way and that.  The breeze hasn't
changed direction, still coming off the sea.  But the smell of the bad
thing is no longer on it.  He waits, sniffs, waits, turns, whines in
frustration, and sniffs sniffs sniffs.

The bad thing isn't out in the night any more.  It went in somewhere,
maybe into a people place where the breeze doesn't wash across it.

Like a cat going high up a tree, out of reach.

He stands around for a while, panting, not sure what to do, and then
the most amazing man comes along the sidewalk, stumbling and weaving
back and forth, carrying a funny bottle in one hand, and mumbling to
himself.  The man is putting off more odors than the dog has ever
smelled on one people before, most of them bad, like lots of stinky
people in one body.  Sour wine.  Greasy hair, sour sweat, onions,
garlic, candle smoke, blueberries.  Newspaper ink, oleander.  Damp
khaki.  Damp flannel.  Dried blood, faint people pee, peppermint in one
coat pocket, an old bit of dried ham and moldy bread forgotten in
another pocket, dried mustard, mud, grass, just a little people vomit,
stale beer, rotting canvas shoes, rotten teeth.

Plus he keeps farting as he weaves along, farting and mumbling, leaning
against a tree for a while, farting, then weaving farther and stopping
to lean against the wall of a people place and fart some more.

All of this is interesting, very, but the most interesting thing of all
is that, among the many other odors, the man is carrying a trace of the
bad thing's smell.  He is not the bad thing, no, no, but he knows the
bad thing, is coming from a place where he met the bad thing not long
ago, has the touch of the bad thing on him.

Without a doubt it is that scent, so strange and evil: like the smell
of the sea on a cold night, an iron fence on a hot day, dead mice,
lightning, thunder, spiders, blood, dark holes in the ground-like all
of those things yet not really like any of them.

The man stumbles past him, and he backs off with his tail between his
legs.  But the man doesn't even seem to see him, just weaves on and
turns the corner into an alley.

Interesting.

He watches.

He waits.

Finally he follows.

Harry was uneasy about being in Ordegard's house.  A police notice on
the front door had restricted entrance until the criminal investigation
had been completed, but he and Connie had not followed proper procedure
to get in.  She carried a complete set of lock picks in a small leather
pouch, and she was able to go through Ordegard's locks faster than a
politician could go through a billion dollars.

Ordinarily, Harry was appalled by such methods, and this was the first
time he'd allowed her to use her picks since she'd been his partner.

But there just wasn't enough time to follow the rules; dawn was less
than seven hours away, and they were no closer to finding Ticktock than
they had been hours ago.

The three-bedroom house was not large, but the space was well
designed.

Like the exterior, the interior lacked sharp angles.  All corners were
soft radiuses, and many rooms had at least one curved wall.  Radiused,
extremely shiny white-lacquered moldings were used throughout.

High-gloss white paint had been applied to most walls, too, which lent
the rooms a pearly luster, though the dining room had been
fitix-finished to give the illusion that it was upholstered in plush
beige leather.

The place felt like the interior of a cruise ship, and it should have
been soothing if not cozy.  But Harry was edgy, not just because the
moon-faced killer had lived there or because they had entered
illegally, but for other reasons that he could not pin down.

Maybe the furnishings had something to do with his apprehension.  Every
piece was Scandinavian modern, severe, unornamented, in flat-yellow
maple veneers, as angular as the house was soft-edged and rounded.  The
extreme contrast with the architecture made the sharp edges of the
chair arms and end tables and sofa frames seem as if they were
bristling at him.  The carpet was the thinnest Berber with minimal
padding; if it gave at all underfoot, the resilience was too minor to
be detected.

As they moved through the living room, dining room, den, and kitchen,
Harry noted that no artwork adorned the walls.  There were no
decorative objects of any kind; tables were utterly bare except for
plain ceramic lamps in white and black.  No books or magazines were to
be found anywhere.

The rooms had a monastic feel, as if the person living in them was
doing long-term penance for his sins.

Ordegard seemed to be a man of two distinct characters.  The organic
lines and textures of the house itself described a resident who had a
strong sensual nature, who was easy with himself and his emotions,
relaxed and self-indulgent to some extent.  On the other hand, the
relentless sameness of the furniture and utter lack of ornamentation
indicated that he was cold, hard on himself and others, introverted,
and brooding.

"What do you think?"  Connie asked as they entered the hall that served
the bedrooms.

"Creepy" "I told you.  But why exactly?"

"The contrasts ... . too extreme."

"Yeah.  And it just doesn't look lived-in."

Finally in the master bedroom, there was a painting on the wall
directly opposite the bed.  Ordegard would have seen it first thing
upon waking and last thing before falling asleep each night.  It was a
reproduction of a famous work of art with which Harry was familiar,
though he had no idea what the title was.  He thought the artist was
Francisco de Goya; that much had stuck with him from Art Appreciation
101.  The work was menacing, abrasive to the nerves, conveying a sense
of horror and despair, not least of all because it included the figure
of a giant, demonic ghoul in the act of devouring a bloody and headless
human body Profoundly disturbing, brilliantly composed and executed, it
was without doubt a major work of art-but more suited to the walls of a
museum than to a private home.  It needed to be dwarfed by a huge
exhibition space with vaulted ceiling; here, in this room of ordinary
dimensions, the painting was too overpowering, its dark energy almost
paralyzing.

Connie said, "Which do you think he identified with?"

"What do you mean?"

"The ghoul or the victim?"

He thought about it.  "Both."

"Devouring himself" "Yeah.  Being devoured by his own madness."

"And unable to stop."

"Maybe worse than unable.  Unwilling.  Sadist and masochist rolled up
in one."

Connie said, "But how does any of this help us figure out what's been
happening?"

Harry said, "As far as I can see, it doesn't."

"Ticktock," said the hobo.

When they spun around in surprise at hearing the low gravelly voice,
the vagrant was only inches away.  He could not have crept so close
without alerting them, yet there he was.

Ticktock's right arm slammed across Harry's chest with what seemed like
as much force as the steel boom of a construction crane.

He was hurled backward.  He crashed into the wall hard enough to make
the bedroom windows vibrate in their frames, his teeth snapping
together so forcefully that he would have bitten his tongue off if it
had been in the way.  He collapsed on his face, sucking up dust and
carpet fibers, struggling to recapture the breath that had been knocked
out of him.

With tremendous effort, he raised his face from the Berber, and saw
that Connie had been lifted off her feet.  Ticktock pinned her against
the wall and shook her furiously.  The back of her head and the heels
of her shoes drummed the Sheetrock.

Ricky, now Connie.

First everyone your...

Harry got up as far as his hands and knees, choking on carpet fibers
that were stuck to the back of his throat.  Every cough sent a quiver
of pain through his chest, and he felt as if his rib cage was a vise
that had closed around his heart and lungs.

Ticktock was screaming in Connie's face, words Harry couldn't
understand because his ears were ringing.

Gunfire.

She had managed to draw her revolver and empty it into her assailant's
neck and face.  The slugs jolted him slightly but didn't loosen his
grip on her.

Grimacing at the pain in his chest, pawing at a stark Danish modern
dresser, Harry lurched to his feet.  Dizzy wheezing.  He pulled his own
gun, knowing it would be ineffective against this adversary Still
shouting and holding Connie off the floor, Ticktock swung her away from
the wall and threw her at the two sliding glass doors to the balcony.

She exploded through one of them as if she had been shot from a cannon,
and the pane of tempered glass dissolved into tens of thousands of
gummy fragments.

No.  It couldn't happen to Connie.  He couldn't lose Connie.

Unthinkable.

Harry fired twice.  Two ragged holes appeared in the back of Ticktock's
black raincoat.

The vagrant's spine should have been shattered.  Bone and lead shrapnel
should have skewered all of his vital organs.  He should have gone down
like King Kong taking the plunge off the Empire State Building.

Instead, he turned.

Didn't cry out in pain.  Didn't even wobble.

He said, "Bigshot hero."

How he could still talk was a mystery, maybe a miracle.  In his throat
was a bullet wound the size of a silver dollar.

Connie had also blown away part of his face.  Missing tissue left a
large concavity on the left side, from jaw line to just under the eye
socket, and his left ear was gone.

No blood flowed.  No bone lay exposed.  The meat of him was not red but
brown-black and strange.

His smile was more terrible than ever because the disintegration of his
left cheek had exposed his rotten teeth all the way back along the side
of his face.  Within that calcium cage, his tongue squirmed like a fat
eel in a fisherman's trap.

"Think you're so bad, big hero cop, bigshot tough guy," Ticktock
said.

In spite of his deep and raspy voice, he sounded curiously like a
schoolboy issuing a challenge to a playground fight, and even his
fearsome appearance could not entirely conceal that childish quality in
his demeanor.  "But you're nothing, you're nobody just a scared little
man."

Ticktock stepped toward him.

Harry pointed the revolver at the huge assailant and-was sitting on a
chair in James Ordegard's kitchen.  The gun was still in his hand, but
the muzzle was pressed to the underside of his chin, as if he were
about to commit suicide.  The steel was cold against his skin, and the
gunsight dug painfully at his chin bone.

His finger was curled around the trigger.

Dropping the revolver as if he had discovered a poisonous snake in his
hand, he bolted up from the chair.

He had no memory of going to the kitchen, pulling the chair out from
the table, and sitting down.  In the blink of an eye, he seemed to have
been transported there and encouraged to the brink of
selfdestruction.

Ticktock was gone.

The house was silent.  Unnaturally silent.

Harry moved toward the door -and was sitting on the same chair as
before, the gun in his hand again, the muzzle in his mouth, his teeth
biting down on the barrel.

Stunned, he took the .38 out of his mouth and put it on the floor
beside the chair.  His palm was damp.  He blotted it on his slacks.

He got to his feet.  His legs were shaky He broke into a sweat, and the
sour taste of half-digested pizza rose in the back of his mouth.

Although he didn't understand what was happening to him, he knew for
certain that he did not have a suicidal urge.  He wanted to live:
Forever, if possible.  He would not have put the barrel of the gun
between his lips, not voluntarily, not in a million years.

He wiped one trembling hand down his damp face and ø was on the chair
again, holding the revolver, the muzzle pressed to his right eye,
staring into the dark barrel.  Five steely inches of eternity.  Finger
around the trigger.

Sweet Jesus.

His heart knocked so hard that he could feel it in every bruise on his
body Carefully he put the revolver in his shoulder holster, under his
rumpled coat.

He felt as if he were caught in a spell.  Magic seemed to be the only
explanation for what was happening to him.  Sorcery witchcraft, voodohe
was suddenly willing to believe in all of it, as long as believing
would buy a pardon from the sentence that Ticktock had pronounced on
him.

He licked his lips.  They were chapped, dry, burning.  He looked at his
hands, which were pale, and he figured that his face was even paler.

After getting shakily to his feet, he hesitated briefly, then started
toward the door.  He was surprised to reach it without being returned
inexplicably to the chair.

He remembered the four expended bullets that he had found in his shirt
pocket after shooting the vagrant four times, and he recalled as well
the discovery of the newspaper under his arm as he'd walked out of the
convenience store earlier in the night.  Finding himself three times in
the kitchen chair with no recollection of having gone to it was, he
sensed, merely the result of a different application of the same trick
that had put those slugs in his pocket and the paper under his arm.  An
explanation of how the effect was achieved seemed almost within his
grasp... but remained elusive.

When he edged out of the kitchen without further incident, he decided
that the spell was broken.  He rushed to the master bedroom, wary of
encountering Ticktock, but the vagrant seemed to have gone.

He was afraid of finding Connie dead, her head turned around backward
like Ricky's had been, eyes torn out.

She was sitting on the balcony floor in glittering puddles of tempered
glass, still alive, thank God, holding her head in her hands and
groaning softly.  Her short dark hair fluttered in the night breeze,
shiny and soft.  Harry wanted to touch her hair, stroke it.

Crouching beside her, he said, "You all right?"

"Where is he?"

"Gone."

"I want to tear his lungs out.

Harry almost laughed with relief at her bravado.

She said, "Tear 'em out and stuff 'em where the sun don't shine, make
him breathe through his ass from now on.

"Probably wouldn't stop him."

"Slow him down some."

"Maybe not even that."

"Where the hell did he come from?"

"Same place he went.  Thin air."

She groaned again.

Harry said, "You sure you're all right?"

She finally raised her face from her hands.  The right corner of her
mouth was bleeding, and the sight of her blood made him shiver with
rage as much as with fear.  That whole side of her face was red, as if
she had been slapped hard and repeatedly.  It would probably darken
with bruises by tomorrow.

If they lived to see tomorrow.

"Man, could I use some aspirin," she said.

"Me, too."

From his coat pocket, Harry removed the bottle of Ahacin that he had
borrowed from her medicine cabinet a few hours ago.

"A genuine Boy Scout," she said.

"I'll get you some water."

"I can get it myself."

Harry helped her to her feet.  Bits of glass fell from her hair and
clothes.

When they stepped inside from the balcony, Connie paused to look at the
painting on the bedroom wall.  The headless human corpse.  The hungry
ghoul with mad, staring eyes.

"Ticktock had yellow eyes," she said.  "Not like before, outside the
restaurant when he panhandled me.  Yellow eyes, bright, with black
slits for pupils."

They headed for the kitchen to get water to chase the Anacin.

Harry had the irrational feeling that the ghoul's eyes in the Goya
painting turned to watch as he and Connie passed by, and that the
monster climbed out of the canvas and crept after them through the dead
man's house.

Sometimes when he was weary from exercising his powers, Bryan Drackman
grew sullen and petulant.  He didn't like anything.  If the night was
cool, he wanted it warm; if it was warm, he wanted it cool.

Ice cream tasted too sweet, corn chips too salty, chocolate far too
chocolaty.  The feel of clothes against his skin, even a silk robe, was
intolerably irritating, yet he felt vulnerable and strange when he was
naked.  He didn't want to stay in the house, didn't want to go out.

When he looked at himself in the mirror, he didn't like what he saw,
and when he stood in front of the jars full of eyes, he had the feeling
that they were mocking rather than adoring him.  He knew he should
sleep in order to restore his energy and improve his mood, but he
loathed the world of dreams as much as he despised the waking world.

This crabbiness escalated until he became quarrelsome.  Because he had
no one with whom to quarrel in his seaside sanctum, his temper could
not be vented.  Irascibility intensified into anger.

Anger became blind rage.

Too exhausted to work off his rage in physical activity, he sat naked
in his black bed, propped against pillows covered in black silk, and
allowed wrath to consume him.  He closed his hands into fists on his
thighs, squeezed tighter, tighter, until his fingernails dug painfully
into his palms and until the muscles in his arms ached from the
exertion.  He pounded his thighs with his fists, knuckle first to hurt
the most, then his abdomen, then his chest.  He twisted strands of hair
around his fingers and pulled on it until tears blurred his vision.

His eyes.  He hooked his fingers, pressed the nails against his
eyelids, and tried to generate enough courage to gouge his eyes out,
tear them loose and crush them in his fists.

e didn't understand why he was overcome by the urge to blind himself,
but the compulsion was powerful.

Irrationality seized him.

He wailed, tossed his head in anguish and thrashed upon the black
sheets, kicked and flailed, screamed and spat, cursed with a fluidity
and vehemence that made his tantrum appear to be the work of some spawn
of Hell that had possessed him.  He cursed the world and himself, but
most of all he cursed the bitch, the breeding bitch, the stupid hateful
breeding bitch.  His mother.

His mother.

Rage abruptly turned to piteous distress, and his furious cries and
hate-filled screams shivered into agonized sobs.  He curled into the
fetal position, hugging his pummeled and aching body, and he wept as
intensely as he had shrieked and flailed, as passionate in his self
pity as he had been in his wrath.

It wasn't fair, not fair at all, what was expected of him.  He had to
Become without the company of a brother, without the guiding hand of a
carpenter father, without the tender mercy of his mother.

Jesus, while Becoming, had enjoyed the perfect love of Mary, but there
was no Holy Virgin this time, no radiant Madonna at his side.

This time there was a hag, withered and debilitated by her greedy
appetites and self-indulgence, who turned from him in loathing and
fear, unable and unwilling to provide comfort.  It was so unfair, so
bitterly unjust, that he should be expected to Become and remake the
world without the adoring disciples who had stood at the side of Jesus,
and without a mother like Mary, Queen of Angels.

Gradually his wretched sobbing subsided.

The flow of tears slowed, dried up.

He lay in miserable solitude.

He needed to sleep.

Since his most recent nap, he had created a golem to kill Ricky
Estefan, built another golem to tie the silver buckle to the rearview
mirror of Lyon's Honda, practiced godhood by bringing to life the
flying reptile from the sand on the beach, and created yet another
golem to terrorize the bigshot hero cop and his partner.  He had also
used his Greatest and Most Secret Power to put the spiders and snakes
in Ricky Estefan's kitchen cabinets, to place the broken head of the
religious figurine in Connie Gulliver's tightly clenched hand, and to
drive Lyon half crazy by returning him three times to that kitchen
chair in various suicidal postures.

Bryan giggled at the memory of Harry Lyon's utter confusion and fear.

Stupid cop.  Big hero.  Almost peed his pants in terror.

Bryan giggled again.  He rolled over and buried his face in a pillow as
the giggling built.

Almost peed his pants.  Some hero.

Pretty soon he had stopped feeling sorry for himself.  He was in a much
better mood.

He was still exhausted, needed to sleep, but he was also hungry.

He had burned up a tremendous number of calories in the exercise of his
power and had lost a couple of pounds.  Until he quelled his hunger
pangs, he would not be able to sleep.

Pulling on his red silk robe, he went downstairs to the kitchen.  He
took a package of Mallomars, a package of Oreos, and a large bag of
onion-flavored potato chips from the pantry.  From the refrigerator he
got two bottles of Yoo-Hoo, one chocolate and one vanilla.

He carried the food through the living room and outside, to the
Mexican-tile patio, part of which was overhung by the master bedroom
balcony on the second story.  He sat on a lounge chair near the
railing, so he could see the dark Pacific.

As Tuesday ticked past midnight and became Wednesday, the breeze off
the ocean was cool, but Bryan didn't mind.  Grandma Drackman would have
nagged him about catching pneumonia.  But if it became too chilly he
was able with little effort to make some adjustments in his metabolism
and raise his body temperature.

He washed down the whole bag of Mallomars with vanilla YooHoo.

He could eat what he wanted.

He could do what he wanted.

Although Becoming was a lonely process, and although it seemed unfair
to be without his admiring disciples and his own Holy Mother, all was
for the best in the end.  While Jesus was a god of compassion and
healing, Bryan was meant to be a god of wrath and cleansing; for this
reason, it was desirable that he Become in solitude, without having
been softened by a mother's love, without being encumbered by teachings
of solicitude and mercy.

So this stinky man, stirkier than rotten oranges dropped off a tree and
full of squirming things, stinkier than a three-day-dead mouse,
stinkier than anything, stinky enough to make you sneeze when you smell
too much of him, goes from street to street and into an alley, trailing
clouds of odors.

The dog follows a few steps back, curious, keeping his distance,
sniffing out the trace of the thing-that-will-kill-you which is mixed
in with all the other smells.

They stop at the back of a place where people make food.

Good smells, almost stronger than the stinky man, hungry making smells,
lots of them, lots.  Meat, chicken, carrots, cheese.

Cheese is good, sticks in the teeth but is real good, much better than
old chewing gum from the street which sticks in the teeth but isn't so
good.  Bread, peas, sugar, vanilla, chocolate, and more to make your
jaws ache and your mouth water.

Sometimes he comes to food places like this, wagging his tail, whining,
and they give him something good.  But most of the time they chase him,
throw things, shout, stamp their feet.  People are strange about a lot
of things, one of which is food.  A lot of them guard their food, don't
want you to have any-then they throw some of it away in cans where they
let it go stinky and sick-making.  If you knock over the cans to get
the food before it goes all sick-making, people come runnlug and
shouting and chasing like they think you're a cat or something.

He is not for fun chasing.  Cats are for fun chasing.  He is not a
cat.

He is a dog.  This seems so obvious to him.

People can be strange.

Now the stinky man knocks on a door, knocks again, and the door is
opened by a fat man dressed in white and all surrounded by clouds of
hungry-making smells.

Dear God, Sammy, you're a biger mess than usual, says the fat man in
white.

Just some coffee, says the stinky man, holding out the bottle he's
carrying.  Don't want to bother you, really, I feel bad about this, but
I need a little coffee.

I remember when you first started out yean a Some coffee to sober me
up.

working with that little ad agency in N Beach Gotta get sober fast
before you moved to the big time in L.A you were always so sharp a real
dresser, the best clothes.

Gonna die -I don't get sober.

You've the truth there, says the fat man.

Just a thermos of coffee, Andy please.

You're not going to get sober with coffee alone.  I'll bring you some
food, you promise you'll eat it.

Yeah, sure, sure I will, and some coffee, please.

Step aside there, away from the door Don't want the bois to see you,
realize I'm giving you anything.

Sure, Andy, sure.  I appreciate it, really, ':ause I just gotta get
sober The fat man looks behind and to one side of the stinky man, and
he says, You got a dog now' Sammy?

Huh?  Me?  A dog?  Hell, no.

The stinky man turns, looks, is surprised.

Maybe the stinky man would kick at him or chase him away, but the fat
man is different.  The fat man is nice.  Anybody who smells of so many
good things to eat must be nice.

The fat man leans forward in the doorway, with light from the food
place behind him.  In a people-who-will-feed-you voice, he says, Hi
there,fella, how you doin'?

Just people noises.  He doesn't really understand any of this, it's
just people noises.

So he wags his tail, which he knows people always like, and he tilts
his head and puts on the look that usually makes them go ahhhhh.

The fat man says, Ahbhhh, you don't belong on the street, fella.  What
kind of people woisll abandon a nice mutt like you?  You hunery?  Bet
you are.  I can take care of that, fella.

Fella is one of the things people call him, the one they call him most
often.  He remembers being called Prince when he was a puppy, by a
little girl that liked him, but that's long ago.  The woman and her boy
call him Woofer, but Fella is what he hears the most.

He wags his tail harder and whines to show he likes the fat man.

And he just sort of quivers all over to show how harmless he is, a good
dog, a very good dog, good.  People like that.

The fat man says something to the stinky man, then disappears into the
food place, letting the door go shut.

Gotta get sober; the stinky man says, but he's just talking to
himself.

Time to wait.

Just waiting is hard.  Waiting for a cat in a tree is harder.  And
waiting for food is the hardest waiting of all.  The time from when
people seem to be going to give you food until when they really do give
it to you is always so long that it seems like you could chase a cat,
chase a car, sniff out every other dog in the territory, chase your
tail until you're dizzy, turn over lots of cans full of sick-making
food, and maybe sleep a while and still have to wait before they come
back with what you can eat.

I've seen things people got to know about, says the stinky man.

Staying away from the man, still wagging his tail, he tries not to
smell all the smells that are coming out of the food place, which only
make the waiting harder.  But the smells keep coming.  He can't not
smell them.

The ratman is real.  He's real.

At last the fat man returns with the strange bottle and a bag for the
stinky man-and with a plate heaped with scraps.

Wagging his tail, shivering, he thinks the scraps are for him, but he
doesn't want to be too bold, doesn't want to go for the scraps and then
they aren't for him and then the fat man takesakick at him oF
something.  He waits.  He whines so the fat man won't forget about
him.

Then the fat man puts the plate down, which means the scraps are for
him, and this is good, this is very good, oh, this is the best.

He slinks up to the plate, snatches at the food.  Ham.  Beef.  Chunks
of bread soaked in gravy.  Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.

The fat man squats down, wants to pet him, scratch behind his ears, so
he lets that happen though he's a little spooked.  Some people, they
tease you with food, hold it out to you, give it to you, make like they
want to pet you, then they swat you on the nose or kick you or worse.

Once he remembers some boys who had food for him, laughing boys, happy
boys.  Pieces of meat.  Hand-feeding him.  Nice boys.  All of them
petting him, scratching behind his ears.  He sniffed them, smelled
nothing wrong.  Licked their hands.  Happy boys, smelling like summer
sun, sand, sea salt.  He stood on his hind legs, and he chased his
tail, and he fell over his own feet-all to make them laugh, please
them.  And they did laugh.  They wrestled with him.  He even rolled on
his back.  Exposed his belly.  Let them rub his belly.

Nice boys.  Maybe one of them would take him home, feed him every
day.

Then they grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and one of them had
fire on a little stick, and they were trying to light his fur.

He squirmed, squealed, whined, tried to get free.  The fire stick went
out.  They lit another one.  He could have bit at them.  But that would
have been bad.  He was a good dog.  Good.  He smelled burnt fur but
didn't quite catch fire, so they had to light another fire stick, and
then he got away.  He ran out of their reach.  Looked back at them.

Laughing boys.  Smelling of sun, sand, and sea salt.  Happy boys.

Pointing at him and laughing.

Most people are nice but others are not nice.  Sometimes he can smell
the not-nice ones right away.  They smell... like cold things like
ice... like winter metal.  .. like the sea when it's gray and no sun
and people all gone from the beach.  But other times, the not nice
people smell just like the nice ones.  People are the most interesting
things in the world.  They are also the scariest.

The fat man behind the food place is a nice one.  No hitting on the
nose.  No kicking.  No fire.  Just good food, yes yes yes yes, and a
nice laugh when you lick his hands.

Finally the fat man makes it clear that there is no more food right
now.  You stand on your hind feet, you whine, whimper, roll over and
expose your belly sit up and beg, do your little dance in a circle,
tilt your head, wag wag wag wag your tail, shake your head and flap
your ears, do all your little food-getting tricks, but you can't get
anything more out of him.  He goes inside, closes the door.

Well, you are full.  Don't need more food.

Doesn't mean you can't want more.

So wait anyway.  At the door.

He's a nice man.  He'll come back.  How can he forget you, your little
dance and wagging tail and begging whine?

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.  Wait.

Gradually he remembers that he was doing something interesting when he
came upon the fat man with the food.  But what?

Interesting...

Then he remembers: the stinky man.

The strange stinky man is at the far end of the alley, at the corner,
sitting on the ground between two shrubs, his back against the wall of
the food place.  He is eating out of a bag, drinking out of a big
bottle.  Coffee smell.  Food.

Food.

He trots toward the stinky man because maybe he can get some more to
eat, but then he stops because he suddenly smells the bad thing.  On
the stinky man.  But on the night air, too.  Very strong again, that
scent, cold and terrible, carried on the breeze.

The thing-that-will-kill-you is outside again.

No longer wagging his tail, he turns away from the stinky man and
hurries through the night streets, following that one scent among
thousands of others, moving toward where the land disappears, where
there is only sand and then water, toward the rumbling, cold, dark,
dark sea.

James Ordegard's neighbors, like those of Ricky Estefan, did not
acknowledge the commotion next door.  The gunfire and shattering glass
elicited no response.  When Harry opened the front door and looked up
and down the street, the night remained calm, and no sirens rose in the
distance.

It seemed as if the confrontation with Ticktock had taken place in a
dream to which only Harry and Connie were privy.  However, they had
plenty of proof that the encounter had been real: expended shell
casings in their revolvers; broken glass all over the master-bedroom
balcony; cuts, scrapes, and various tender spots that would later
become bruises.

Harry's first urge-and Connie's to-was to get the hell out of there
before the vagrant returned.  But they both knew that Ticktock could
find them as easily elsewhere, and they needed to learn what they could
from the aftermath of their confrontation with him.

In James Ordegard's bedroom again, under the malevolent stare of the
ghoul in the Goya painting, Harry looked for one more proof.

Blood.

nnie had shot Ticktock at least three times, maybe four, at close
range.  A portion of his face had been blown away, and there had been a
substantial wound in his throat.  After the vagrant had thrown Connie
through the sliding glass door, Harry had pumped two rounds into his
back.

Blood should have been splattered as liberally as beer at a frat house
party Not one drop of it was visible on the walls or carpet.

"Well?"  Connie asked from the doorway holding a glass of water.

The Anacins had stuck in her throat.  She was still trying to wash them
all the way down.  Or maybe she had gotten the pills down easily
enough, and something else had stuck in her throatlike fear, which she
usually had no trouble swallowing.  "Did you find anything?"

"No blood.  Just this... dirt, I guess it is."

The stuff certainly felt like moist earth when he crumbled it between
is fingertips, smelled like it, too.  Clots and spriles were scattered
across the carpet and the bedspread.

Harry moved around the room in a crouch, pausing at the larger clumps
of dirt to poke at them with one finger.

"This night's going too fast," Connie said.

"Don't tell me the time," he said without looking up.

She told him anyway.  "Few minutes past midnight.  Witching hour."

"For sure."

He kept moving, and in one small mound of dirt, he found an
earthworm.

It was still moist, glistening, but dead.

He uncovered a wad of decaying vegetable matter, which seemed to be
ficus leaves.  They peeled apart like layers of filio dough in a Mid
eastern pastry.  A small black beetle with stiff legs and jewelgreen
eyes was entombed in the center of them.

Near one of the nightstands, Harry found a slightly misshapen lead
slug, one of the rounds that Connie had pumped into Ticktock.

Damp earth clung to it.  He picked it up and rolled it between his
thumb and forefinger, staring at it thoughtfully.

Connie came farther into the room to see what he had discovered.

"What do you make of it?"

"I don't know exactly... though maybe..."

"What?"

He hesitated, looking around at the soil on the carpet and the
bedspread.

He was recalling certain folk legends, fairy tales of a fashion,
although with even a stronger religious overtone than those of Hans
Christian Andersen.  Judaic in origin, if he wasn't mistaken.  Tales of
cabalistic magic.

He said, "If you gathered up all this dirt and debris, if you packed it
together real tight... do you think it would be just exactly the right
amount of material to fill in the wound in his throat and the hole in
the side of his face?"

Frowning, Connie said, "Maybe.  So ... what're you saying?"

He stood and pocketed the slug.  He knew that he didn't have to remind
her about the inexplicable pile of dirt in Ricky Estefan's living roomr
about the exquisitely sculpted hand and coat sleeve sprouting from
it.

"I'm not sure what I'm saying just yet," Harry told her "I need to
think about it a little more."

As they passed through Ordegard's house, they turned off the lights.

The darkness they left behind seemed alive.

Outside in the post-midnight world, ocean air washed the land without
cleansing it.  Wind off the Pacific had always felt crisp and clean to
Harry but no longer.  He had lost his faith that the chaos of life was
continuously swept into order by the forces of nature.

Tonight the cool breeze made him think of unclean things: graveyard
granite, fleshless bones in the eternal embrace of gelid earth, the
shiny carapaces of beetles that fed on dead flesh.

He was battered and tired; perhaps exhaustion accounted for this new
somber and portentous turn of mind.  Whatever the cause, he was
drifting toward Connie's view that chaos, not order, was the natural
state of things and that it could not be resisted, only ridden in the
manner that a surfer rides a towering and potentially deadly wave.

On the lawn, between the front door and the driveway where he had
parked the Honda, they almost walked into a large mound of raw earth.

It had not been there when they had first gone inside.

Connie got a flashlight from the glove compartment of the Honda,
returned, and directed the beam on the mound, so Harry could examine it
more closely.  First he carefully circled the pile, studying it
closely, but he could find no hand or other human feature molded from
it.  Deconstruction had been complete this time.

Scraping at the dirt with his hands, however, he uncovered clusters of
dead and rotting leaves like the wad he had discovered in Ordegard's
bedroom.  Grass, stones, dead earthworms.  Soggy pieces of a moldering
cigar box.  Pieces of roots and twigs.  Thin parakeet bones, including
the fragile calcium lace of one folded wing.  Harry wasn't sure what he
expected to find: maybe a heart sculpted from mud with all the detail
of the hand they had seen in Ricky's living room, and still beating
with strange malignant life.

In the car, after he started the engine, he switched on the heater.  A
deep chill had settled in him.

Waiting to get warm, staring at the black mound of earth on the dark
lawn, Harry told Connie about that vengeful monster of legend and
lolklorothe golem.  She listened without comment, even less skeptical
about this astonishing possibility than she had been at her apartment,
earlier in the night, when he had raved on about a sociopath with
psychic abilities and the demonic power to possess other people.

When he finished, she said, "So he makes a golem and uses it to kill,
while he stays safe somewhere."

"Maybe."

"Makes a golem out of dirt."

"Or sand or old brush or maybe just about anything."

"Makes it with the power of his mind."

Harry didn't respond.

She said, "With the power of his mind or with magic like in the
folktales?"

"Jesus, I don't know.  It's all so crazy" "And you still think he can
also possess people, use them like puppets?"

"Probably not.  No proof of it so far."

"What about Ordegard?"

"I don't think there's any connection between Ordegard and this
Ticktock."

"Oh?  But you wanted to go to the morgue because you thought-" "I did,
but I don't now.  Ordegard was just an ordinary, garden variety,
pre-millennium nutcase.  When I blew him away in the attic yesterday
afternoon, that was the end of it."

"But Ticktock showed up here at Ordegard's" "Because we were here.  He
knows how to find us somehow.  He came here because we were here, not
because he has anything to do with James Ordegard."

A forced stream of hot air poured out of the dashboard vents.  It
washed over him without melting the ice he imagined he could feel in
the pit of his stomach.

"We just ran into two psychos within a couple of hours of each other,"
Harry said.  "First Ordegard, then this guy It's been a bad day for the
home team, that's all."

"One for the record books," Connie agreed.  "But if Ticktock isn't
Ordegard, if he wasn't angry with you for shooting Ordegard, why'd he
fixate on you?  Why's he want you dead?"

"I don't know."

"Back at your place, before he burned it down, didn't he say you
couldn't shoot him and think that was the end of it?"

"Yeah, that's part of what he said."  Harry tried to recall the rest of
what the vagrant-golem had thundered at him, but the memory was
elusive.  "Now that I think of it, he never mentioned Ordegard's
name.

I just assumed.  ... No.  Ordegard's been a false trail."

He was afraid she was going to ask how they could pick up the real
trail, the right one, that would lead them to Ticktock But she must
have realized that he was completely at a loss, because she didn't put
him on the spot.

"It's getting too hot in here," she said.

He lowered the temperature control on the heater.

At the bone, he was still chilled.

In the light from the instrument panel, he noticed his hands.

They were coated with grime, like the hands of a man who, buried
prematurely, had desperately clawed his way out of a fresh grave.

Harry backed the Honda out of the driveway and drove slowly down
through the steep hills of Laguna.  The streets in those residential
neighborhoods were virtually deserted at that late hour.

Most of the houses were dark.  For all they knew, they might have been
descending through a modern ghost town, where all of the residents had
vanished like the crew of the old sailing ship Mary CeI'ste, beds empty
in the darkened houses, televisions aglow in deserted family
rooms,midnight snacks laid out on plates in silent kitchens where no
one remained to eat.

He glanced at the dashboard clock.  12:18.

Little more than six hours until dawn.

"I'm so tired I can't think straight," Harry said.  "And, damn it, I've
got to think."

"Let's find some coffee, something to eat.  Get our energy back" "Yeah,
all right.  Where?"

"The Green House.  Pacific Coast Highway.  It's one of the few places
open this late."

"Green House.  Yeah, I know it."

After a silence during which they descended another hill, Connie said,
"You know what I found weirdest about Ordegard's house?"

"What?"

"It reminded me of my apartment."

"Really?  How?"

"Don't shine me on, Harry.  You saw both places tonight."

Harry had noticed a certain similarity, but he hadn't wanted to think
about it.  "He has more furniture than you do."

"Not a whole damn lot more.  No knickknacks, none of what they call
decorative pieces, no family photos.  One piece of art hanging in his
place, one in mine."

"But there's a big difference, a huge difference-you've got that
sky-diver's eye-view poster, bright, exhilarating, gives you a sense of
freedom just to look at it, nothing like that ghoul chewing on human
body parts."

"I'm not so sure.  The painting in his bedroom's about death, human
fate.  Maybe my poster isn't so exhilarating, really.  Maybe what it's
really about is death, too, about falling and falling and never opening
the chute."

Harry glanced away from the street.  Connie wasn't looking at him.  Her
head was tilted back, eyes closed.

"You're not any more suicidal than I am," he said.

"How do you know?"

"I know."

"The hell you do."

He stopped at a red traffic light at Pacific Coast Highway, and looked
at her again.  She still hadn't opened her eyes.  "Connie-" "I've
always been chasing freedom.  And what is the ultimate freedom?"

"Tell me."

"The ultimate freedom is death."

"Don't get Freudian on me, Gulliver.  One thing I've always liked about
you is, you don't try to psychoanalyze everyone."

To her credit, she smiled, evidently remembering that she had used
those words on him in the burger restaurant after the shooting of
Ordegard, when he had wondered if she was as hard inside as she
pretended to be.

She opened her eyes, checked the traffic light.  "Green."

"I'm not ready to go."

She looked at him.

He said, "First I want to know if you're just jiving or if you really
think you've got something in common with a fruitcake like Ordegard."

"All this shit I go on about, how you have to love chaos, have to
embrace it?  Well, maybe you do, if you want to survive in this
screwed-up world.  But tonight I've been thinking maybe I used to like
surfing on it because, secretly, I hoped it would wipe me out one
day."

"Used to?"

"I don't seem to have the same taste for chaos that I once did."

"Ticktock give you your fill of it?"

"Not him.  It's just... earlier, right after work, before your condo
was burned down and everything went to hell, I discovered I've got a
reason to live that I never knew about."

The light had turned red again.  A couple of cars wbooshed past on the
coast highway, and she watched them go.

Harry said nothing because he was afraid that any interruption would
discourage her from finishing what she had begun to tell him.

In six months, her arctic reserve had never thawed until, for the
briefest moment in her apartment, she had seemed about to disclose
something both private and profound.  She had quickly frozen again; but
now the face of the glacier was cracking.  His desire to be let into
her world was so intense that it revealed as much about his own need
for connections as it did about the extent to which she had heretofore
guarded her privacy; he was prepared to expend all of his last six
hours of life at that traffic light, if necessary, waiting for her to
provide him with a better understanding of the special woman that he
believed existed under the hard veneer of the streetwise cop.

"I had a sister," she said.  "Never knew about her until recently.

She's dead.  Been dead five years.  But she had a child.  A daughter.

Eleanor.  Ellie.  Now I don't want to be wiped out, don't want to surf
on the chaos any more.  I just want to have a chance to meet Ellie, get
to know her, see if I can love her, which I think maybe I can.  Maybe
what happened to me when I was a kid didn't burn love out of me
forever.  Maybe I can do more than hate.  I've got to find out.  I
can't wait to find out."

He was dismayed.  If he understood her correctly she had not yet felt
for him anything like the love he had begun to feel for her.  But that
was all right.  Regardless of her doubts, he knew that she had the
ability to love and that she would find a place in her heart for her
niece.  And if for the girl, why not for him as well?

She met his eyes and smiled.  "Good God, just listen to me, I sound
like one of those confessional neurotics spilling their guts on an
afternoon TV talk show."

"Not at all.  I .  . . I want to hear it."

"Next thing you know, I'll be telling you how I like to have sex with
men who dress like their mothers."

"Do you?"

She laughed.  "Who doesn't?"

He wanted to know what she meant when she said what happened to me when
I was a kid, but he dared not ask.  That experience, if not the core of
her, was at least what she believed the core to be, and she would be
able to reveal it only at her own pace.  Besides, there were a thousand
other questions he wanted to ask her, ten thousand, and if he started,
they really woull sit at that intersection until dawn, Ticktock, and
death.

The traffic light was in their favor again.  He entered the
intersection and turned right.  Two blocks farther north he parked in
front of The Green House.

When he and Connie got out of the car, Harry noticed a filthy hobo in
the shadows at the corner of the restaurant, by an alleyway that ran
toward the back of the building.  It was not Ticktock, but a smaller,
pathetic-looking specimen.  He sat between two shrubs, legs drawn up,
eating from a bag in his lap, drinking hot coffee from a thermos, and
mumbling urgently to himself.

The guy watched them as they walked toward the entrance to The Green
House.  His stare was fevered, intense.  His bloodshot eyes were like
those of many other denizens of the streets these days, hot with
paranoid fear.  Perhaps he believed himself to be persecuted by evil
space aliens who were beaming microwaves at him to muddle his
thoughts.

Or by the dastardly hand of ten thousand and eighty two conspirators
who had really shotJohn F Kennedy and who had secretly controlled the
world ever since.  Or by fiendish Japanese businessmen who were going
to buy everything everywhere, turn everyone else into slaves, and serve
the raw internal organs of American children as side dishes in Tokyo
sushi bars.  Recently it seemed that half the sane populationr what
passed for sane these days-believed in one demonstrably ridiculous
paranoid conspiracy theory or another.  And for the most thorougtuy
stoned streetwanderers like this man, such fantasies were de rigueur.

To the hobo, Connie said, "Can you hear me, or are you on the moon
somewhere?"

The man glared at her.

"We're cops.  You got that?  Cops.  You touch that car while we're
gone, you'll find yourself in a detox program so fast you won't know
what hit you, no booze or drugs for three months."

Forced detoxification was the only threat that worked with some of
these squires of the gutter.  They were already at the bottom of the
swamp, used to being knocked around and chewed up by the bigger
animals.  They had nothing left to lose except the chance to stay high
on cheap wine or whatever else they could afford.

"Cops?"  the man said.

"Good," Connie said.  "You heard me.  Cops.  Three months with not a
single hit, it'll seem like three centuries."

Last week, in Santa Ana, a drunken vagrant had taken advantage of their
unattended department sedan to make a social protest by leaving his
feces on the driver's seat.  Or maybe he mistook them for space aliens
to whom a gift of human waste was a sign of welcome and an-invitation
to intergalactic cooperation.  In either case, Connie had.wanted to
kill the guy, and Harry had needed every bit of his diplomacy and
persuasiveness to convince her that forced detox was crueller.

"You lock the doors?"  Connie asked Harry.

"Yeah."

Behind them, as they went into The Green House, the vagrant said
thoughtfully: "Cops?"

Having eaten the cookies and potato chips, Bryan briefly used his
Greatest and Most Secret Power to insure total privacy, then stood at
the edge of the patio and urinated between railings into the silent sea
below.  He always got a kick out of doing things like that in public,
sometimes right out in the street with people around, knowing that his
Greatest and Most Secret Power would insure against 'discovery.

Bladder empty, he started things up again and returned to the house.

Food alone was seldom sufficient to restore his energy.  He was, after
all, a god Becoming, and according to the Bible, the first god had
needed rest himself on the seventh day.  Before he could work more
miracles, Bryan would still have to nap, perhaps for as much as an
hour.

In the master bedroom, lit only by one bedside lamp, he stood for a
while in front of the black-lacquered shelves where eyes of many
species and colors floated in preserving fluid.  Feeling their
unblinking, eternal gazes.  Their adoration.

He unbelted his red robe, shrugged out of it, and let it drop to the
floor.

The eyes loved him.  Loved him.  He could feel their love, and he
accepted it.

He opened one of the jars.  The eyes in it had belonged to a woman who
had been thinned from the herd because she was one of those who could
vanish from the world without causing much concern.

They were blue eyes, once beautiful, the color faded.  now and the
lenses milky.

Dipping into the pungent fluid, he removed one of the blue eyes and
held it in his left hand.  It felt like a ripe date-oft but firm, and
moist.

Trapping the eye between his palm and chest, he rolled it gently across
his body from nipple to nipple, back and forth, not pressing too hard,
careful to avoid damaging it, but eager for the dead woman to see him
in all his Becoming glory, every smooth plane and curve and pore of
him.  The small sphere was cool against his warm flesh, and left a
trail of moisture on his skin.  He shivered deliciously.  He eased the
slick orb down his flat belly describing circles there, then held it
for a moment in the hollow of his navel.

From the open jar, he extracted the second blue eye.  He trapped it
under his right hand and allowed both eyes to explore his body: chest
and flanks and thighs, up across his belly and chest again, along the
sides of his neck, his face, gently rotating the moist and spongy ,2
spheres on his cheeks, around, around, around.  So satisfying to be the
object of adoration.  So supremely glorious for the dead woman to be
granted this intimate moment with the Becoming god who had judged and
condemned her.

Winding tracks of preserving fluid marked each eye's journey over his
body.  As the fluid evaporated, it was easy to believe that the tracery
of coolness was actually a lace of tears upon his skin, shed by the
dead woman who rejoiced in this sacrosanct contact.

The other eyes upon the shelves, watching from their separate
glass-walled liquid universes, seemed envious of the blue eyes to which
he had granted communion.

Bryan wished that he could bring his mother here and show her all the
eyes that adored and cherished him, revered him, and found no aspect of
him from which they wished to turn their gazes.

But, of course, she would not look, could not see.  The stubborn,
withered hag would persist in fearing him.  She regarded him as an
abomination, though it should be obvious even to her that he was
Becoming a figure of transcendent spiritual power, the sword of
judgment, instigator of Armageddon, savior of a world infested with an
abundance of humanity.

He returned the pair of blue eyes to the open jar, and screwed the lid
shut.

He had satisfied one hunger with cookies and chips, satisfied another
by revealing his glory to the congregation in the jars and by seeing
that they were in awe of him.  Now it was time to sleep for a short
while and recha his batteries; dawn was nearer, and he had promises to
keep.

As he settled upon the disarranged bed sheets, he reached for the
switch on the nightstand lamp, but then decided not to turn it off.

The disembodied communicants in the jars would be able to see him
better if the room was not entirely dark.  It pleased him to think that
he would be admired and venerated even while he slept.

Bryan Drackman closed his eyes, yawned, and as always sleep came to him
without delay.  Dreams: great cities falling, houses burning, monuments
collapsing, mass graves of broken concrete and twisted steel stretching
to the horizon and attended by flocks of feeding vultures so numerous
that, in flight, they blackened the sky.

He sprints, trots, slows to a walk, and finally creeps warily from
shadow to shadow as he draws nearer to the thing-that-will-kill you.

The smell of it is ripe, strong, foul.  Not filthy like the stinky
man.

Different.  In its own way, worse.  Interesting.

He is not afraid.  He is not afraid.  Not afraid.  He is a dog.  He has
sharp teeth and claws.  Strong and quick.  In his blood is the need to
track and hunt.  He is a dog, cunning and fierce, and he runs from
nothing.  He was born to chase, not be chased, and he fearlessly
pursues anything he wants, even cats.  Though cats have clawed his
nose, bitten and humiliated him, still he chases them, unafraid, for he
is a dog, maybe not as smart as some cats, but a dog.

Padding along beside a row of thick oleander.  Pretty flowers.

Berries.  Don't eat the berries.  Sick-making.  You can tell from the
smell.  Also the leaves.  Also the flowers.

Never eat any kind of flowers.  He tried to eat one once.  There was a
bee in the flower, then in his mouth, buzzing in his mouth, stinging
his tongue.  A very bad day, worse than cats.

He creeps onward.  Not afraid.  Not.  Not.  He is a dog.

People place.  High white walls.  Windows dark.  Near the top, one
square of pale light.

He slinks along the side of the place.

The smell of the bad thing is strong here, and getting stronger.

Almost burns in the snout.  Like ammonia but not like.  A cold smell
and dark, colder than ice and darker than night.

Halfway along the high white wall, he stops.  Listens.  Sniffs.

He is not afraid.  He is not afraid.

Something overhead goes W' He is afraid.  Whipping around, he starts to
run back the way he came.

Wbooooooooooo.

Wait.  He knows that sound.  An owl, swooping through the night above,
hunting prey of its own.

He was frightened by an owl.  Bad dog.  Bad dog.  Bad.

Remember the boy.  The woman and the boy.  Besides ... the smell, the
place, the moment are interesting.

Turning once again, he continues to creep along the side of the people
place, white walls, one pale light high above.  He comes to an iron
fence.  Tight squeeze.  Not as tight as the drain pipe where you follow
the cat and get stuck and the cat keeps going, and you twist and kick
and struggle for a long time inside the pipe, you think you're never
going to get loose, and then you wonder if maybe the cat is coming back
toward you through the darkness of the pipe, is going to claw your nose
while you're stuck and can't move.  Tight, but not that tight.  He
shakes his rear end, kicks, and gets through.

He comes to the end of the place, starts around the corner, and sees
the thing-that-will-kill-you.  His vision is not nearly as keen as his
smell, but he is able to make out a man, young, and he knows it is the
bad thing because it reeks of that strange dark cold smell.  Before, it
looked different, never a young man, but the smell is the same.

This is the thing, for sure.

He freezes.

He is not afraid.  He is not afraid.  He is a dog.

The young-man-bad-thing is on its way into the people place.  It is
carrying food bags.  Chocolate.  Marshmallow.  Potato chips.

Interesting.

Even the bad thing eats.  It has been outside, eating, and now it is
going in, and maybe some of the food is left.  A wag of the tail, a
friendly whine, the sitting-up-and-begging trick might get something
good, yes yes yes yes.

No no no no.  Bad idea.

But chocolate.

No.  Forget it.  The kind of bad idea that gets your nose scratched.

Or worse.  Dead like the bee in the puddle, the mouse in the gutter.

The thing-that-will-kill-you goes inside, closes the door.  Its scary
smell isn't so strong now.

Neither is the chocolate smell.  Oh well.

Just an owl.  Who would be afraid of an owl?  Not a dog.

He sniffs around behind the people place for a while, some of it grass,
some of it dirt, some of it flat stones that people put down.

Bushes.  Flowers.  Busy bugs in the grass, different kinds.  A couple
of things for people to sit in... and beside one of them, a piece of
cookie.  Chocolate.  Good, good, gone.  Sniff around, under, here,
there, but no more to be found.

A little lizard!  Zip, so fast, across the stones, get it, t it, get
it, get it.  This way, that way, this way, between your legs, that way,
here it comes, there it goes-now where is it?  over there, zip, don't
let it get away, get it, get it, want it, need it, bang, an iron fence
out of nowhere.

The lizard is gone, but the fence smells of fresh people pee.

Interesting.

It's the pee of the thing-that-will-kill-you.  Not a nice smell.  Not a
bad smell.Just interesting.  The thing-that-will-kill-you looks like
people, pees like people, so must be people, even if it's strange and
different.

He follows the route the bad thing took when it stopped peeing and went
into the people place, and in the bottom of the big door he finds a
smaller door, more or less his size.  He sniffs it.  The smaller door
smells like another dug.  Faint, very faint, but another dog.  A long
time ago, a dog went in and out this door.  Interesting.  So long ago,
he has to sniff sniff sniff sniff to learn anything.  A male dog.

Not small, not too big.  Interesting.  Nervous dog... or maybe sick.

Long time ago.  Interesting.

Think about this.

Door for people.  Door for dogs.

Thing So this isn't just a people place.  This is a people and dog
place.

Interesting.

He pushes his nose against the little cold metal door, and it swings
inward.  He sticks his head in, lifting the door just far enough to
sniff deep and look around.

People food place.  Hidden away is food, not out where he can see it
but where he can still smell it.  Strongest of all, the smell of the
bad thing, so strong that it leaves him uninterested in food.

The smell repels and frightens him but also attracts him, and curiosity
draws him forward.  He squeezes through the opening, the little metal
door sliding along his back, along his tail, then falling shut with a
faint squeak.

Inside.

Listening.  Humming, ticking, a soft clink.  Machine sounds.

Otherwise, silence.

Not much light.  Just little glowing spots up on some of the
machines.

He is not afraid.  Not, not, not.

He creeps from one dark space to another, squinting into the shadows,
listening, sniffing, but he does not find the thing that-will-kill-you
until he comes to the bottom of stairs.  He looks up and knows that the
thing is in one of the spaces up there somewhere.

He starts up the stairs, pauses, continues, pauses, looks down to the
floor below, looks up, continues, pauses, and he wonders the same thing
he always wonders at some point while chasing a cat: what is he doing
here?  If there is not food, if there is not a female in heat, if there
is rotøanyone here to pet and scratch and play with him, why is he
here?  He doesn't really know why.  Maybe it is just the nature of a
dog to wonder what is around the next corner, over the next hill.  Dogs
are special.  Dogs are curious.  Life is strange and interesting, and
he has the feeling that each new place or each new day might show him
something so different and special that just by seeing and smelling it,
he will understand the world better and be happier.  He has the feeling
that a wonderful thing is waiting to be found, a wonderful thing he
can't imagine, but something even better than food or females in heat,
better than petting, scratching, playing, running along a beach with
wind in his fur, chasing a cat, or even better than catching a cat if
such a thing was possible.  Even here, in this scary place, with the
smell of the thing-that-will-kill you so strong he wants to sneeze, he
still feels that a wonderfulness might be just around the next
corner.

And don't forget the woman, the boy.  They're nice.  They like him.  So
maybe he can find a way to keep the bad thing from bothering them any
more.

He continues to the top of the steps into a narrow space.  He pads
along, sniffing at doors.  Soft light behind one of them.  And very
heavy bitter: the thing-that-will-kill-you smell.

Not afraid, not afraid, he is a dog, stalker and hunter, good and
brave, good dog, good.

The door is open a crack.  He puts his nose to the gap.  He could push
it open wider, go into the space beyond it, but he hesitates.

Nothing wonderful in there.  Maybe somewhere else in this people place,
maybe around every other corner, but not in there.

Maybe he can just leave now, go back to the alley, see if the fat man
left out more food for him.

That would be a cat thing to do.  Sneaking away.  Running.  He is not a
cat.  He is a dog.

But do cats ever get their noses scratched, cut deep, bleeding, sore
for days?  Interesting thought.  He has never seen a cat with a
scratched nose, has never gotten close enough to scratch one.

But he is a dog, not a cat, so he pushes against the door.  It eases
open wider.  He goes into the space beyond.

Young-man-bad-thing lying on black cloths, above the floor, not moving
at all, making no sound, eyes closed.  Dead?  Dead bad thing on the
black cloths.

He pads closer, sniffing.

No.  Not dead.  Sleeping.

The thing-that-will-kill-you eats, and it pees, and now it sleeps, so
it is like people in many ways, like dogs, too, even if it isn't either
people or dog.

What now?

He stares at the sleeping bad thing, thinking how he might jump up
there with it, bark in its face, wake it up, scare it, so then maybe it
won't come around the woman and boy any more.  Maybe even bite it, just
a little bite, be a bad dog for once, just to help the woman and the
boy, bite its chin.  Or its nose.

It doesn't look so dangerous, sleeping.  Doesn't look so strong or
quick.  He can't remember why it was scary before.

He looks around the black room and then up, and light glistens in a lot
of eyes floating up there in bottles, people eyes without people,
animal eyes without animals.  Interesting but not good, not good at
all.

Again he wonders what he is doing here.  He realizes this place is like
a drain pipe where you get stuck, like a hole in the ground where big
spiders live that don't like you sticking your snout in at them.

And then he realizes that the young-man-bad-thing on the bed is sort of
like those laughing boys, smelling of sand and sun and sea salt, who
will pet you and scratch behind your ears and then try to set your fur
on fire.

Stupid dog.  Stupid for coming here.  Good but stupid.

The bad thing mumbles in its sleep.

He backs away from the bed, turns, tucks his tail down, and pads out of
the room.  He goes down the stairs, getting out of there, not afraid,
not afraid, just careful, not afraid, but his heart pounding hard and
fast.

Weekdays, Tanya Delaney was the private nurse on the graveyard shift,
from midnight until eight o'clock in the morning.  Some nights she
would rather have worked in a graveyard.  Jennifer Drackman was
spookier than anything Tanya could conceive of encountering in a
cemetery.

Tanya sat in an armchair near the blind woman's bed, silently reading a
Mary Higgins Clark novel.  She liked to read, and she was a night
person by nature, so the wee-hour shift was perfect for her.

Some nights she could finish an entire novel and start another one
because Jennifer slept straight through.

Other times, Jennifer was unable to sleep, raving incoherently and
consumed by terror.  On those occasions, Tanya knew the poor woman was
irrational and that there was nothing to be afraid of, yet the
patient's angst was so intense that it was communicated to the nurse.

Tanya's own skin would prickle with gooseflesh, the back of her neck
would tingle, she would glance uneasily at the darkness beyond the
window as if something waited in it, and would jump at every unexpected
noise.

At least the predawn hours of that Wednesday were not filled with
shouts and tortured cries and strings of words as meaningless as the
manic babble of a religious passionary speaking in tongues.

Instead, Jennifer slept but not well, harried by bad dreams.

From time to time, without waking, she moaned, grasped with her good
hand at the bed rail, and tried without success to pull herself up.

With bony white fingers hooked around the steel, atrophied muscles
barely defined in her fleshless arms, face gaunt and pale, eyelids sewn
shut and concave over empty sockets, she seemed not like a sick woman
in bed but like a corpse struggling to rise from a coffin.  When she
talked in her sleep, she didn't shout but spoke almost in a whisper,
with tremendous urgency; her voice seemed to arise from thin air and
Boat through the room with the eeriness of a spirit speaking at a
seance: "He'll kill us all.  . . kill.  . . he'll kill us all...."

Tanya shivered and tried to concentrate on the suspense novel, though
she felt guilty about ignoring her patient.  At the least she should
pry the bony hand off the railing, feel Jennifer's forehead to be sure
she was not feverish, murmur soothingly to her, and attempt to guide
her through the stormy dream into calmer shoals of sleep.  She was a
good nurse, and ordinarily she would rush to comfort a patient in the
grip of a nightmare.  But she stayed in the armchair with her Clark
book because she didn't want to risk waking Jennifer.  Once awakened,
the woman might slip from the nightmare into one of those frightening
fits of shouting, tearless weeping, wailing, and glossolalic shrieking
that made Tanya's blood turn to ice.

Came the ghostly voice out of sleep: .... . the worll's on fire...

fires of blood...fire and blood... I'm the mother of Hell... God hep
me, I'm the mother of Hell.  . .

Tanya wanted to turn the thermostat higher, but she knew the room was
already a bit too warm.  The chill she felt was within her, not
without.

..... such a cad mind... dead heart... beating but..."

Tanya wondered what the poor woman had endured that had left her in
such a dismal state.  What had she seen?  What had she suffered?  What
memories haunted her?

The Green House on Pacific Coast Highway included a large and typical
California-style restaurant filled with too many ferns and pothos even
for Harry's taste, and a sizable barroom where fern weary patrons had
long ago learned to keep the greenery under control by poisoning the
potting soil with a dribble of whiskey every now and then.  The
restaurant side was closed at that hour.

The popular bar was open until two o'clock.  It had been remodeled in a
black-silver-green Art Deco style that was nothing like the adjacent
restaurant, a strained attempt to be chic.  But they served sandwiches
along with the booze.

Midst stunted and yellowing plants, about thirty customers drank,
talked, and listened to jazz played by a four-man combo.  The musicians
were performing quirky semi-progressive arrangements of famous numbers
from the big-band era.  Two couples, who didn't realize the music was
better for listening, were gamely dancing to quasi-melodic tunes marked
by constant tempo changes and looping extemporaneous passages that
would have thwarted Fred Astaire or Baryshnikov When Harry and Connie
entered, the thirtyish manager-host met them with a dubious look.  He
was wearing an Armani suit, a hand-painted silk necktie, and beautiful
shoes so soft-looking that they might have been made out of a calf
fetus.  His fingernails were manicured, his teeth perfectly capped, his
hair permed.  He subtly signaled one of the bartenders, no doubt to
help give them the bum's rush back into the street.

Aside from the dried blood at the corner of her mouth and the bruise
only beginning to darken one whole side of her face, Connie was
reasonably presentable, if slightly rumpled, but Harry was a
spectacle.

His clothes, baggy and misshapen from having been rainsoaked, were more
wrinkled than an ancient mummy's shroud.

Formerly crisp and white, his shirt was now mottled gray, smelling of
smoke from the house fire he'd barely escaped.  His shoes were scuffed,
scraped, muddy.  A moist bloody abrasion as big as a quarter marred his
forehead.  He had heavy beard stubble because he hadn't shaved in
eighteen hours, and his hands were grimy from pawing through the pile
of dirt on Ordegard's lawn.  He realized he must appear to be only a
treacherous step up the ladder from the hobo outside the bar to whom
Connie had just delivered a warning about forced detoxification, even
now socially devolving before the scowling host's eyes.

Only yesteltlav Harry would have been mortified to appear in public in
such a state of dishevelment.  Now he didn't particularly care.  He was
too worried about survival to fret about good grooming and sartorial
standards.

Before they could be ejected from The Green House, they both flashed
their Special Projects ID.

"Police," Harry said.

No master key, no password, no blue-blood social register, no royal
lineage opened doors as effectively as a badge.  Opened them
grudgingly, more often than not, but opened them nonetheless.

It also helped that Connie was Connie: "Not just police," she said,
"but pissed-off police, having a bad day, in no mood to be refused
service by some prissy sonofabitch who thinks we might offend his
effete clientele."

They were graciously shown to a corner table that just happened to be
in the shadows and away from most of the other customers.

A cocktail waitress arrived at once, said her name was Bambi, crinkled
her nose, smiled, and took their orders.  Harry asked for coffee and a
hamburger medium well with cheddar.

Connie wanted her burger rare with blue cheese and plenty of raw
onions.  "Coffee for me, too, and bring both of us double shots of
cognac, Re'my Martin."  To Harry she said, "Technically, we're not
on-duty any more.  And if you feel as crappy as I feel, you need more
of a jolt to the system than you're going to get from coffee or a
burger."

While the waitress filled their orders, Harry went to the men's room to
wash his grubby hands.  He felt as crappy as Connie suspected, and the
restroom mirror confirmed that he looked even worse than he felt.  He
could hardly believe that the grainy-skinned, hollow-eyed,
desperation-lined face before him was his face.

He vigorously scrubbed his hands, but a little dirt stubbornly remained
under his fingernails and in some knuckle creases.  His hands resembled
those of a car mechanic.

He splashed cold water in his face, but that didn't make him look
fresher or less distraught.  The day had taken a toll from him that
might forever leave its mark.  The loss of his house and all his
possessions, Ricky's gruesome death, and the bizarre chain of
supernatural events had rattled his faith in reason and order.  His
current haunted expression might be with him for a long time-assuming
he was going to live beyond a few more hours.

Disoriented by the strangeness of his reflection, he almost expected
the mirror to prove magical, as mirrors so often were in fairy tales-a
doorway to another land, a window on the past or future, the prison in
which an evil queen's soul was trapped, a magic talking marror like the
one from which Snow White's wicked stepmother learned that she was no
longer the fairest of them all.  He put one hand to the glass, warm
fingers met cold, but nothing supernatural happened.

Still, considering the events of the past twelve hours, it was not
madness to expect sorcery.  He seemed to be trapped in a fairy tale of
some kind, one of the darker variety like The Red Shoes, in which the
characters suffer terrible physical tortures and mental anguish, die
horribly and then are finally rewarded with happiness not in this world
but in Heaven.  It was an unsatisfying plot pattern if you were not
entirely sure that Heaven was, in fact, up there and waiting for you.

The only indication that he hadn't become imprisoned in a children's
fantasy was the absence of a talking animal.  Talking animals populated
fairy tales even more reliably than psychotic killers populated modern
American films.

Fairy tales.  Sorcery.  Monsters.  Psychosis.  Children.

Suddenly Harry felt he was teetering on the edge of an insight that
would reveal an important fact about Ticktock.

Sorcery Psychosis.  Children.  Monsters.  Fairy tales.

Revelation eluded him.

He strained for it.  No good.

He realized he was no longer lightly touching his fingertips to their
reflection, but was pressing his hand against the mirror hard enough to
crack the glass.  When he took his hand away, a vague moist imprint
remained for a moment, then swiftly evaporated.

Everything fades.  Including Harry Lyon.  Maybe by dawn.

He left the restroom and walked back to the table in the bar where
Connie was waiting.

Monsters.  Sorcery.  Psychosis.  Fairy tales.  Children.

The band was playing a Duke Ellington medley with a modern jazz
interpretation.  The music was crap.  Ellington simply didn't need
improvement.

On the table stood two steaming coffee cups and two brandy snifters
with Re'my glowing like liquid gold.

"The burgers'll be a few minutes," Connie said as he pulled out one of
the black wooden chairs and sat down.

Psychosis.  Children.  Sorcery.

Nothing.

He decided to stop thinking about Ticktock for a while.  Give the
subconscious a chance to work without pressure.

"I Gotta Know," he said, giving Connie the title of a Presley song.

"Know what?"

"Tell Me Why."

"Huh?"

"It's Now or Never."

She caught on, smiled.  "I'm a fanatical Presley fan."

"So I gathered."

"Came in handy."

"Probably kept Ordegard from throwing another grenade at us, saved our
lives."

"To the king of rock-'n'-roll," she said, raising her brandy snifter.

The band stopped torturing the Ellington tunes and took a break, so
maybe there was a God in Heaven after all, and blessed order in the
universe.

Harry and Connie clinked glasses, sipped.  He said, "Why Elvis?"

She sighed.  "Early Elvis-he was something.  He was all about freedom,
about being what you want to be, about not being pushed around just
because you're different.  'Don't step on my blue suede shoes."  Songs
from his first ten years were already golden oldies when I was just
seven or eight, but they spoke to me.  You know?"

"Seven or eight?  Heavy stuff for a little kid.  I mean, a lot of those
songs were about loneliness, heartbreak."

"Sure.  He was that dream figure-a sensitive rebel, polite but not
willing to take any shit, romantic and cynical at the same time.  I was
raised in orphanages, foster homes, so I knew what loneliness was all
about, and my heart had some cracks of its own."

The waitress brought their burgers, and the busboy refreshed their
coffee.

Harry was beginning to feel like a human being again.  A dirty,
rumpled, aching, weary, frightened human being, but a human being
nonetheless.

"Okay," he said, "I can understand being crazy for the early Elvis,
memorizing the early songs.  But later?"

Shaking ketchup onto her burger, Connie said, "In its way, the end's as
interesting as the beginning.  American tragedy."

"Tragedy?  Winding up a fat Vegas singer in sequined jumpsuits?"

"Sure.  The handsome and courageous king, so full of promise,
transcendent-then because of a tragic flaw, he takes a tumble, a long
fall, dead at forty-two."

"Died on a toilet."

"I didn't say this was Shakespearean tragedy.  There's an element of
the absurd in it.  That's what makes it American tragedy.  No country
in the world has our sense of the absurd."

"I don't think you'll see either the Democrats or Republicans using
that line as a campaign slogan anytime soon."  The burger was
delicious.  Around a mouthful of it, he said, "So what was Elvis's
tragic flaw?"

"He refused to grow up.  Or maybe he wasn't able."

"Isn't an artist supposed to hold on to the child within him?"

She took a bite of her sandwich, shook her head.  "Not the same as
perpetually being that child.  See, the young Elvis Presley wanted
freedom, had a passion for it, just like I've always had, and the way
he got total freedom to do anything he wanted was through his music.

But when he got it, when he could've been free forever... well, what
happened?"

"Tell me."

She had clearly thought a lot about it.  "Elvis lost direction.  I
think maybe he fell in love with fame more than freedom.  Genuine
freedom, freedom with responsibility not from it-that's a worthy adult
dream.  But fame is just a cheap thrill.  You'd have to be immature to
really enjoy fame, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't want it.  Not that I'm likely to get it."

"Worthless, fleeting, a trinket only a child would mistake for
diamonds.  Elvis, he looked like a grownup, talked like one-" "Sure as
hell sang like a-grownup when he was at his best."

"Yeah.  But emotionally he was a case of arrested development, and the
grownup was just a costume he wore, a masquerade.  Which is why he
always had a big entourage like his own private boy's club, and ate
mostly fried banana sandwiches with peanut butter, kids' food, and
rented whole amusement parks when he wanted to have fun with his
friends.  It's why he wasn't able to stop people like Colonel Parker
from taking advantage of him."

Grownups.  Children.  Arrested development.  Psychosis.  Fame.

Sorcery Fairy tales.  Arrested development.  Monsters.  Masquerade
Harry sat up straighter, his mind racing.

Connie was still talking, but her voice seemed to be coming from a
distance:" .  . so the last part of Elvis's life shows you how many
traps there are .

Psychotic child.  Fascinated by monsters.  With a sorcerer's power.

Arrested development.  Looks like a grownup but masquerading.

how easy it is to lose your freedom and never find your way back to
it..."

Harry put down his sandwich.  "My God, I think maybe I know who
Ticktock is."

"Who?"

"Wait.  Let me think about this."

Shrill laughter erupted from a table of noisy drunks near the
bandstand.  Two men in their fifties with the look of wealth about
them, two blondes in their twenties.  They were trying to live their
own fairy tales: the aging men dreaming of perfect sex and the envy of
other men; the women dreaming of riches, and happily unaware that their
fantasies would one day seem dreary, dull, and tacky even to them.

Harry rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, struggled to order
his thoughts.  "Haven't you noticed there's something childish about
him?"

"Ticktock?  That ox?"

"That's his golem.  I'm talking about the real Ticktock, the one who
makes the golems.  This seems like a game to him.  He's playing with me
the wayanasty little boy will pull the wings off a fly and watch it
struggle to get airborne, or torture a beetle with matches.

The deadline at dawn, the taunting attacks, childish, as if he's some
playground bully having his fun."

He remembered more of what Ticktock had said as he had risen from the
bed in the condo, just before he'd started the fire:.  . you people are
so muchjisn to pay with... big hero... you think you can shoot anyone
you like, push anyone around you want.  ...

Push anyone around if you want...

"Harry?"

He blinked, shivered.  "Some sociopaths are made by having been abused
as children.  But others are just born that way, bent."

"Something screwed up in the genes," she agreed.

"Suppose Ticktock was born bad."

"He was never an angel."

"And suppose this incredible power of his doesn't come from some weird
lab experiment.  Maybe it's also a result of screwed-up genes.  If he
was born with this power, then it separated him from other people the
way fame separated Presley, and he never learned to grow up, didn't
need or want to grow up.  In his heart he's still a child.  Playing a
child's game.  A mean little child's game."

Harry recalled the bearish vagrant standing in his bedroom, redfaced
with rage, shouting over and over again: Do you hear me, hero, -you
bear me, d'you hear me, d'you bear me, DO YOU HEAR ME, DO YOU HEAR ME
... ?  That behavior had been terrifying because of the hobo's size and
power, but in retrospect it distinctly had the quality of a little
boy's tantrum.

Connie leaned across the table and waved one hand in front of his
face.

"Don't go catatonic on me, Harry.  I'm still waiting for the
punchline.

Who is Ticktock?  You think maybe he actually is a child?

Are we looking for some grade-school boy, for God's sake?

Or girl?"

"No.  He's older.  Still young.  But older."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I've met him."  Push anyone around if you want...

He told Connie about the young man who had slipped under the
crime-scene tape and crossed the sidewalk to the shattered window of
the restaurant where Ordegard had shot up the lunchtime crowd.

Tennis shoes, jeans, a Tecate beer T-shirt.

"He was staring inside, fascinated by the blood, the bodies.  There was
something eerie about him... he had this faraway look... and licking
his lips as if... as if, I don't know, as if there was something erotic
about all that blood, those bodies.  He ignored me when I told him to
get back behind the barrier, probably didn't even hear me...

like he was in a trance .  . . licking his lips."

Harry picked up his brandy snifter and finished the last of his cognac
in one swallow.

"Did you get his name?"  Connie asked.

"No.  I screwed up.  I handled it badly."

In memory, he saw himself grabbing the kid, shoving him across the
sidewalk, maybe hitting him and maybe not-had he jammed a knee into his
crotch?-jerking and wrenching him, bending him double, forcing him
under the crime-scene tape.

"I was sick about it later," he said, "disgusted with myself.

Couldn't believe I'd roughed him up that way.  I guess I was still
uptight about what had happened in the attic, almost being blown away
by Ordegard, and when I saw that kid getting off on the blood, I
reacted like.  . . like .  .

"Like me," Connie said, picking up her burger again.

"Yeah.  Like y Although he had lost his appetite, Harry took a bite of
his sandwich because he had to keep his energy up for what might lie
ahead.

"But I still don't see how you can be so damn sure this kid is
Ticktock," Connie said.

"I know he is."

"Just because he was a little weird-" "It's more than that."

"A hunch?"

"A lotøbetter than a hunch.  Call it cop instinct."

She stared at him for a beat, then nodded.  "All right.  You remember
what he looked like?"

"Vividly, I think.  Maybe as young as nineteen, no older than
twenty-one or so' "Height?"

"An inch shorter than me."

"Weight?"

"Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds..Thin.  No, that's not right, not
thin, not scrawny.  Lean but muscular."

"Complexion?"

"Fair.  He's been indoors a lot.  Thick hair, dark brown or black.

Good-looking kid, a little like that actor, Tom Cruise, but more
hawkish.  He had unusual eyes.  Gray.  Like silver with a little
tarnish on it."

Connie said, "What I'm thinking is, we go over to Nancy Quan's house.

She lives right here in Laguna Beach-" Nancy was a sketch artist who
worked for Special Projects and had a gift for hearing and correctly
interpreting the nuances in a witness's description of a suspect.  Her
pencil sketches often proved to be astonishingly good portraits of the
perps when they were at last cornered and hauled into custody.

"-you describe this kid to her, she draws him, and we take the sketch
to the Laguna police, see if they know the little creep."

Harry said, "What if they don't?"

ø "Then we start knocking on doors, showing the sketch."

"Doors?  Where?"

"Houses and apartments within a block of where you ran into him.  It's
possible he lives in that immediate area.  Even if he doesn't live
there, maybe he hangs out there, has friends in the neighborhood-"
"This kid has no friends."

"r relatives.  Someone might recognize him."

"People aren't going to be real happy, we go knocking on their doors in
the middle of the night.?"

Connie grimaced.  "You want to wait for dawn?"

"Guess not."

The band was returning for their final set.

Connie chugged the last of her coffee, pushed her chair back, got up,
took some folding money from one coat pocket, and threw a couple of
bills on the table.

"Let me pay half," Harry said.

"My treat."

"No, really, I should pay half."

She gave him an are-you-nuts look.

"I like to keep accounts in balance with everyone.  You know that," he
explained.

"Take a walk on the wild side, Harry.  Let the accounts go out of
balance.  Tell you what-if dawn comes and we wake up in Hell, you can
buy breakfast."

She headed for the door.

When he saw her coming, the host in the Armani suit and hand painted
silk tie scurried into the safety of the kitchen.

Following Connie, Harry glanced at his wristwatch.  It was twenty-two
minutes past one o'clock in the morning.

Dawn was perhaps five hours away.

Padding through the night town.  People in their dark places all drowsy
around him.

He yawns and thinks about lying under some bushes and sleeping.

There's another world when he sleeps, a nice world where he has a
family that lives in a warm place and welcomes him there, feeds him
every day, plays with him anytime he wants to play, calls him Prince,
takes him with them in a car and lets him put his head out the window
in the wind with his ears flapping-feels good smells coming at him
dizzy-fast, yes yes yes-and never kicks him.

It's a good world in sleep, even though he can't catch the cats there,
either.

Then he remembers the young-man-bad-thing, the black place, the people
and animal eyes without bodies, and he isn't sleepy any more.

He's got to do something about the bad thing, but he doesn't know
what.

He senses it is going to hurt the woman, the boy, hurt them bad.  It
has much anger.  Hate.  It would set their fur on fire if they had
fur.

He doesn't know why.  Or when or how or where.  But he must do
something, save them, be a good dog, good.

.....

Do something.

Okay.

So...

Until he can think what to do about the bad thing, he might as well
look for some more food.  Maybe the smiling fat man left more good
scraps for him behind the people food place.  Maybe the fat man is
still there in the open door, looking this way and that way along the
alley, hoping to see Fella again, thinking he would like to take Fella
home, give him a warm place, feed him every day, play with him anytime
he wants to play, take Fella for rides in cars with his head sticking
out in the wind.

Hurrying now.  Trying to smell the fat man.  Is he out in the open?

Waiting?

Sniffing, sniffing, he passes a rust-smelling, grease-smelling, oil
smelling car parked in a big empty space, and then he smells the woman,
the boy, even through the closed windows.  He stops, looks up.

Boy sleeping, can't be seen.  Woman leaning against door, head against
window.  Awake, but she does not see him.

Maybe the fat man will like the woman, the boy, will have room for all
of them in his nice warm people place, and they can play together, all
of them, eat when they want, go for rides in cars with their heads
sticking out windows, smells coming at them dizzy-fast.

Yes yes yes yes yes yes.  Why not?  In the sleep world, there is a
family Why not in this world, too?

He is excited.  This is good.  This is really good.  He feels the
wonderful thing around the corner, wonderful thing coming that he
always knew was out there somewhere.  Good.  Yes.  Good.  Yes yes yes
yes yes.

The people food place with the fat man waiting is not far from the car,
so maybe he should bark to make the woman see him, then lead her and
the boy to the fat man.

Yes yes yes yes yes yes.

But wait, wait, it could take too long, too long, getting them to
follow him.  People are so slow to understand sometimes.  The fat man
might go away.  Then they get there, the fat man is gone, they're
standing in the alley and they don't know why, they think he's just a
stupid dog, stupid silly dog, humiliated like when the cat is up in the
tree looking down at him.

No no no no no.  The fat man can't go away, can't.  Fat man goes away
they won't be together in a nice warm place or in a car with the
wind.

What to do, what to do?  Excited.  Bark?  Don't bark?  Stay, go, yes,
no, bark, don't bark?

Pee.  Got to pee.  Lift the leg.  Ah.  Yes.  Strong-smelling pee.

Steaming on, the pavement, steaming.  Interesting.

Fat man.  Don't forget the fat man.  Waiting in the alley.  Go to the
fat man first, before he goes inside and is gone forever, get him and
bring him back here, yes yes yes yes, because the woman and the boy are
not going anywhere.

Good dog.  Smart dog.

He trots away from the car.  Then runs.  To the corner.  Around.  A
little farther.  Another corner.  The alley behind the people food
place.

Panting, excited, he runs up to the door where the fat man gave out
scraps.  It is closed.  The fat man is gone.  No more scraps on the
ground.

He is surprised.  He was so sure.  All of them together like in the
sleep world.

He scratches at the door.  Scratches, scratches.

The fat man doesn't come.  The door stays closed.

He barks.  Waits.  Barks.

Nothing.

Well.  So.  Now what?

He is still excited, but not as much as before.  Not so excited that he
has to pee, but too excited to be still.  He paces in front of the
door, back and forth across the alley whining in frustration and
confusion, beginning to be a little sad.

Voices echo to him from the far end of the alley and he knows one of
them belongs to the stinky man who smells like everything bad at once,
including like the touch of the thing-that-will-kill-you.  He can smell
the stinky man really well even from a distance.  He doesn't know who
the other voices belong to, can't smell those people so much because
the stinky man's odor covers them.

Maybe one is the fat man, looking for his Fella.

Could be.

Wagging his tail, he hurries to the end of the alley but when he gets
there he finds no fat man, so he stops wagging.  Only a man and a woman
he's never seen before, standing near a car in front of the people food
place with the stinky man, all of them talking.

You reea'y cops?  says the stinky man.

What 'd you do to the car?  says the woman.

Nothing.  I didn't do anythii:g to the car Tbere's any crop in this
car, you're a dead man.

No, listen, for God's sake.

Forced detox, you scumb"g.

How couldlget in the car, with it locked?

So you tried, huh?

I just wanted to nose around, see were you really cops.

I'll show you are we really cops or not, you hairball.

He let go of me!

Jesus, you stink!

Let me go, let me go!

Come on, let him go.  All right, easy now, says the man who isn't so
stinky Sniffing, sniffing, he smells something on this new man that he
smells on the stinky man, too, and it surprises him.  The touch of the
thing-that-will-kill you.  This man has been around the bad thing not
long ago.

You smell like a walking toxic waste dump, says the woman.

She also has on her the smell of the thing-that-will-kill-you.  All
three of them.  Stinky man, man, and woman.  Interesting.

He moves closer, sniffing.

Listen, please, I've got to talk to a cop, says the stinky man.

So talk, says the woman.

My name's Sammy Shamroe.  I got a crime to report.

Let me guess-somebody stole your new Mercedes.

I need help!

So do we, pal.

All three of them not only have the touch of the bad thing on them, but
they smell of fear, the same fear he has smelled on the woman and the
boy who call him Woofer.  They are afraid of the bad thing, all of
them.

Someone's going to kill me, says the stinky man.

Yeah, it's gonna be me if you don't get out of my face.

Easy.  Easy now.

The stinky man says, And he's not human, either.  I call him the
ratman.

Maybe these people should meet the woman and the boy in the car.  All
of them afraid separately.  Together, maybe not afraid.  Together, all
of them, they might live in a warm place, play all the time, feed him
every day all of them go places in a carxcept the stinky man would have
to run behind unless he stopped being stinky enough to make you
sneeze.

I call him the ratman 'cause he's made out of rats, he falls apart and
he's just a bunch of rats running every which way.

But how?  How to get them together with the woman and the boy?

How to make them understand, people being so slow sometimes?

When the dog came sniffing around their feet, Harry didn't know if it
was with the bum, Sammy, or if it was just a stray on its own.

Depending on how obstreperous the vagrant became, if they had to use
force with him, the dog might take sides.  It didn't look dangerous,
but you never could tell.

As for Sammy, he appeared to be more of a threat than the dog.  He was
wasted from life on the street and from whatever had put him there,
worse than skinny, spindly, Salvation Army giveaway clothes hanging so
loosely on him that you expected to hear bones rattling together when
he moved, but that didn't mean he was weak.  He was twitchy with excess
energy.  His eyes were so wide open, the lids seemed to have been
stretched back and pinned out of the way.  His face was tight with
tension lines, and his lips repeatedly skinned back from his bad teeth
in a feral snarl that might have been meant to be an ingratiating smile
but was alarming instead.

"The ratman, see, is what I call him, not what he calls himself.

Never heard him call himself anything.  Don't know where the hell he
comes from, where he's hiding his ship, he's just all of a sudden
there, just there, the sadistic bastard, one scary son of a bitch-" In
spite of how weak he appeared to be, Sammy might be like a robotic
mechanism receiving too much power, circuits overloading, on the
trembling verge of exploding, disintegrating into a shrapnel of gears
and springs and burst pneumatic tubes that would kill everyone within a
block.  He might have a knife, knives, even a gun.

Harry had seen shaky little guys like this who looked as if a strong
gust of wind would blow them all the way to China; then it turned out
that they were stoned on PCP which could transform kittens into tigers,
and three strong men were required to disarm and subdue them.

"-see, maybe I don't care if he kills me, maybe that would be a
blessing, just get totally drunk and let him kill me, so wasted I'd
hardly notice when he does me," Sammy said, crowding them, moving to
the left when they moved in that direction, to the right when they
tried that way, insisting on a confrontation.  "But then tonight, when
I was deep in the bag, sucking down my second double liter, I realized
who the ratman has to be, I mean what he has to be one of the
aliens!"

"Aliens," Connie said disgustedly "Aliens, always aliens with you dim
bulbs.  Get out' of here, you greasy hairball, or I swear to God I'm
gonna-" "No, no, listen.  We've always known they're coming, haven't
we?

Always known, and now they're here, and they've come to me first, and
if I don't warn the world, then everyone's going.  to die."

As he took hold of Sammy's arm and tried to maneuver him out of their
way, Harry was almost as leery of Connie as he was of the bum.

If Sammy was an overwound clockwork mechanism ready to explode, then
Connie was a nuclear plant heading for a meltdown.  She was frustrated
that the vagrant was delaying them from getting to Nancy Quan, the
police artist, acutely aware that dawn was rushing toward them from the
East.  Harry was frustrated, too, but with him, unlike with Connie,
there was no danger that he might knee Sammy in the crotch and pitch
him through one of the nearby restaurant windows.

"don't want to be responsible for aliens killing the whole world, I've
already got too much on my conscience, too much, can't stand the idea
of being responsible, I've let so many people down already-" If Connie
thumped the guy, they would never get to Nancy Quan or have a chance to
locate Ticktoc They would be tied up here for an hour or longer,
arranging for Sammy's arrest, trying not to choke to death on his body
odor, and struggling to deny police brutality (a few bar patrons were
watching them, faces to the glass).  Too many precious minutes would be
lost.

Sammy grabbed at Connie's jacket sleeve.  "Listen to me, woman, you
listen to me!"

Connie jerked loose of him, cocked her fist.

"No!"  Harry said.

Connie barely checked herself, almost threw the punch.

Sammy was spraying spittle as he ranted: "-it gave me thirty-six hours
to live, the ratman, but now it must be twenty-four or less, not Harry
tried to hold Connie back with one hand as she reached for Sammy again,
while simultaneously pushing Sammy away with the other hand.  Then the
dog jumped up on him.  Grinning, panting, its tail wagging.  Harry
twisted away shook his leg, and the dog dropped back onto the sidewalk
on all fours.

Sammy was babbling frantically now clutching with both hands at Harry's
sleeve and tugging for attention, as if he didn't have It already:
"-his eyes like snake eyes, green and terrible, terrible, and he says I
got thirty-six hours to live, ticktock, ticktock-" Fear and amazement
quivered through Harry when he heard that word, and the breeze off the
ocean seemed suddenly colder than it had been.

Startled, Connie stopped trying to get at Sammy.  "Wait a minute,
what'd you say?"

"Aliens!  aliens!"  Sammy shouted angrily.  "You're not listening to
me, damn it."

"Not the aliens part," Connie said.  The dog jumped on her.

Patting its head and pushing it away she said, "Harry did he say what I
think he said?"

"I'm a citizen, too," Sammy shrieked.  His need to give testimony had
escalated into a frenzied determination.  "I got a right to be listened
to sometimes."

"Ticktock," Harry said.

"That's right," Sammy confirmed.  He was pulling on Harry's sleeve
almost hard enough to tear it off.  in 'Ticktock, ticktock, time is
running out, you'll be dead by dawn tomorrow, Sammy' And then he just
dissolves into a pack of rats, right before my eyes."

Or a whirlwind of trash, Harry thought, or a pillar of fire.

"All right, wait, let's talk," Connie said.  "Calm down, Sammy and
let's discuss this.  I'm sorry for what I said, I really am.  Just get
calm."

Sammy must have thought she was insincere and merely trying to humor
him into letting his guard down, because he didn't respond to the new
respect and consideration she accorded him.  He stamped his feet in
frustration.  His clothes flapped on his 'bony body and he looked like
a scarecrow shaken by a Halloween wind.  "Aliens, you stupid woman,
aliens, aliens, aliens!"

Glancing at The Green House, Harry saw that half a dozen people were at
the barroom windows Now, peering out at them.

He realized what a singular spectacle they were, all three of them
bedraggled, tugging and pulling at each other, shouting about aliens.

He was probably in the last hours of his life, pursued by something
paranormal and incredibly vicious, and his desperate fight for survival
had been transformed, at least for a moment, into a piece of slapstick
street theater.

Welcome to the '90s.  America on the brink of the millennium.

Jesus.

Muffled music filtered to the street: the four-man combo was playing
some West Coast swing now "Kansas City," but with weird riffs.

The host in the Armani suit was one of those at the bar windows.

He was probably silently berating himself for being fooled by what he
now surely believed were phony badges, and would go any second to call
the real police.

A passing car slowed down, driver and passenger gawking.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid woman!"  Sammy shouted at Connie.

The dog took hold of the right leg of Harry's trousers, nearly jerked
him off his feet.  He staggered, kept his balance, and managed to pull
free of Sammy, though not the dog.  It squirmed backward, striving with
canine tenacity to drag Harry along with it.  Harry resisted, then
almost lost his balance again when the mutt abruptly let go of him.

Connie was still trying to soothe Sammy, and the bum was still telling
her that she was stupid, but at least neither was trying to hit the
other.

The dog ran south along the sidewalk for a few steps, skidded to a halt
in the downfall of light from a streetlamp, looked back, and barked at
them.  The breeze ruffled its fur, fluffed its tail.  It dashed a
little farther south, halted in shadows this time, and barked again.

Seeing that Harry was distracted by the dog, Sammy became even more
outraged at his inability to get serious consideration.  His voice
became mocking, sarcastic: "Oh, sure, that's it, pay more attention to
a damn dog than to me!  What am I, anyway, just some piece of street
garbage, less than a dog, no reason to listen to trash like me.

Go on, Timmy, go on, see what Lassie wants, maybe Dad's trapped under
an overturned tractor down on the fucking south forty!"

Harry couldn't help laughing.  He would never have expected a remark
like that out of someone like Sammy, and he wondered who the man had
been before he'd wound up as he was now.

The dog squealed plaintively, cutting Harry's laugh short.  Tucking its
bushy tail between its legs, pricking up its ears, raising its head
quizzically, it turned in a circle and sniffed at the night air.

"Something's wrong," Connie said, worriedly looking around at the
street.

Harry felt it, too.  A change in the air.  An odd pressure.

Something.

Cop instinct.  Cop and dog instinct.

The mutt caught a scent that made it yelp in fear.  It spun around on
the sidewalk, biting at the air, then rushed back toward Harry.

For an instant he thought it was going to barrel into him and knock him
on his ass, but then it angled toward the front of The Green House,
plunged into a planting bed full of shrubbery, and lay flat on its
belly hiding among azaleas, only its eyes and snout visible.

Taking his cue from the dog, Sammy turned and sprinted toward the
nearby alleyway.

Connie said, "Hey, no, wait," and started after him.

"Connie," Harry said warningiy, not sure what he was warning her about,
but sensing that it was not a good idea for them to separate just
then.

She turned to him.  "What?"

Beyond her, Sammy disappeared around the corner.

That was when everything stopped.

Growling uphill in the southbound lane of the coast highway, a tow
truck, evidently on the way to help a stranded motorist, halted on the
proverbial dime but without a squeal of brakes.  Its laboring engine
fell silent from one second to the next, without a lingering chug,
cough, or sputter, though its headlights still shone.

Simultaneously a Volvo about a hundred feet behind the truck also
stopped and fell mute.

In the same instant, the breeze died.  It didn't wane gradually or
sputter out, but ceased as quickly as if a cosmic fan had been switched
off.  Thousands upon thousands of leaves stopped rustling as one.

Precisely in time with the silencing of traffic and vegetation, the
music from the bar cut off mid-note.

Harry almost felt he had gone stone deaf He'd never known a silence as
profound in a controlled interior environment, let alone outdoors where
the life of a town and the myriad background noises of the natural
world produced a ceaseless atonal symphony even in the comparative
stillness between midnight and dawn.  He could not hear himself
breathe, then realized that his own contribution to the preternatural
hush was voluntary; he was simply so stunned by the change.  in the
world that he was holding his breath.

In addition to sound, motion had been stolen from the night.  The tow
truck and Volvo were not the only things that had come to a complete
standstill.  The curbside trees and the shrubbery along the front of
The Green House seemed to have been flash-frozen.  The leaves had not
merely stopped rustling, but had entirely ceased moving; they could not
have been more still if sculpted from stone.

Overhanging the windows of The Green House, the scalloped valances on
the canvas awnings had been fluttering in the breeze, but they had gone
rigid in mid-flutter; now they were as stiff as if formed from sheet
metal.  Across the street, the blinking arrow on a neon sign had frozen
in the ON position.

Connie said, "Harry?"

He started, as he would have at any sound except the intimate muffled
thumping of his own racing heart.

He saw his own confusion and anxiety mirrored in her face.

Moving to his side, she said, "What's happening?"' Her voice, aside
from having an uncharacteristic tremor, was vaguely different from what
it had been, slightly flat in tone and marginally less inflective.

"Damned if I know," he told her.

His voice sounded much like hers, as though it issued from a mechanical
device that was extremely clever-but not quite perfect-at reproducing
the speech of any human being.

"It's got to be him doing she said.

Harry agreed.  "Somehow."

"Ticl:'toc" "Yeah."

"Shit, this is crazy."

"No argument from me."

She started to draw her revolver, then let the gun slide back into her
shoulder holster.  An ominous mood infused the scene, an air of fearful
expectation.  But for the moment, at least, there was nothing at which
to shoot.

"Where is the creep?"  she wondered.

"I have a hunch he'll show up."

"No points for that one."  Indicating the tow truck out in the street,
she said, "For God's sake .  . . look at that."

At first he thought Connie was just remarking on the fact that the
vehicle had mysteriously halted like everything else, but then he
realized what sight had pushed the needle higher on her astonishment
meter.  The air had been just cool enough to cause vehicle exhaust (but
not their breath) to condense in pale plumes; those thin puffs of mist
hung in midair behind the tow truck, neither dispersing nor evaporating
as vapor should have done.  He saw another but barely visible
gray-white ghost suspended behind the tail pipe of the more distant
Volvo.

Now that he was primed to look for them, similar wonders became evident
on all sides, and he pointed them out to her.  A few pieces of light
debris-gum and candy wrappers, a splintered portion of a popsicle
stick, dry brown leaves, a tangled length of red yarn-had been swept up
by the breeze; although no draught remained to support the items, they
were still aloft, as if the air had abruptly turned to purest crystal
around them and had trapped them motionless for eternity.  Within arm's
reach and just a foot higher than his head, two late-winter moths as
white as snowflakes hung immotive, their wings soft and pearl-smooth in
the glow of the streetlamp.

Connie tapped her wristwatch, then showed it to Harry.  It was a
traditional-style Timer with a round dial and hands, including not only
hour and minute hands but a red second hand.  It was stopped at 1:29
plus sixteen seconds.

Harry checked his own watch, which had a digital readout.  It also
showed 1:29, and the tiny blinking dot that took the place of a second
hand was burning steadily no longer counting off each sixtieth of a
minute.

"Time has..."  Connie was unable to finish the sentence.

She surveyed the silent street in amazement, swallowed hard, and
finally found her voice: "Time has stopped ... just stopped.

Is that it?  " "Say what?"

"Stopped for the rest of the world but not for us?"

"Time doesn't .  . . it can't .  . . just stop."

"Then what?"

Physics had never been his favorite subject.  And though he had some
affinity for the sciences because of their ceaseless search for order
in the universe, he was not as scientifically literate as he should
have been in an age when science was king.  However, he had retained
enough of his teachers' lectures and had watched enough PBS specials
and had read enough bestseller-list books of popularized science to
know that what Connie had said did not explain numerous aspects of what
was happening to them.

For one thing, if time had really stopped, why were they still
conscious?  How could they be aware of the phenomenon?  Why weren't
they frozen in that last moment of forward-moving time just as the
airborne litter was, as the moths were?

"No," he said shakily, "it's not that simple.  If time stopped, notbi
would move-would it?-not even subatomic particles.  And without
subatomic movement ... molecules of air ... well, won't molecules of
air be as solid as molecules of iron?  How would we be able to
breathe?"

Reacting to that thought, they both took deep and grateful breaths.

The air did have a faint chemical taste, as slightly odd in its way as
the timbre of their voices, but it seemed capable of sustaining life.

"And light," Harry said.  "Light waves would stop moving.  No waves to
register with our eyes.  So how could we see anything but darkness?"

In fact, the effect of time coming to a stop probably would be
infinitely more catastrophic than the stillness and silence that had
descended on the world that March night.  It seemed to him that time
and matter were inseparable parts of creation, and if the flow of time
were cut off, matter would instantly cease to exist.  The universe
would implode-wouldn't it?  Crash back in on itself, into a real tiny
ball of extremely dense.  . well, whatever the hell dense stuff it was
before it had exploded to create the universe.

Connie stood on her toes, reached up, and gently pinched the wing of
one of the moths between thumb and forefinger.  She settled back on her
heels and brought the insect in front of her face for a closer
inspection.

Harry had not been sure if she would be able to alter the bug's
position or not.  He wouldn't have been surprised if the moth had hung
immovably on the dead-calm air, as fixed in place as a metal moth
welded to a steel wall.

"Not as soft as a moth should be," she said.  "Feels like it's made out
of taffeta... or starched fabric of some kind."

When she opened her fingers, letting go of the wing, the moth hung in
the air where she had released it.

Harry gently batted the bug with the back of his hand, and watched with
fascination as it tumbled a few inches before coming to rest in the air
again.  It was as motionless as it had been before they had toyed with
it, just in a new position.

The ways in which they affected things appeared to be pretty much
normal.  Their shadows moved when they did, though all other shadows
were as unmoving as the objects that cast them.  They could act upon
the world and pass through it as usual but couldn't really interact
with it.  She had been able to move the moth, but touching it had not
brought it into their reality, had not made it come alive again.

"Maybe time hasn't stopped," she said.  "Maybe it just slowed way, way
down for everyone and everything else except us."

"That's not it, either."

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't.  But I think .  . if we're experiencing time at such a
tremendously faster rate, enough faster to make the rest of the world
appear to be standing still, then every move we make has incredible
comparative velocity.  Doesn't it?"

"So?"

"I mean, a lot more velocity than any bullet fired from any gun.

Velocity is destructive.  If I took a bullet in my hand and threw it at
you, it wouldn't do any damage.  But at a few thousand feet per second,
it'll punch a substantial hole in you."

She nodded, staring thoughtfully at the suspended moth.  "So if it was
just a case of us experiencing time a lot faster, the swat you gave
that bug would've disintegrated it."

"Yeah.  I think so.  I'd have probably done some damage to my hand,
too."  He looked at his hand.  It was unmarked.  "And if it was just
that light waves are traveling slower than usual ... then no lamps
would be as bright as they are now.  They'd be dimmer and.

reddish, I think, almost like infrared light.  Maybe.  And air
molecules would be sluggish...."

"Like breathing water or syrup?"

He nodded.  "I think so.  I don't really know for sure.  Hell's bells,
I'm not sure even Albert Einstein would be able to figure this if he
was standing right here with us."

"The way this is going, he might show up any minute."

No one had gotten out of either the tow truck or the Volvo, which
indicated to Harry that the occupants were as trapped in the changed
world as were the moths.  He could see only the shadowy forms of two
people in the front seat of the more distant Volvo, but he had a better
view of the man behind the wheel of the tow truck, which was almost
directly across the street from them.

Neither the shadows in the car nor the truck driver had moved a
fraction of an inch since the stillness had fallen.  Harry supposed
that if they had not been on the same time track as their vehicles,
they might have exploded through the windshields and tumbled along the
highway the instant that the tires precipitously stopped rotating.

At the barroom windows of the Green House, six people continued to peer
out in precisely the postures they had been in when the Pause had
come.

(Harry thought of it as a Pause rather than a Stop because he assumed
that sooner or later Ticktock would start things up again.  Assuming it
was Ticktock who had called the halt.  If not him, who else?  God?) Two
of them were sitting at a window table; the other four were standing,
two on each side of the table.

Harry crossed the sidewalk and stepped between the shrubs to examine
the onlookers more closely.  Connie accompanied him.

They stood directly in front of the glass and perhaps a foot below
those inside the barroom.

In addition to the gray-haired couple at the table, there was a young
blonde and her fiftyish companion, one of the couples who had been
sitting near the bandstand, making too much noise and laughing too
heartily.  Now they were as quiet as the residents of any tomb.  On the
other side of the table stood the host and a waiter.  All six were
squinting through the window, leaning slightly forward toward the
glass.

As Harry studied them, not one blinked an eye.  No face muscles
twitched.  Not a single hair stirred.  Their clothes draped them as if
every garment had been carved from marble.

Their unchanging expressions ranged from amusement to amazement to
curiosity to, in the case of the host, perturbation.  But they were not
reacting to the incredible stillness that had befallen the night.  Of
that, they were oblivious because they were a part of it.

Rather, they were staring over Harry's and Connie's heads, at the place
on the sidewalk where the two of them had last been standing after
Sammy and the dog had fled.  Their facial expressions were in reaction
to that interrupted bit of street theater.

Connie raised one hand above her head and waved it in front of the
window, directly in the line of view of the onlookers.  The six did not
respond to it in any way whatsoever.

"They can't see us," Connie said wonderingly.

"Maybe they see us standing out there on the sidewalk, in the instant
that everything stopped.  They could be frozen in that split second of
perception and not have seen anything we've done since."

Virtually in unison, he and Connie looked over their shoulders to study
the dead-still street behind them, equally apprehensive of the
unnatural quietude.  With astonishing stealth, Ticktock had appeared
behind them in James Ordegard's bedroom, and they had paid with pain
for not anticipating him.  Here, he was not yet in sight, although
Harry was sure that he was coming.

Returning her attention to the gathering inside the bar, Connie rapped
her knuckles against a pane of glass.  The sound was slightly tinny,
differing from the right sound of knuckles against glass to the same
small but audible degree that their current voices differed from their
real ones.

The onlookers did not react.

To Harry, they seemed to be more securely imprisoned than the most
isolated man in the deepest cell in the world's worst police state.

Like flies in amber, they were trapped in one meaningless moment of
their lives.  There was something horribly vulnerable about their
helpless suspension and their blissful ignorance of it.

Their plight, although they were almost certainly unaware of it, sent a
chill along Harry's spine.  He rubbed the back of his neck to warm
It.

"If they still see us out on the sidewalk," Connie said, "what happens
if we go away from here, and then everything starts up again?"

"I suppose, to them, it'll appear as if we vanished into thin air,
right before their eyes."

"My God."

"It'll give them a jolt, all right."

She turned away from the window, faced him.  Worry lines creased her
brow.  Her dark eyes were haunted, and her voice was somber to an
extent not fully attributable to the change in its tone and pitch.

"Harry, this bastard isn't just some spoon-bending, fortune-telling,
sleight-of-hand, Vegas lounge "We already knew he had real power."

"Power?"

"Yes."

"Harry, this is more than power.  The word just doesn't convey, you
hear me?"

"I hear you," he said placatingly.

"Just by willing it, he can stop time, stop the engine of the world,
jam the gears, do whatever the fuck it is he's done.  That's more than
power.  That's ... being God.  What chance do we have against someone
like that?"

"We have a chance."

"What chance?  How?"

"We have a chance," he insisted stubbornly.

"Yeah?  Well, I think this guy can squash us like bugs any time he
wants, and he's just been stalling because he enjoys watching bugs
suffer."

"You don't sound like the Connie Gulliver I know," Harry said more
sharply than he had intended.

"Well, maybe I'm not."  She put one thumb to her mouth and used her
teeth to trim off a full crescent of the nail.

He had never seen her bite her nails before, and he was almost as
astonished by that revelation of nervousness as he would have been if
she had broken down and cried.

She said, "Maybe I tried to ride a wave too big for me, got dumped bad,
lost my nerve."

It was inconceivable to Harry that Connie Golliver could lose her nerve
over anything at all, not even over something as strange and
frightening as what was happening to them.  How could she lose her
nerve when she was all nerve, one hundred and fifteen pounds or so of
solid nerve?

She turned away from him, swept the street with her gaze again, walked
to some azalea bushes and parted them with one hand, revealing the
hiding dog.  "These don't feel quite like leaves.  Stiffer.

More like thin cardboard."

He joined her, stooped, and petted the dog, which was as frozen by the
Pause as were the bar patrons.  "His fur feels like fine wire."

"I think he was trying to 'tell us something."

"So do I. Now."

"Because he sure knew something was about to happen when he hid in
these bushes."

Harry remembered the thought he'd had in the men's room of The Green
House: The only indication that I haven't become imprisoned in a fairy
tale is the abscence of a talking animal.

Funny, how hard it was to break a man's grasp on his sanity.  After a
hundred years of Freudian analysis, people were conditioned to believe
that sanity was a fragile possession, that everyone was a potential
victim of neuroses or psychoses caused by abuse, neglect, or even by
the ordinary stresses of daily life.  If he had seen the events of the
past thirteen hours as the plot of a movie, he'd have found it
unbelievable, smugly certain that the male lead-himself-would have
cracked from the strain of so many supernatural events and encounters
combined with so much physical abuse.  Yet here he was, with aches in
most of his muscles and pains in half his joints, but with his wits
intact.

Then he realized that perhaps he could not assume his wits were
intact.

Unlikely as it was, he might already be strapped down on a bed in a
psychiatric ward, with a rubber wedge in his mouth to keep him from
biting off his tongue in a mad frenzy.  The silent and unmoving world
might be only a delusion.

Sweet thought.

When Connie let go of the azalea branches that she had moved, they did
not fall back into place.  Harry had to press gently on them to force
them to drape the dog once more.

They rose to their feet and scrutinized the visible length of Pacific
Coast Highway the shoulder-to-shoulder businesses on both sides, the
narrow dark gaps between buildings.

The world was a huge clockwork mechanism with a bent key broken
springs, and rustlocked gears.  Harry tried to tell himself that he was
growing accustomed to this weird state of affairs, but he was not
convincing.  If he'd gotten so mellow about it, why was there a cold
sweat on his brow under his arms, and down the small of his back?  The
totally becalmed night exerted no tranquilizing influence, for there
was spring-taut violence and sudden death under its peaceful facade;
instead, it was deeply eerie and growing more so with the passage of
each non-second.

"Enchantment," Harry said.

"What?"

"Like in a fairy tale.  The whole world has fallen under an evil
enchantment, a spell."

"So where the hell is the witch who did it?  That's what I want to
know."

"Not witch," Harry corrected.  "That's female.  A male witch is a
warlock.  Or sorcerer."

She was fuming.  "Whatever.  Damn it, where is he, why is he toying
with us like this, taking so long to show his face?"

Glancing at his wristwatch, Harry confirmed that the red second
indicator had not resumed blinking and that the time on the readout was
still 1:29.  "Actually how much time he's taking depends on how you
look at it.  I guess you could say that he hasn't taken any time at
all."

She noted the 1:29 on her watch.  "Come on, come on, let's get this
over with.  Or do you think he's waiting for us to go looking for
him?"

Elsewhere in the night, there arose the first sound, since the Pause,
that they had not made themselves.  Laughter.  The low, gravelly
laughter of the golem-vagrant who had burned like a tallow candle in
Harry's condo and later reappeared to hammer on them in Ordegard's
house.

Again, out of habit, they reached for their revolvers.  Then both
remembered the uselessness of guns against this adversary and left
their weapons holstered.

South of them, at the uphill end of the block, on the other side of the
street, Ticktock turned the corner, wearing his all-too-familiar
vagrant identity.  If anything, the golem seemed bigger than before,
well over seven feet tall instead of six and a half, with a greater
tangle of hair and wildness of beard than when they'd last seen him.

Leonine head.  Tree-trunk neck.  Massive shoulders.  Impossibly broad
chest.  Hands as big as tennis rackets.  His black raincoat was as
voluminous as a tent.

"Why the hell was I so impatient for him?"  Connie wondered, voicing
Harry's identical thought.

His troll-mean laughter fading, Ticktock stepped off the far curb and
started to cross the street diagonally coming straight toward them.

"What's the plan?"  Connie asked.

"What plan?"

"There's always a plan, damn it."

Indeed, Harry was surprised to realize they had stood waiting for the
golem without giving a thought to a course of action.  They had been
cops for so many years, and had worked as partners long enough, that
they knew how best to respond in every situation, to virtually any
threat.  Usually they didn't actually have to put their heads together
on strategy; they just acted instinctively, each of them confident that
the other would make all the right moves as well.  On the rare
occasions when they needed to talk out a plan of action, a few one-word
sentences sufficed, the shortspeak of partners in sync.  However,
confronted by a nearly invulnerable adversary made of bloodless mud and
stones and worms and God-knew what-else, by a fierce and relentless
fighter who was but one of an endless army that their real enemy could
create, they seemed bereft of both instinct and brains, able only to
stand paralyzed and watch him approach.

Run, Harry thought, and was about to take his own advice when the
towering golem stopped in the middle of the street, about fifty feet
away.

The golem's eyes were different from anything Harry had seen before.

Not just luminous but blazing.  Blue.  The hot blue of gas flames.

Dancing brightly in his sockets.  His eyes cast images of flickering
blue fire on his cheekbones and made the frizzy ends of his beard look
like thin filaments of blue neon.

Ticktock spread his arms and raised his enormous hands above his head
in the manner of an Old Testament prophet standing on a mountain and
addressing his followers below, relaying messages from beyond.  Tablets
of stone containing a hunoied commandments could have been concealed
within his generous raincoat.

"In one hour of real time the world starts up again," Ticktock said.

"I'll count to fifty A head start.  Survive one hour, and I'll let you
live, never torment you again."

"Dear sweet Jesus," Connie whispered, "he really is a child playing
nasty games That made him at least as dangerous as any other
sociopath.

More so.

Some young children, in their innocence of empathy had the capacity to
be extremely cruel.

Ticktock said, "I'll hunt you fair and square, use none of my tricks,
just my eyes," and he pointed to his blazing blue sockets, "my ears,"
and he pointed to one of those, "and my wits."  He tapped the side of
his skull with one thick forefinger.  "No tricks.  No special powers.

More fun that way.  One... two ... better run, don't you think?

Three... four... five..."

"This can't be happening," Connie said, but she turned and ran anyway
Harry followed her.  They sprinted to the alley and around the side of
The Green House, almost colliding with the bony hobo who had called
himself Sammy and who was now frozen precariously on one foot in
mid-stride.  Their feet made curious, hollow slapping sounds on the
blacktop as they exploded past Sammy and raced deeper into the dark
backstreet, almost the sound of running footsteps but not quite.  The
echoes, too, were not precisely like echoes in the real world, less
reverberant and too short-lived.

As he ran, wincing at a hundred separate pains that flared with each
footfall, Harry struggled to devise some strategy by which they might
survive the hour.  But, like Alice, they had crossed through the
looking glass, into the kingdom of the Red Queen, and no plans or logic
would work in that land of the Mad Hatter and Cheshire Cat, where
reason was despised and chaos embraced.

"Eleven... twelve... you're dead if I find you... thirteen..."

Bryan was having so much fun.

He sprawled naked on the black silk sheets, busily creating and
gloriously Becoming, while the votive eyes adored him from their glass
reliquaries.

Yet a part of him was in the golem, which was also exhilarating.

He had constructed the creature bigger this time, made it a fierce and
unstoppable killing machine, the better to terrorize the bigshot hero
and his bitch.  Its immense shoulders were his shoulders, too, and its
powerful arms were his to use.  Curling those arms, feeling the inhuman
muscles flex and contract and flex, was so thrilling that he could
barely contain his excitement over the hunt before him.

......... seventeen... eighteen..."

He had made this giant from dirt and clay and sand, given its body the
appearance of flesh, and animated it-just as the first god had created
Adam from lifeless mud.  Although his destiny was to be a more
merciless divinity than any who had come before him, he still could
create as well as destroy; no one could say that he was less a god than
others who had ruled, no one.  No one.

Standing in the middle of Pacific Coast Highway, towering there, he
gazed out upon the still and silent world, and was pleased with what he
had wrought.  This was his Greatest and Most Secret Power the ability
to stop everything as easily as a watchmaker could stop a ticking
timepiece merely by opening the casing and applying the proper tool to
the key point in the mechanism.

twenty-four... twenty-five..."

This power had arisen within him during one of his psychic growth
surges when he was sixteen, though he had been eighteen before he had
learned to use it well.  That was to be expected.  Jesus, too, had
needed time to learn how to turn water into wine, how to multiply a few
loaves and fishes to feed multitudes.

Will.  The power of the will.  That was the proper tool with which to
remake reality.  Before the beginning of time and the birth of this
universe, there had been one will that had brought it all into
existence, a consciousness that people called God, though God was no
doubt utterly different from all the ways that humankind had pictured
Him perhaps only a child at play who, as a game, created galaxies like
grains of sand.  If the universe was a perpetual-motion machine created
as an act of will, it also could be altered by sheer will, remade or
destroyed.  All that was needed to manipulate and edit the first god's
creation was power and understanding; both had been given to Bryan.

The power of the atom was a dim light when compared to the blindingly
brilliant power of the mind.  By applying his will, by intently
focusing thought and desire, he found that he could make fundamental
changes in the very foundations of existence.

. thirty-one... thirty-two... thirty-three..."

Because he was still earnestly Becoming and was not yet the new god,
Bryan was able to sustain these changes only for short periods, usually
no more than one hour of real time.  Occasionally he grew impatient
with his limits, but he was certain the day would arrive when he could
alter current reality in ways that would be permanent if he so
wished.

In the meantime, as he continued to Become, he satisfied himself with
amusing alterations that temporarily negated all the laws of physics
and, at least for a short while, tailored reality to his desire.

Although it would appear to Lyon and Gulliver that time had ground to a
halt, the truth was more complicated than that.  By the application of
his extraordinary will, almost like wishing before blowing out the
candles on a birthday cake, he had re-conceived the nature of time.  If
it had been an ever-flowing river of dependable effect, he transformed
it into a series of streams, large placid lakes, and geysers with a
uariery of effects.  This world now lay in one of the lakes where time
advanced at such an excruciatingly slow rate that it appeared to have
stopped flowing-yet, also at his wish, he and the two cops interacted
with this new reality much as they had with the old, experiencing only
minor changes in most of the laws of matter, energy, motion, and
force.

... forty... forty-one...

As if making a birthday wish, as if wishing on a star, as if wishing to
a fairy godmother, wishing, wishing, wishing with all his considerable
might, he had created the perfect playground for a spirited game of
hide-and-seek.  And so what if he had bent the universe to make a toy
of it?

He was aware that he was two people of widely disparate natures.

On the one hand he was a god Becoming, exalted, with incalculable
authority and responsibility On the other hand, he was a reckless and
selfish child, cruel and prideful.

In that respect he fancied that he was like humankind itself only more
so.

... forty-five...

In fact, he believed he had been anointed precisely because of the kind
of child he had been.  Selfishness and pride were merely reflections of
ego, and without a strong ego, no man could have the confidence to
create.  A certain amount of recklessness was required if one hoped to
explore the limits of one's creative powers; taking chances, without
regard for consequences, could be liberating and a virtue.  And, as he
was to be the god who would chasten humankind for its pollution of the
earth, cruelty was a requirement of Becoming.  His ability to remain a
child, to avoid spending his creative energy in the senseless breeding
of more animals for the herd, made him the perfect candidate for
divinity.

forty-nine... fifty!"

For a while he would keep his promise to hunt them down only with the
aid of ordinary human senses.  It would be fun.  Challenging.  And it
would be good to experience the severe limitations of their existence,
not in order to develop compassion for them-they did not deserve
compassion-but to enjoy more fully, by comparison, his own
extraordinary powers.

In the body of the hulking vagrant, Bryan moved from the street into
the fabulous amusement park that was the dead-still, whisperless
town.

"Here I come," he shouted, "ready or not."

A dangling pinecone, like a Christmas ornament suspended by a thread
from the bough above, had been arrested in mid-drop by the Pause.  An
orange-and-white cat had been stilled while leaping from a tree branch
to the top of a stucco wall, airborne, forepaws reaching, back legs
sprung out behind.  A rigid, unchanging filigree of smoke curled from a
fireplace chimney.

As she and Harry ran farther into the strange, unbeating heart of the
paralyzed town, Connie did not believe that they would escape with
their lives; nonetheless she frantically conceived and discarded
numerous strategies to elude Ticktock for one hour.  Under the hard
shell of cynicism that she had nurtured so lovingly for so long, like
every poor fool in the world, she evidently treasured the hope that she
was different and would live forever.

She should have been embarrassed to find within herself such a stupid,
animal faith in her own immortality.  Instead, she embraced it.  Hope
could be a treacherous kind of confidence, but she couldn't see how
their predicament could be made worse by a little positive thinking.

In one night she had learned so many new things about herself.  It
would be a pity not to live long enough to build a better life on those
discoveries.

For all of her fevered thinking, only pathetic strategies occurred to
her.  Without slowing, between increasingly ragged gasps for breath,
she suggested they change streets often, turning this way and that, in
the feeble hope that a twisting trail would somehow be harder to follow
than one that was arrow-straight.  And she guided them along a downhill
route where possible because they could cover more ground in less time
if they weren't fighting a rising grade.

Around them, the inert residents of Laguna Beach were oblivious to the
fact that they were running for their lives.  And if she and Harry were
caught, no screams would wake these enchanted sleepers or bring help.

She knew why Ricky Estephen's neighbors had not heard the golem
exploding up through his hallway floor and beating him to death.

Ticktock had stopped time in every corner of the world except inside
that bungalow.  Ricky's torture and murder had been conducted with
sadistic leisure-while no time at all was passing for the rest of
humanity.  Likewise, when Ticktock had accosted them in Ordegard's
house and had thrown Connie through the glass sliding door onto the
master-bedroom balcony, neighbors had not responded to the crash or to
the gunshots that had preceded it because the entire confrontation had
taken place in non-time, in a dimension one step removed from
reality.

As she ran at her top speed, she counted to herself, trying to maintain
the slow rhythm in which Ticktock had been counting.

She reached fifty much too soon, and doubted they had put half enough
ground between them and him to be safe.

If she had continued counting, she might have reached a hundred before,
finally, they had to stop.  They leaned against a brick wall to catch
their breath.

Her chest was tight, and her heart seemed to have swelled to the point
of bursting.  Each breath felt searingly hot, as if she were a fire
eater in a circus, exhaling ignited gasoline fumes.  Her throat was
raw.  Calf and thigh muscles ached, and the increased circulation
renewed the pain in all of the bumps and bruises she'd gotten during
the night.

Harry looked worse than she felt.  Of course, he had received more
blows in more encounters with Ticktock than she had sustained, and had
been on the run longer.

When she could speak, she said, "Now what?"

At first each word puffed from him explosively.  "What.  About.

Using.  Grenades?"

"Grenades?"

"Like Ordegard."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember."

"Bullets don't work on a golem She said, "I noticed."

"-but if we blew the damn thing to pieces-" "Where we going to find
grenades?  Huh?  You know a friendly neighborhood explosives shop
around here?"

"Maybe a National Guard armory someplace like that."

"Get real, Harry."

"Why?  The rest of the world isn't."

"We blow one of these damn things to smithereens, he just scoops up
some mud and makes another."

"But it'll slow him down."

"Maybe two minutes."

"Every minute counts," he said.  "We've just got to get through one
hour."

She looked at him with disbelief.  "Are you saying you think he'll keep
his promise?"

With his coat sleeve, Harry wiped sweat off his face.  "Well, he
might."

"Like hell."

"He might," Harry insisted.

She was ashamed of herself for wanting to believe.

She listened to the night.  Nothing.  That didn't mean Ticktock wasn't
nearby "We've got to get going," she said.

"Where?"

No longer needing to lean against the wall for support, Connie looked
around and discovered they were in the parking lot beside a bank.

Eighty feet away, a car was stopped near the twenty-four-hour automatic
teller.  Two men stood at the machine in the bluish glow from an
overhead security lamp.

Something about the postures of the two was wrong.  Not just that they
were as still as statues.  Something else.

Connie started across the parking lot toward the odd tableau.

"Where you going?"  Harry asked.

"Check this out."

Her instinct proved reliable.  The Pause had hit in the middle of a
robbery.

The first man was using his bank card to get three hundred dollars from
the machine.  He was in his late fifties with white hair, a white
mustache, and a kind face now lined with 'fear.  The packet of crisp
bills had begun to slide out of the dispenser and into his hand when
everything had stopped.

The perp was in his late teens or early twenties, blond, good
looking.

In Nikes, jeans, and a sweatshirt now, he was one of those beach-boy
types who could be found all summer long, on every street of downtown
Laguna, wearing sandals and cutoffs, Bat bellied, with a mahogany tan,
white-haired from the sun.  To look at him as he was at that moment or
as he would be when summer came, you might suspect that he lacked
ambition and had a talent for leisure, but you would not imagine that
anyone so wholesome in appearance could harbor criminal intentions.

Even in the act of robbery he appeared to be cherubic, and had a
pleasant smile.  He was holding a .32-caliber pistol in his right hand,
the muzzle jammed against the older man's spine.

Connie moved around the pair, studying them thoughtfully.

"What're you doing?"  Harry asked.

"We've got to deal with this."

"We don't have time."

"We're cops, aren't we?"

Harry said, "We're being hunted, for God's sake!"

"Who else is going to keep the world from going to hell in a hand
basket, if we don't?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," he said.  "I thought you were in this
line of work for the thrill, and to prove something to yourself Isn't
that what you said earlier?"

"And aren't you in it to preserve order, protect the innocent?"

Harry took a deep breath, as if to argue, then let it out in an
explosive sigh of exasperation.  It wasn't the first time during the
past six months that she had elicited that reaction from him.

She thought he was sort of rvte when he was exasperated; it was such a
pleasing change from his usual equanimity, which got boring because it
was so constant.  In fact, Connie even liked the way he looked tonight,
rumpled and in need of a shave.  She had never seen him this way, had
never eyed to see him this way, and thought he seemed more rough than
seedy, more dangerous than she would have believed he could look.

"Okay, okay," he said, stepping into the robbery tableau to inspect the
perp and victim more closely.  "What do you want to do?"

"Make a few adjustments."

"Might be dangerous."

"That velocity business?  Well, the moth didn't disintegrate.

Cautiously she touched one finger to the perp's face.  His skin felt
leary, and his flesh was somewhat firmer than it should have been.

When she took her finger away, she left a shallow dimple in his cheek,
which evidently would not disappear until the Pause ended.

Staring into his eyes, she said, "Creep."

In no way whatsoever did he acknowledge her presence.  She was
invisible to him.  When time resumed its usual flow, he would not be
aware that she had ever been there.

She pulled back on the perp's gun arm.  It moved but with stiff
resistance.

Connie was patient because she worried that time might begin to move
forward again when she least expected it, that her presence might
startle the reanimated gunman, and that he might accidentally pull the
trigger.  Conceivably she could cause him to blow the older man away,
although his original intention might have been only to commit a
robbery.

When the muzzle of the .32 was no longer pressed against the victim's
spine, Connie slowly pushed it to the left until it was not pointed at
him at all but aimed harmlessly into the night.

Harry carefully pried the gunman's fingers off the pistol.  "It's like
we're kids playing with life-size action figures."  The .32 stayed
precisely where it had been when the perp's hand had encircled it,
suspended in midair.

Connie found that the gun could be moved more easily than the gunman,
although it still offered some resistance.  She took it to the man at
the automatic teller, pressed it into his right hand, and closed his
fingers tightly around it.  When the Pause ended, he would find a
pistol in his hand where none had been a fraction of a second
previously and would have no idea how it had gotten there.  From the
pay-out tray of the machine, she removed the banded packet of twenties
and put it in the customer's left hand.

"I see how the ten-dollar bill ended up magically back in my hand after
I gave it to that hobo," she said.

Surveying the night uneasily, Harry said, "And how the four bullets I
pumped into him ended up in my shirt pocket."

"The head of that religious statue in my hand, from Ricky Estefan's
shrine."  She frowned.  "Gives you the creepy crawlies to think we were
like these people, frozen in time, and the bastard played with us that
way."

"You done here?"

"Not quite.  Come on, help me turn the guy away from the machine."

Together, they rocked him around a hundred and eighty degrees, as if he
were a garden statue carved from marble.  When they were finished, the
victim not only had the pistol but was covering the perp with it.

Like set dressers in a wax museum handling extremely realistic
mannequins, they had redesigned the scene and given it a new kind of
drama.

"Okay, now let's get out of here," Harry said, and started to move away
from the bank, across the parking lot.

Connie hesitated, examining their handiwork.

He looked back, saw she wasn't following him, and turned to her.

"Now what?"

Shaking her head, she said, "This is too dangerous."

"The good guy has the gun now."

"Yes, but he'll be surprised when he finds it in his hand.  He might
drop it.  The creep here might get hold of it again, probably will, and
then they're right back where we found them."

Harry returned, an apoplectic look on his face.  "Have you forgotten a
certain dirty, demented, scar-faced gentleman in a black raincoat?"

"I don't hear him yet."

"Connie, for God's sake, he could stop time for us, too, then take
however damn long he wants to walk up to us, wait until he was right in
front of us before letting us back into the game.  So you wouldn't hear
him until he tore your nose off and asked you if you'd like a
handkerchief."

"If he's going to cheat like that-" "Cheat?  Why wouldn't he cheat?"

Harry demanded exasperatedly though two minutes ago he had been arguing
that there was a chance Ticktock would keep his promise and play
fair.

"We aren't talking about Mother Teresa here!"

"-then it doesn't matter whether we finish our work or run.

Either way, he'll get us."

The keys to the white-haired bank patron's car were in the ignition.

Connie took them out and unlocked the trunk.  The lid did not pop up.

She had to lift it as if she was raising the lid on a coffin.

"This is anal-retentive," Harry told her.

"Oh?  Like you might ordinarily be expected to handle it, huh?"

He blinked at her.

Harry took the perp under the arms, and Connie grabbed him by the
feet.

They carried him to the back of the car and gently lowered him into the
trunk.  The body seemed somewhat heavier than it would have been in
real time.  Connie tried to slam the lid, but in this altered reality,
her push didn't give it the momentum to go all the way down, she had to
lean on it to make the latch click into place.

When the Pause ended and time started up again, the perpetrator would
find himself in the trunk of the car with no memory whatsoever of how
he had wound up in that unhappy position.  In the blink of an eye he
would have gone from being assailant to prisoner.

Harry said, "I think I understand how I wound up three times in the
same chair in Ordegard's kitchen, with the barrel of my own gun in my
mouth."

"He kept taking you out of real time and putting you there."

"Yeah.  A child playing pranks."

Connie wondered if that was also how the snakes and tarantulas had
gotten into Ricky Estefan's kitchen.  During a previous Pause, had
Ticktock gathered them from pet shops, laboratories, or even from their
nests in the wild, and then put them in the bungalow?

Had he started time up again-at least for Kickytartling the poor man
with the sudden infestation?

Connie walked away from the car, into the parking lot, where she
stopped and listened to the unnatural night.

It was as if everything in the world had suddenly died, from the wind
to all of humanity, leaving a planetwide cemetery where grass and
flowers and trees and mourners were made from the same granite as the
tombstones.

At times in recent years, she had considered chucking police work and
moving to some cheap shack on the edge of the Mojave, as far away from
people as she could get.  She lived so Spartanly that she had
substantial savings; living as a desert rat, she could make the money
last a long time.  The barren, peopleless expanses of sand and scrub
and rock were immensely appealing when compared to modern
civilization.

But the Pause was far different from the peace of a sun-baked desert
landscape, where life was still a part of the natural order and where
civilization, sick as it was, still existed somewhere over the
horizon.

After only about ten non-minutes of silence and stillness as deep as
death, Connie longed for the flamboyant folly of the human circus.  The
species was too fond of lying, cheating, envy, ignorance, self pity,
self-righteousness, and utopian visions that always led to mass
murder-but until and if it destroyed itself, it harbored the potential
to become nobler, to take responsibility for its actions, to live and
let live, and to earn the stewardship of the earth.

Hope.  For the first time in her life, Connie Gulliver had begun to
believe that hope, in itself, was a reason to live and to tolerate
civilization as it was.

But Ticktock, as long as he lived, was the end of hope.

"I hate this sonøof a bitch like I've never hated anyone," she said.

"I want to get him.  I want to waste him so bad I can hardly stand
it."

"To get him, first we have to stay alive," Harry reminded her.

"Let's go."

Initially staying on the move in that motionless world seemed to be the
wisest thing they could do.  If Ticktock was faithful to his promise,
using only his eyes and ears and wits to track them, their safety
increased in direct proportion to the amount of distance they put
between him and them.

As Harry ran with Connie from one lonely street to another, he
suspected there was a better than even chance that the psycho would
keep his word, stalking them only by ordinary means and releasing them
unharmed from the Pause if he could not catch them in one hour of real
time.  The bastard was, after all, demonstrably immature in spite of
his incredible power, a child playing a game, and sometimes children
took games more seriously than real life.

Of course, when he released them, it would still be twenty-nine minutes
past one in the morning when clocks finally started ticking again.

Dawn remained five hours away.  And while Ticktock might play this
particular game-within-a-game strictly according to the rules he had
outlined, he would still intend to kill them by dawn.

Surviving the Pause would only win them the slim chance to find him and
destroy him once time started up again.

And even if Ticktock broke his promise, using some sixth sense to track
them, it was smart to keep moving.  Perhaps he had pinned psychic tags
on them, as Harry had speculated earlier; in which case, if he did
cheat, he could find them regardless of where they went.  By remaining
on the move, at least they were safe unless and until he could catch
them or get ahead by anticipating their next turn.

From street to alley to street, across yards and between silent houses
they ran, clambering over fences, through a school playground,
footfalls vaguely metallic, where every shadow seemed as permanent as
iron, where' neon lights burned steadier than any Harry had ever seen
before and painted eternal rainbows on the pavement, past a man in a
tweed coat walking his Scottie dog and both of them as motionless as
bronze figures.

They sprinted along a narrow stream bed where runoff from the storm
earlier in the day was time-frozen but not at all like ice: clearer
than ice, black with reflections of the night and marked by pure silver
higtuights instead of frost-white crystallization.  The surface was not
flat, either, like a frozen winter creek, but rippled and runneled and
spiraled by turbulence.  Where the stream splashed over rocks in its
course, the air was hung with unmoving sprays of glittering water
resembling elaborate sculptures made from glass shards and beads.

Though staying on the move was desirable, continued flight soon became
impractical.  They were already tired and stiff with pain when they
began their run; each additional exertion took a geometrically greater
toll from them.

Although they seemed to move as easily in this petrified world as in
the one to which they were accustomed, Harry noticed that they did not
create a wind of their own when they ran.  The air parted around them
like butter around a knife, but no turbulence arose from their passage,
which indicated that the air was objectively denser than it appeared
subjectively Their speed might be consider ably less than it appeared
to them, in which case movement required more effort than they
perceived.

Furthermore, the coffee, brandy and hamburger that Harry had eaten
churned sourly in his stomach.  Acidic flares of indigestion burned
through his chest.

More important, block by block as they fled through that townsize
mausoleum, an inexplicable inversion of biological response increased
their misery.  Although such strenuous activity should have left them
overheated, they grew steadily colder.  Harry couldn't work up a sweat,
not even an icy one.  His toes and fingers felt as if he A had slogged
across an Alaskan glacier, not a southern California beach resort.

The night itself felt no colder than before the Pause.  Indeed perhaps
not quite as cool, since the crisp breeze off the ocean had fallen into
stillness with everything else.  The cause of the queer internal chill
was evidently something other than the air temperature, more mysterious
and profound-and frightening.

It was as if the world around them, its abundant energy trapped inø
stasis, had become a black hole of sorts, relentlessly absorbing their
energy sucking it out of them, until degree by degree they would become
as inanimate as everything else.  He suspected it was imperative that
they begin to conserve what resources they had left.

When it became incontrovertibly clear that they would have to stop and
find a promising place to hide, they had left a residential
neighborhood and entered the east end of a canyon with scrubcovered
slopes.  Along the three-lane service road, lit by rows of sodium-vapor
arc lamps that transformed the night into a two-tone black and yellow
canvas, the flat ground was occupied by semiindustrial businesses of
the type that image-conscious towns like Laguna Beach carefully tucked
away from primary tourist routes.

They were walking now, shivering.  She was hugging herself.  He turned
up his collar and pulled the halves of his sportcoat tight together.

"How much of the hour has passed?"  Connie asked.

"Damned if I know.  I've lost all time sense."

"Half an hour?"

"Maybe."

"Longer?"

"Maybe."

"Less?"

"Maybe."

"Shit."

"Maybe."

To their right, in a sprawling recreational-vehicle storage yard behind
heavy-duty chain-link fence crowned with razor wire, motor homes stood
side by side in the gloom, like row after row of slumbering
elephants.

"What're all these cars?"  Connie wondered.

They were parked on both sides of the road, half on the narrow
shoulders and half on the pavement, squeezing the three-lane street to
no more than two lanes.  It was curious, because none of those
businesses would have been open when the Pause hit.  In fact, all of
them were dark, and had closed up seven to eight hours earlier.

On their right, a landscape-maintenance company occupied a
concrete-block building behind which a tree and shrub nursery was
terraced halfway up the canyon wall.

Directly under one of the pole lamps, they came upon a car in which a
young couple was necking.  Her blouse was open, and his hand was
inside, marble palm cupping marble breast.  As far as Harry was
concerned, their frozen expressions of ardent passion, tinted
sodium-yellow and glimpsed through the car windows, was about as erotic
as a couple of corpses tumbled together on a bed.

They passed two automobile-repair shops on opposite sides of the
three-lane, each specializing in different foreign makes.  The
businesses fronted their own parts junk yards heaped with cannibalized
vehicles and fenced with high chain-link.

Cars continued to line the street, blocking driveways to the
businesses.  A boy of about eighteen or nineteen, shirtless in jeans
and Rockports, as thoroughly gripped by the Pause as everyone they
Camaro, arms out to his sides and palms up, staring at the occluded sky
as if there was something to see up there, a stupid expression of
drugged-out bliss on his face.

"This is weird," Connie said.

"Weird," Harry agreed, flexing his hands to keep the knuckles from
growing too stiff with the cold.

"But you know what?"

"Familiar somehow," he said.

"Yeah."

Along the final length of the three-lane blacktop, all of the
businesses were warehouses.  Some were built of concrete block covered
with dust-caked stucco, stained with rust from water pouring off
corrugated metal roofs during countless rainy seasons.  others were
entirely of metal, like Quonset huts.

The parked cars grew more numerous in the final block of the street,
which dead-ended in the crotch of the canyon.  In some places they were
doubled up, narrowing the road to one lane.

At the end of the street, the last of all the buildings was a large
warehouse unidentified by any company name.  It was one of the
stucco-coated models with a corrugated steel roof.  A giant FOR RENT
banner was strung across the front, with a Realtor's phone number.

Security lights shone down the face of the structure, across metal
roll-up doors large enough to admit big tractor-and-trailer rigs.  At
the southwest corner of the building was a smaller, man-size door at
which stood two tough-looking guys in their early twenties,
steroid-assisted physiques bulked up beyond what weight-lifting and
diet alone could achieve.

"Couple of bouncers," Connie said as they approached the Pause frozen
men.

Suddenly the scene made sense to Harry "It's a rave."

"On a weekday?"

"Must be someone's special party, birthday or something."

Imported from England a few years ago, the rave phenomenon appealed to
teenagers and those in their early twenties who wanted to party nonstop
until dawn, beyond the eye of all authorities.

"Smart place to hide?"  Connie wondered.

"As smart as any, I guess, and smarter than some."

Rave promoters rented warehouses and industrial buildings for a night
or two, moving the event from one spot to another to avoid police
detection.  Locations of upcoming raves were advertised in underground
newspapers and in fliers handed out at record stores, nightclubs, and
schools, all written in the code of the subculture, using phrases like
"The Mickey Mouse X-press," "American X-press," "Double-Hit Mickey,"
"Get X-rayed," "Dental Surgery Explained," and "Free Balloons for the
Kiddies."  Mickey Mouse and X were nicknames for a potent drug more
commonly known as Ecstasy, while references to dentistry and balloons
meant that nitrous oxider laughing gas-would be for sale.

Avoidance of police detection was essential.  The theme of every
illegal rave party-as opposed to tamer imitations in the legitimate
rave nightclubs-was sex, drugs, and anarchy.

Harry and Connie walked past the bouncers, through the door, and into
the heart of chaos, but a chaos to which the Pause had brought a
tenuous and artificial order.

The cavernous room was lit by half a dozen red and green lasers,
perhaps a dozen yellow and red spots, and strobes, all of which had
been blinking and sweeping over the crowd until the Pause stilled
them.

Now lances of colorful, fixed light found some partiers and left others
in shadows.

Four or five hundred people, mostly between eighteen and twenty-five,
but some as young as fifteen, were frozen in either the act of dancing
or just hanging out.  Because the disc jockeys at raves invariably
played highly energized techno dance music with a rapidly pounding bass
that could shake walls, many of the young celebrants had been Paused in
bizarre poses of flailing and gyrating abandon, bodies contorted, hair
flying.  The men and boys were for the most part dressed in jeans or
chinos with flannel shirts and baseball caps worn backward, or with
preppy sportcoats over T-shirts, though some were decked out all in
black.  The girls and young women wore a wider variety of clothes, but
every outfit was provocative-tight, short, low-cut, translucent,
revealing; raves were, after all, celebrations of the carnal.  The
silence of graves had replaced the booming music, as well as the
screams and shouts of the partiers; the eerie light combined with the
stillness to impart an anti-erotic cadaverous quality to the exposed
curves of calves, thighs, and breasts.

As he and Connie moved through the crowd, Harry noticed that the
dancers' faces were stretched in grotesque expressions which probably
had conveyed excitement and hopped-up gaiety when they were animated.

In freeze-frame, however, they were eerily transformed into masks of
rage, hatred, and agony.

In the fiery glow produced by the lasers and spots, and by the
psychedelic images that film projectors beamed onto two huge walls, it
was easy to imagine that this was no party, after all, but a diorama of
Hell, with the damned writhing in pain and wailing for release from
their excruciating torment.

By seining out the rave's noise and movement, the Pause might have
captured the truth of the event in its net.  Perhaps the ugly secret,
beneath the flash and thunder, was that these revelers, in their
obsessive search for sensation, were not truly having fun on any
fundamental level, but were suffering private miseries from which they
frantically sought relief that eluded them.

Harry led Connie out of the dancers into the spectators who were
gathered around the perimeter of the enormous vaulted chamber.  A few
had been caught by the Pause in small groups, in the midst of shouted
conversations and exaggerated laughter, faces strained and muscles
corded in their necks as they had struggled to compete with the
thunderous music.

But most seemed to be alone, disengaged from those around them.  Some
were slack-faced and staring vacuously into the crowd.

Others were as taut as stretched wire, with unnervingly feverish
stares.  Perhaps it was the Halloween lighting and the stark shadows,
but in either case, whether hollow-eyed or glaring, the petrified
ravers on the sidelines reminded Harry of movie zombies paralyzed in
the middle of some murderous task.

"It's a regular creep show," Connie said uneasily, evidently also
perceiving a quality of menace in the scene that might not have been so
obvious if they had wandered into it before the Pause.

"Welcome to the nineties."

A number of the zombies on the periphery of the dance floor were
holding balloons in an array of bright colors, though not attached to
strings or sticks.  Here was a red-haired, freckled boy of seventeen or
eighteen, who had stretched the neck of a canary-yellow balloon and
wrapped it around his index finger to prevent deflation.  And here was
a young man with a Pancho Villa mustache, firmly pinching the neck of a
green balloon between thumb and forefinger, as was a blond girl with
empty blue eyes.  Those who didn't use their fingers seemed to employ
the type of hinged binder clips that could be bought by the box at
stationery stores.  A few ravers had the necks of their balloons
between their lips, taking hits of nitrous oxide, which they had bought
from a vendor who was no doubt working out of a van behind the
building.  With all the vacant or intense stares and the bright
balloons, it was as if a pack of the walking dead had wandered into a
children's birthday party Although the scene was made infinitely
strange and fascinating by the Pause, it was still drearily familiar to
Harry.  He was, after all, a homicide detective, and sudden deaths
occasionally occurred at raves.

Sometimes they were drug overdoses.  No dentist would sedate a patient
with a concentration of nitrous oxide higher than eighty percent, but
the gas available at raves was often pure, with no oxygen mixed in.

Take too many hits of the pure stuffin too short a time, or suck too
long on one toke, you might not merely make a giggling spectacle of
yourself but induce a stroke that killed you; or, worse, one that was
not fatal but caused irreparable brain damage and left you flopping
like a fish on the floor, or catatonic.

Harry spotted a loft overhanging the entire width of the back of the
warehouse, twenty feet above the main floor, with wooden steps leading
to it from both ends.

"Up there," he told Connie, pointing.

They would be able to see the entire warehouse from that high deck-and
quickly spot Ticktock if they heard him enter, no matter which door he
used.  The two staircases ensured an escape route regardless of the
direction from which he came at them.

Moving deeper into the building, they passed two bosomy young women in
tight T-shirts on which was printed "Just Say NO," a rave joke on Nancy
Reagan's anti-drug campaign, which meant these two said yes to nitrous
oxide, NO, if not to anything else.

They had to step around three girls lying on the floor near the wall,
two of them holding half-deflated balloons and Paused in fits of
red-faced giggles.  The third was unconscious, mouth open, a fully
deflated balloon on her chest.

Near the back, not far from the right-hand stairs, an enormous white X
was painted on the wall, large enough to be visible from every corner
of the warehouse.  Two guys in Mickey Mouse sweatshirts-and one of them
in a mouse-ear hat-had been frozen in the middle of bustling commerce,
taking twenty-dollar bills from customers in return for capsules of
Ecstasy or for disco biscuits saturated with the same stuff They came
to a teenager, no more than fifteen, with guileless eyes and a face as
innocent as that of a young nun.  She was wearing a black T-shirt with
a picture of a shotgun under the words PUMP ACTION.  She had Paused in
the process of putting a disco biscuit into her mouth.

Connie plucked the cookie from the girl's stiff fingers and slipped it
out from between her parted lips.  She threw it to the floor.  The
cookie didn't have quite enough momentum to carry it all the way down,
halting inches above the concrete.  Connie pushed it the rest of the
way with the toe of her shoe and crushed it underfoot.  "Stupid kid."

"This isn't lee you "Harry said.

"What?"

"Being a stuffy adult."

"Maybe someone's got to."

Methylenedioxymethamphetamine, or Ecstasy, an amphetamine with
hallucinogenic effects, could radically energize the user and induce
euphoria.  It could also generate a false sense of profound intimacy
with any strangers in whose company the user happened to be when
high.

Although other drugs sometimes appeared at raves, NO and Ecstasy were
far and away predominant.  NO was just nonaddictive giggle juice-wasn't
it?-and Ecstasy could bring you into harmony with your fellow human
beings and put you in tune with Mother Nature.  Right?  That was its
rep.  The chosen drug of ecologically minded peace advocates, well
consumed at rallies to save the planet.

Sure, it was dangerous for people with heart conditions, but there was
no recorded death from its use in the entire United States.  True,
scientists had recently discovered that Ecstasy caused pin-size holes
in the brain, hundreds or even thousands of them from continued use,
but there was no proof that these holes resulted in diminished mental
capacity, so what they probably did, see, was let the cosmic rays shine
in better and assist enlightenment.  Right?

Climbing to the loft, Harry could look down between the steps, which
had treads but no risers, and see couples frozen in make out postures
in the shadows under the staircase.

All the sex education in the world, all the graphic pamphlets on condom
use, could be swept aside by one tab of Ecstasy if the user experienced
an erotic response, as so many did.  How could you remain concerned
about disease when the stranger you'd just met was such a soulmate, the
yin to your yang, radiant and pure to your third eye, so in tune to
your every need and desire?

When he and Connie reached the loft, the light was dimmer than on the
main level, but Harry could see couples lying on the floor or sitting
together with their backs against the rear wall.  They were making out
more aggressively than those beneath the stairs, Paused in tongue
duels, blouses unbuttoned, jeans unzipped, hands seeking within.

Two or three of the couples, in an Ecstasy rush, might even have lost
such complete touch with where they were and with common propriety that
they were actually doing it in one fashion or another, when the Pause
hit.

Harry had no desire to confirm that suspicion.  Like the sad circus on
the main floor, the scene in the loft was only depressing.  It was not
in the least erotic to any voyeur with minimum standards, but provoked
as many somber thoughts as any Hieronymus Bosch painting of hellacious
realms and creatures.

As Harry and Connie moved between the couples toward the loft railing
where they could look down on the main floor, he said, "Be careful what
you step in."

"You're disgusting."

"Only trying to be a gentleman."

"Well, that's unique in this place."

From the railing, they had a good view of the frozen throng below,
partying eternally.

Connie said, "God, I'm cold."

"Me, too."

Standing side by side, they put their arms around each other at the
waist, ostensibly sharing body heat.

Harry had rarely in his life felt as close to anyone as he felt to her
at that moment.  Not close in an amorous sense.  The stoned and groping
couples on the floor behind them were sufficiently antiromantic to
assure against any romantic feelings rising in him just then.  The
atmosphere wasn't right for it.  What he felt, instead, was the
platonic closeness of friend to friend, of partners who had been pushed
to their limits and then beyond, who were very probably going to die
together before dawn-and this was the important part-without either of
them ever having decided what he really wanted out of life or what it
all meant.

She said, "Tell me not all kids these days go to places like this,
saturate their brains with chemicals."

"They don't.  Not all of them.  Not even most of them.  Most kids are
reasonably together."

"Because I wouldn't want to think this crowd is typical of 'our next
generation of leaders,' as they say."

"It isn't."

"If it is," she said, "then the post-millennium cotillion is going to
be even nastier than what we've been living through these last few
years."

Inn "Ecstasy causes pin-size holes in the brain," he said.

"I know.  Just imagine how much more inept the government would be if
the Congress was full of boys and girls who like to ride the
X-press."

"What makes you think it isn't already?"

She laughed sourly.  "That would explain a lot."

The air was neither cold nor warm, but they were shivering worse than
ever.

The warehouse remained deathly still.

"I'm sorry about your condo," she said.

"What?"

"It burned down, remember?"

"Well."  He shrugged.

"I know how much you loved it."

"There's insurance."

"Still, it was so nice, cozy, everything in its place."

"Oh?  The one time you were there, you said it was 'the perfect
self-constructed prison' and that I was a shining example to every
anal-retentive nutcase fussbudget from Boston to San Diego."' "No, I
didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"Really?"

"Well, you were angry with me."

"I must have been.  About what?"

He said, "That was the day we arrested Norton Lewis, he gave us a
little run for our money, and I wouldn't let you shoot" "That's
right.

I really wanted to shoot him."

"Wasn't necessary."' She sighed.  "I was really up for it."

"We nailed him anyway."

"Could've gone bad, though.  You were lucky.  Anyway, the son of a
bitch deserved shooting."

"No argument there," he said.

"Well, I didn't mean it-about your condo."

"Yes, you did."

"Okay, I did, but I have a different take on it now.  It's a screwed-up
world, and we all need to have a way of coping.  Yours is better than
most.  Better than mine, in fact."

"You know what I think's happening here?  I think maybe this is what
the psychologists call 'bonding."' "God, I hope not."

"I think it is."

She smiled.  "I suspect that already happened weeks or months ago, but
we're just getting around to admitting it."

They stood in companionable silence for a while.

He wondered how much time had passed since they'd fled from the
counting golem on Pacific Coast Highway.  He felt as if he had surely
been on the run for an hour, but it was difficult to tell real time
when you were not living in it.

The longer they were stuck in the Pause, the more inclined Harry was to
believe their enemy's promise that the ordeal would only last one
hour.

He had a feeling, perhaps at least partly cop instinct rather than
entirely wishful thinking, that Ticktock was not as all powerful as he
seemed, that there were limits to even his phenomenal abilities, and
that engineering the Pause was so draining, he could not long sustain
it.

The growing inner cold that troubled both him and Connie might be a
sign that Ticktock was finding it increasingly difficult to exempt them
from the enchantment that had stilled the rest of the world.  In spite
of their tormentor's attempt to control the altered reality that he had
created, perhaps Harry and Connie were gradually being transformed from
movable game pieces to permanent fixtures on the game board itself.

He remembered the shock of hearing the gravelly voice speak to him out
of his car radio last evening, when he had been speeding between his
burning condo in Irvine and Connie's apartment in Costa Mesa.  But
until now he had not realized the importance of the words the
golem-vagrant had spoken: Gotta rest now, hero... gotta rest...

tired... a little nap.  ... More had been said, mostly threats, the
raspy voice gradually fading into static, silence.  However, Harry
suddenly understood that the most important thing about the incident
was not the fact that Ticktock could somehow control the ether and
speak to him out of a radio, but the revelation that even this being of
godlike abilities had limits and needed periodic rest like any ordinary
mortal.

When Harry thought about it, he realized that each of Ticktock's more
flamboyant manifestations was always followed by a period of an hour or
longer when he didn't come around to continue his torments.

Gotta rest, ..... ......... a little nap.  ...

He remembered telling Connie, earlier at her apartment, that even a
sociopath with enormous paranormal powers was certain to have
weaknesses, points of vulnerability.  During the intervening hours, as
he had seen Ticktock perform a series of tricks each of which was more
amazing than the one before it, he had grown more pessimistic about
their chances.  Now optimism blossomed again.

Gotta rest, ..... ......... a little nap.  ...

He was about to share these hopeful thoughts with Connie when she
suddenly stiffened.  His arm was still around her waist, so he also
felt her shivering abruptly stop.  For an instant he was afraid that
she had been too deeply chilled, surrendered to entropy, and become
part of the Pause.

Then he saw that she had tilted her head in response to some faint
sound that he, in his woolgathering, had not heard.

It came again.  A click.

Then a low scrape.

A much louder clatter.

The sounds were all flat, truncated, like those they themselves had
made during their long run from the coast highway.

Alarmed, Connie slipped her arm from around Harry's waist, and he let
go of her as well.

Down on the main floor of the warehouse, the golem-vagrant moved
through iron shadows and revealing shafts of frozen light, between the
zombie spectators and among the petrified dancers.

Ticktock had entered through the same door they had used, following
their trail.

Connie's instinct was to step back from the loft railing, so the golem
would not look up and see her, but she overcame that reflexive urge and
remained motionless.  In the fathomless stillness of the Pause, even
the whispery friction of shoe sole against floor, or the softest creak
of a board, would instantly draw the creature's unwanted attention.

Harry was also quick enough to slam a lock on his instinctual reaction,
remaining almost as still as any of the ravers caught in the Pause.

Thank God.

If the thing looked up, it probably would not see them.  Most of the
light was below, and the loft hung in shadows.

She realized she was clinging to the stupid hope that Ticktock really
was trailing them only with ordinary senses, keeping his promise.  As
if any sociopathic serial killer, para normally empowered or not, could
be trusted to keep a promise.  Stupid, not worthy of her, but she clung
to the possibility anyway.  If the world could fall under an
enchantment as profound as any in a fairy tale, who was to say that her
own hopes and wishes did not also have at least some power?

And wasn't that an odd idea coming from her of all people, who had
given up hope as a child, who had never in memory wished for any gift
or blessing or surcease?

Everyone can change, they said.  She had never believed it.  For most
of her life, she had been unchanging, expecting nothing from the world
that she did not earn twice over, taking perverse solace from the fact
that her expectations were never exceeded.

Life can be as bitter as dragon tears But whether dragon tears are
bitter or sweet depend entirely on bow each man perceives the taste.

Or woman.

Now she felt a stirring within, an important change, and she wanted to
live to see how it played out.

But below prowled the golem-vagrant, hunting.

Connie breathed through her open mouth, slowly and quietly.

Moving among the fossilized dancers, the massive creature turned its
burly head left and then right, methodically scanning the crowd.  It
changed color as it passed through frozen lasers and spotlights, red to
green, green to yellow, yellow to red to white to green, gray and black
when it moved between shafts of light.  But always its eyes were blue,
radiant and strange.

When the space between dancers narrowed, the golem shoved aside a young
man in jeans and a blue corduroy jacket.  The dancer toppled backward,
but the resistance of all Paused things prevented him from completing
the fall.  He stopped at a forty-five-degree angle to the floor and
hung there precariously still poised mid dance, with the same
celebratory expression on his face, ready to complete the fall in the
first fraction of a second after time started up again, if it ever
did.

Moving from front to back of the cavernous room, the hulking golem
shoved other dancers aside, into falls and spins and stumbles and
head-butting collisions that would not be completed until the Pause
ended.  Getting out of the building safely when real time kicked in
again would be a challenge, because the startled ravers, never having
seen the beast pass among them while they were Paused, would blame
those around them for being knocked down and shoved.  A dozen fights
would erupt in the first half-minute, Pandemonium would break out, and
confusion would inevitably give way to panic.  With lasers and
spotlights sweeping the crowd, the throbbing bass of the techno music
shaking the walls, and violence inexplicably erupting at every turn,
the rush to get out would pile people up at the doors, and it would be
a miracle if a number of them were not trampled to death in the
melee.

Connie had no special sympathy for the mob on the dance floor, since
defiance of the law and policemen was one of the motivations that
brought them to a rave in the first place.  But as rebellious and
destructive and socially confused as they might be, they were
nonetheless human beings, and she was outraged at the callousness with
which Ticktock was bulling through them, without a thought for what
would happen to them when the world suddenly shifted into gear again.

She glanced at Harry beside her and saw a matching anger in his face
and eyes.  His teeth were clenched so tight that his jaw muscles
bulged.

But there was nothing they could do to stop what was happening below.

Bullets had no effect, and Ticktock was not likely to respond to a
heartfelt request.

Besides, by speaking out, they would only be revealing their
presence.

The golem-vagrant had not once glanced toward the loft, and as yet
there was no reason to think either that Ticktock was using more than
ordinary senses to search for them or that he knew they were in the
warehouse.

Then Ticktock perpetrated an outrage that made it clear he fully
intended to cause Bedlam and leave bloody tumult in his wake.  He
stopped in front of a raven-haired girl of twenty, whose slender arms
were raised above her head in one of those rapturous expressions of the
joy that rhythmic movement and primitive driving music could sometimes
bring to a dancer even without the assistance of drugs.

He loomed over her for a moment, studying her, as if taken with her
beauty.  Then he grabbed one of her arms in both his monstrous hands,
wrenched with shocking violence, and tore it out of her shoulder
socket.  A low, wet laugh escaped him as he threw the arm behind him,
where it hung in the air between two other dancers.

The mutilation was as bloodless as if he had merely disconnected the
arm of a mannequin, but of course blood would not begin to flow until
time itself flowed again.  Then the madness of the act and its
consequences would be all too apparent.

Connie squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch what he might do next.

As a homicide cop, she had seen countless acts of mindless barbarityr
the consequences of them-and she had collected stacks of newspaper
stories about crimes of positively fiendish brutality, and she had seen
the damage this particular psychotic bastard had done to poor Ricky
Estefan, but the fierce savagery of the act he committed on the dance
floor rocked her as nothing had before.

The utter helplessness of this young victim might have been the
difference that knocked the wind out of Connie and left her shaking not
from any inner or outer chill but with icy horror.  All victims were
helpless to one degree or another; that was why they became targets for
the savages among them.  But this pretty young woman's helplessness was
of an infinitely more terrible nature, for she had never seen her
assailant coming, would never see him go or know his identity, would be
stricken as suddenly as any innocent field mouse pierced by the razor
claws of a swooping hawk which it had never seen diving from on high.

Even after she had been maimed, she remained unaware of the attack,
frozen in the last moment of pure happiness and worry-free existence
that she might ever know, a laugh still painted on her face though she
had been forever crippled and perhaps condemned to death, not even
permitted to know her loss or to feel the pain or to scream until her
attacker had returned to her the ability to feel and react.

Connie knew that, to this monstrous enemy, she was as shockingly
vulnerable as the young dancer below.  Helpless.  No matter how fast
she could run, regardless of the cleverness of her strategies, no
defense would be adequate and no hiding place secure.

Although she had never been particularly religious, she suddenly
understood how a devout fundamentalist Christian might tremble at the
thought that Satan could be loosed from Hell to stalk the world and
wreak Armageddon.  His awesome power.  His relentlessness.  His hard,
gleeful, merciless brutality Greasy nausea slithered in her guts, and
she was afraid she might Beside her, the softest hiss of apprehension
escaped Harry, and Connie opened her eyes.  She was determined to meet
her death face to face with all the resistance she could muster,
useless as resistance might be.

On the floor of the warehouse below, the golem-vagrant reached the foot
of the same set of stairs up which she and Harry had climbed to the
loft.  He hesitated there, as if considering whether to turn and walk
away search elsewhere.

Connie dared to hope that their continued silence, in spite of every
provocation to cry out, had encouraged Ticktock to believe that they
could not possibly be hiding anywhere in the rave.

Then he spoke in that rough demonic voice.  "Fee, fie, fo, fum," he
said, starting up the stairs, "I smell the blood of hero cops."

His laugh was as cold and inhuman as any sound that might issue from a
crocodile-yet contained an eerily recognizable quality of childlike
delight.

Arrested development.

A psychotic child.

She remembered Harry telling her that the burning vagrant, in the
process of destroying the condominium, had said, You people are so much
things to play with.  This was his private game, played by his rules,
or without rules at all if he wished, and she and Harry were nothing
but his toys.  She had been foolish to hope that he would keep his
promise.

The crash of each of his heavy footsteps reverberated across the wood
treads and up through the entire structure.  The floor of the loft
shook from his ascent.  He was climbing fast: BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

Harry grabbed her by the arm.  "Quick, the other stairs!"

They turned away from the railing and toward the opposite end of the
loft from where the golem was ascending.

At the head of the second set of stairs stood a second golem identical
to the first.  Huge.  Mane of tangled hair.  Wild beard.

Raincoat like a black cape.  He was grinning broadly.  Blue flames
flickering brightly in deep sockets.

Now they knew one more thing about the extent of Ticktock's power.  He
could create and control at least two artificial bodies at the same
time.

The first golem reached the top of the stairs to their right.  He
started toward them, ruthlessly kicking a path through the tangled
lovers on the floor.

To their left, the second golem approached with no greater respect for
the Paused people in his way.  When the world started up again, cries
of injury and outrage would arise from end to end of the wide loft.

Still gripping Connie's arm, pulling her back against the railing,
Harry whispered, "Jump!"

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, the thud of the twin golems' footsteps shook
the loft, and BOOM-BOOM-BOOMBOOM, the pounding of her heart shook
Connie, and the two sounds became indistinguishable from one another.

Following Harry's example, she put her hands behind her on the railing,
pushed up to sit on the handrail.

The golems kicked more viciously at the human obstacles between them
and their prey, closing in faster from both sides.

She lifted her legs and swung around to face the warehouse.  At least a
twenty-foot drop to the floor.  Far enough to break a leg, crack open
her skull?  Probably.

Each of the golems was less than twenty feet away, coming toward her
with all the irresistible force of freight trains, gas-flame eyes
burning as hot as any fires in Hell, reaching for her with massive
hands.

Harry jumped.

With a cry of resignation, Connie pushed with her feet against the
balusters and her hands against the handrail, launching herself into
the void -and fell only six or seven feet before coasting to a full
stop in midair, beside Harry.  She was facing straight down, legs and
arms spread in an unconscious imitation of the classic skydiving
position, and below her were the frozen dancers, all of them as
oblivious of her as they were of everything else beyond the instant
when they had been spellbound.

The deepening All in her bones and the rapid depletion of her energy as
they fled through Laguna Beach had indicated that she was not making
her way through the Paused world as easily as it seemed, certainly not
as easily as she moved through the normal world.  The fact that they
did not create their own wind when they ran, which Harry also noticed,
seemed to support the idea that resistance to their motion was present
even if they were not conscious of it, and now the arrested fall proved
it.  As long as they exerted themselves, they could keep moving, but
they could not rely on momentum or even the pull of gravity to carry
them far when exertion ceased.

Looking over her shoulder, Connie saw that she had managed to launch
herself outward only five feet from the loft railing, though she had
shoved away from it with all her might.  However, combined with a five
or six-foot vertical drop, she had gone far enough to be beyond the
reach of the golems.

They stood at the loft railing, leaning out, reaching down, grasping
for her but coming up only with handsful of empty air.

Harry shouted at her: "You can move if you try!"

She saw that he was using his arms and legs somewhat in the manner of a
wimmer doing a breaststroke, angled toward the floor, pulling himself
downward by agonizing inches, as if the air wasn't air at all but some
curious form of extremely dense water.

She quickly realized she was unfortunately not weightless like an
astronaut in orbit aboard the space shuttle, and enjoyed none of the
motive advantages of a gravity-free environment.  A brief experiment
proved she couldn't propel herself with an astronaut's ease or change
direction on a whim.

When she imitated Harry, however, Connie found that she could pull
herself down through the gluey air if she was methodical and
determined.  For a moment it seemed even better than skydiving because
the period of the dive when you had the illusion of flying like a bird
was at comparatively high altitudes; and with features on the ground
rapidly enlarging, the illusion was never fully convincing.  Here, on
the other hand, she was right over the heads of other people and
airborne within a building, which even under the circumstances gave her
an exhilarating sense of power and buoyancy, rather like one of those
blissful dreams of flying that too seldom informed her sleep.

Connie actually might' have enjoyed the bizarre experience if Ticktock
had not been present in the form of the two golems and if she had not
been fleeing for her life.  She heard the BOOM-BOOM - BOOM-BOOM of
their heavy hurried footsteps on the wooden loft, and when she looked
back over her shoulder and up, she saw they were headed for opposite
sets of stairs.

She was still ten or eleven feet from the warehouse floor and
"swimming" downward at an infuriatingly slow speed, inch by grinding
inch through the colorful fixed beams of the spotlights and party
lasers.  Gasping for breath from the exertion.  Getting rapidly colder
now, colder.

If there had been something solid for her to push against, such as a
nearby wall or roof-supporting column, she'd have been able to achieve
greater propulsion.  But there was nothing besides the air itself off
which to launch-almost like trying to lift herself entirely by her own
bootstraps.

To her left, Harry was about a foot ahead of her but making no better
time than she was.  He was farther along only because he had started
sooner.

Kick.  Pull the arms.  Struggle.

Her sense of freedom and buoyancy swiftly gave way to a feeling of
being trapped.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, the foothills of their pursuers echoed flatly
through the huge chamber.

She was perhaps nine feet off the floor, moving toward a clear space
among the dancers.  Kick.  Pull.  Kick and pull.  Keep moving,
moving.

So cold.

She glanced over her shoulder again, even though she was afraid that
the act of doing so would slow her down.

At least one of the golems had reached the head of one set of stairs.

He descended the steps two at a time.  In his cloaklike raincoat,
shoulders hunched, burly head lowered, leaping down in the rollicking
manner of an ape, he reminded her of an illustration in a long
forgotten storybook, a picture of an evil troll from some medieval
legend.

Struggling so fiercely that her heart felt as if it, might explode, she
drew herself within eight feet of the floor.  But she was angled
headfirst; she would have to pull herself laboriously all the way to
the concrete, which would provide the first solid surface against which
she could regain her equilibrium and scramble to her feet.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

The golem reached the bottom of the stairs.

Connie was exhausted.  Freezing.

She heard Harry cursing the cold and the resisting air.

The pleasant dream of flying had become the most classic of all
nightmares, in which the dreamer could flee only in slow motion while
the monster pursued with terrifying speed and agility.

Concentrating on the floor below, seven feet from it now, Connie
nevertheless saw movement from the corner of her left eye and heard
Harry cry out.  A golem had reached him.

A darker shadow fell across the shadow-layered floor directly below
her.  Reluctantly, she turned her head to the right.

Suspended in midair, with her feet above and behind her, like an angel
swooping down to do battle with a demon, she found herself face to face
with the other golem.  Regrettably, unlike an angel, she was not armed
with a fiery sword, a bolt of lightning, or an amulet blessed by God
and capable of knocking demons back into the fires and boiling tar of
the Pit.

Grinning, Ticlctock gripped her throat.  The golem's hand was so
enormous that the thick fingers overlapped the fat thumb where they met
at the back of her head, completely encircling her neck, though it did
not immediately crush her windpipe and cut off her breath.

She remembered how Ricky Estefan's head had been turned backward on his
shoulders, and how the raven-haired dancer's slender arm had been
ripped so effortlessly from her body.

A flash of rage burned away her terror, and she spat in the huge and
terrible face.  "Let go of me, shithead."

A foul exhalation washed over her, making her grimace, and the
scar-faced golem-vagrant said, "Congratulations, bitch.  Time's up."

The blue-flame eyes burned brighter for an instant, then winked out,
leaving deep black sockets beyond which it seemed that Connie could see
to the end of eternity.  The vagrant's hideous face, writ large on this
oversize golem, was abruptly transformed from flesh and hair into a
highly detailed monochromatic brown countenance that appeared to have
been sculpted from clay or mud.  An elaborate web of hairline cracks
formed from the bridge of his nose, swiftly spinning in a spiral
pattern across his face, and in a wink his features crumbled.

The giant vagrant's entire body dissolved, and with a shattering
detonation of techno music that resumed full-blast in mid-note, the
world started up again.  No longer suspended in the air, Connie fell
the last seven feet to the warehouse floor, face-first into the moist
mound of dirt and sand and grass and rotting leaves and bugs that had
been the golem's body, cushioned from injury by the now lifeless mass
but gagging and spitting in disgust.

Around her, even above the pounding music, she heard screams of shock,
terror, and pain.

"Game's over-for now," the golem-vagrant said, then obligingly
dissolved.  Harry dropped out of the air.  He sprawled on his stomach
in the remains, which smelled strongly of nothing more than rich damp
earth.

In front of his face was a hand formed entirely of dirt, similar t but
larger than-the one they had seen in Ricky's bungalow.  Two fingers
twitched with a residue of supernatural energy and seemed to reach
toward his nose.  He slammed one fist into that disembodied
monstrosity, pulverizing it.

Screaming dancers stumbled into him and collapsed across his back and
legs.  He scrambled out from under the falling bodies, onto his feet.

An angry boy in a Batman T-shirt rushed forward and took a swing at
him.  Harry ducked, threw a right into the kid's stomach, planted a
left uppercut under his chin, stepped over him when he fell, and looked
around for Connie.

She was nearby, dropping a tough-looking teenage girl with a karate
kick, and then swiveling on one foot to drive her elbow into the solar
plexus of a muscle-bound youth who looked surprised as he went down.

He obviously thought he was going to polish his shoes with her and
throw her away If she felt as rotten as Harry did, she might not be
able to hold her own.  His joints still ached with the cold that had
seeped into them during the Pause, and he felt tired, as if he had
carried a great weight on a journey of many miles.

Joining up with her, screaming to be heard above the music and other
noise, Harry said, "We're too old for this crap!  Come on, let's get
out of here!"

For the most part, on every side, the dancing had given way to
fighting, or at least to vigorous pushing and shoving, thanks to the
tricks that Ticktock had played earlier on his way through the Paused
crowd.  However, not all of the partiers seemed to understand that the
rave had devolved into a dangerous brawl, because some of the pushers
and shovers were laughing as if they believed they had merely been
caught up in a boisterous, relatively good-natured slam dance.

Harry and Connie were too far from the front of the building to make it
out that way before an understanding of the true nature of the
situation swept the crowd.  Though there was nothing as immediately
threatening as a fire, the tendency of a panicked crowd would be to
react to the violence as if flames had been seen.  Some of them would
even believe they had seen fire.

Harry grabbed Connie's hand to keep them from being separated in the
turmoil, and led her toward the nearer rear wall, where he was sure
there would have to be other doors.

In that chaotic atmosphere, it was easy to understand why the revelers
would confuse real violence for make-believe, even if they hadn't been
on drugs.  Spotlights swung back and forth and swooped across the metal
ceiling, intensely colored laser beams slashed complex patterns across
the room, strobes flashed, phantasmagoric shadows
leaped-twisted-twirled through the energetic crowd, young faces were
strange and mysterious behind ever-changing carnival masks of reflected
light, psychedelic film images pulsed and writhed over two big walls,
the disc jockey pumped up the volume on the manic music, and the crowd
noise alone was loud enough to be disorienting.  The senses were
overloaded and apt to mistake a glimpse of violent confrontation for an
exhibition of high good spirits or something even more benign.

Far behind Harry a scream rose unlike any of the others, so shrill and
hysterical that it pierced the background roar and called attention to
itself even in that cacophony.  No more than a minute had passed since
the Pause had ended, if that long.  Harry figured the new screamer was
either the black-haired girl coming out of shock and discovering that
her shoulder ended in a gory stumr the person who had suddenly found
himself confronted by the grisly detached arm.

Even if that heart-stopping wail didn't draw attention, the crowd would
not party on in ignorance much longer.  There was nothing like a punch
in the face to dislodge fantasy and snap reality into place.  When the
change in the mood penetrated to a majority of the ravers, the rush to
the exits would be potentially deadly even though there was no fire.

A sense of duty and a policeman's conscience encouraged Harry to turn
back, find the girl who had lost an arm, and try to administer first
aid.  But he knew that he would probably not be able to find her in the
churning throng, and that he wouldn't have a chance to help even if he
did manage to locate her, not in that growing human maelstrom, which
already seemed to have reached the equivalent of hurricane force.

Holding tight to Connie's hand, Harry pushed out of the dancers and
through the now-clamorous onlookers with their bottles of beer and
balloons of nitrous oxide, all the way to the back wall of the
warehouse, which was deep under the loft.  Beyond the reach of the
party lights.  Darkest place in the building.

He looked left, right.  Couldn't see a door.

That wasn't surprising, considering a rave was essentially an illegal
drug party staged in a deserted warehouse, not a chaperoned prom in a
hotel ballroom where there would be well-lit red exit signs.  But,
Jesus, it would be so pointless and stupid to survive the Pause and the
golems, only to be trampled to death by hundreds of doped-up kids
frantically trying to squeeze through a doorway all at once.

Harry decided to go right, for no better reason than that he had to go
one way or the other.  Unconscious kids were lying on the floor,
recovering from long hits of laughing gas.  Harry tried not to step on
anyone, but the light under the loft was so poor that he didn't see
some of those in darker clothes until he'd stumbled over them.

A door.  He almost passed by without spotting it.

In the warehouse behind him, the music continued to thump as ever, but
a sudden change occurred in the quality of the crowd noise.

It became a less celebratory roar, darkened into an uglier rumble shot
through with panicky shrieks.

Connie was gripping Harry's hand so tightly she was grinding his
knuckles together.

In the gloom Harry pushed against the door.  Pushed with his
shoulders.

Wouldn't budge.  No.  Must be an outside door.  Pull inward.  But that
didn't work either.

The crowd broke toward the outer walls.  A wave of screaming swelled,
and Harry could actually feel the heat and terror of the oncoming mob
that was surging even toward the back wall.  They were probably too
disoriented to remember where the main entrances were.

He fumbled for the door handle, knob, push-bar, whatever, and prayed it
wasn't locked.  He found a vertical handle with a thumb latch, pressed
down, felt something click.

The first of the escaping crowd rammed into them from behind, Connie
cried out, Harry shoved back at them, trying to keep them out of the
way so he could pull the door open please God don't let it be a
restroom or c: :the we'll be hell smothered-kept his thumb down hard on
the latch, the door popped, he pulled it inward, shouting at the crowd
behind him to wait, wait, for God's sake, and then the door was torn
out of his grasp and slammed all the way open, and he and Connie were
carried outside into the cool night air by the desperate tide of people
behind them.

More than a dozen ravers were in a parking area, gathered 'I around the
back of a white Ford van.  The van was draped with two sets of green
and red Christmas-tree lights, which operated off its battery and
provided the only illumination in the deep night between the back of
the building and the scrub-covered canyon wall.  One long-haired man
was filling balloons from a pressure tank of nitrous oxide that was
strapped to a hand truck behind the van, and a totally bald guy was
collecting five-dollar bills.  All of them, both merchants and
customers, looked up in amazement as screaming and shouting people
erupted through the back door of the warehouse.

Harry and Connie separated, bypassing everyone behind the van.

She went around to the passenger-side door, and Harry went to the
driver's side.

He jerked open the door and started to climb in behind the steering
wheel.

The guy with the shaved head grabbed his arm, stopped him and pulled
him out.  "Hey, man, what do you think you're doing?"

As he was being dragged backward out of the van, Harry reached under
his coat and drew his revolver.  Turning, he jammed the muzzle against
his adversary's lips.  "You want me to blow your teeth out the back of
your head?"

The bald man's eyes went wide, and he backed up fast, raising both
hands to show he was harmless.  "No, hey, no man, cool it, take the
van, she's yours, have fun, enjoy."

Distasteful as Connie's methods might be, Harry had to admit there was
a certain time-saving efficiency when you handled problems her way.

He climbed behind the steering wheel again, pulled the door shut, and
holstered his revolver.

Connie was already in the passenger seat.

The keys were in the ignition, and the engine was running to keep the
battery charged up for the Christmas lights.  Christmas lights, for
God's sake.  Festive bunch, these NO dealers.

He released the hand brake, switched on the headlights, threw the van
in gear, and tramped hard on the accelerator.  For a moment the tires
spun and smoked, squealing like angry pigs on the blacktop, and all the
ravers scattered.  Then the rubber bit in, the van shot toward the back
corner of the warehouse, and Harry hammered the horn to keep people out
of his way.

"The road out of here's going to jam tight in two minutes," Connie
said, bracing herself against the dashboard as they rounded the corner
of the warehouse not quite on two wheels.

"Yeah," he said, "everyone trying to get away before the cops show
up."

"Cops are such party poopers."

"Such numbnuts."

"Never any fun."

"Prudes."

They rocketed down the wide driveway alongside the warehouse, where
there was no exit door and therefore no panicked people to worry
about.

The van handled well, real power and a good suspension.  He supposed it
had been modified for quick escapes when the police showed up.

Out in front of the warehouse, the situation was different, and he had
to use the brake and the horn, weaving wildly to avoid fleeing
partiers.  More people had escaped the building more quickly than he
had imagined possible.

"Promoters were smart enough to roll up one of the big truck doors to
let people out," Connie said, turning in her seat to look out the side
window as they went past the place.

"Surprised it even works," Harry said.  "God knows how long the place
has stood empty."

With the pressure inside so quickly relieved, the death toll-if there
was on-would be substantially smaller.

Hanging a hard left into the street, Harry clipped a parked car with
the rear bumper of the van but kept going, blowing the horn at the few
ravers who had made it that far and were running down the middle of the
street like terrified people in one of those Godzilla movies fleeing
from the giant thunderlizard.

Connie said, "You pulled your gun on that bald guy."

"Yeah."

"I hear you tell him you'd blow his head off?"

"Something like that."

"Didn't show him your badge?"

"Figured he'd have respect for a gun, none at all for a badge."

She said, "I could get to like you, Harry Lyon."

"No future in it-unless we get past dawn."

In seconds they were past all of the partiers who had left the
warehouse on foot, and Harry tramped the accelerator all the way to the
floor.  They shot by the nursery, body shops, and recreationalvehicle
storage lot that they had passed on the way in, and were soon beyond
the partiers' parked cars.

He wanted to be long gone from the area when the Laguna Beach Police
arrived, which they would-and soon.  Being caught in the aftermath of
the rave debacle would tie them up too long, maybe just long enough so
they would lose their one and only chance at getting the drop on
Ticktock.

"Where you going?"  Connie asked.

"The Green House."

"Yeah.  Maybe Sammy's still there."

"Sammy?"

"The bum.  That was his name."

"Oh, yeah.  And the talking dog."

"Talking dog?"  she said.

"Well, maybe he doesn't talk' but he's got something to tell us we need
to know, that's for damn sure, and maybe he talk' what the hell, who
knows any more; it's a crazy world, a crazy damn night.

There are talking animals in fairy tales, why not a talking dog in
Laguna Beach?"

Harry realized he was babbling, but he was driving so fast and
recklessly that he didn't want to take his eyes off the road even to
glance at Connie and see if she was giving him a skeptical look.

She didn't sound worried about his sanity when she said, "What's the
plan?"

"I think we've got a narrow window of opportunity."

"Because he has to rest now and then.  Like he told you on the car
radio."

"Yeah.  Especially after something like this.  So far there's always
been an hour or more between his... appearances."

"Manifestations."

"Whatever."

After a few turns they were back in residential neighborhoods, working
through Laguna toward the Pacific Coast Highway.

A police car and an ambulance, emergency beacons flashing, shot past
them on a cross street, almost certainly answering a call to the
warehouse.

"Fast response," Connie said.

"Someone with a car phone must have dialed 911."

Maybe help would arrive in time to save the girl who had lost an arm.

Maybe the arm could even be saved, sewn back on.  Yeah, and maybe
Mother Goose was real.

Harry had been buoyant because they had escaped the Pause and the
rave.

But his adrenaline high faded swiftly as he recalled, too vividly, how
savagely the golem had torn off the young woman's slender arm.

Despair crept back in at the edges of his thoughts.

"If there's a window of opportunity while he rests or even sleeps,
Connie said, "how can we possibly find him fast enough?"

"Not with one of Nancy Quan's portraits, that's for sure.  No time for
that approach any more."

She said, "I think next time he manifests, he'll kill us, no more
playing around."

"I think so, too' "Or at least kill me.  Then you the time after
that."

"By dawn.  That's one promise our little boy will keep.

They were both silent for a moment, somber.

"So where does that leave us?"  she asked.

"Maybe the bum in front of The Green House-" "Sammy."

"-maybe he knows something that will help us.  Or if not...

then.  . : hell, I don't know.  It looks hopeless, doesn't it?"

"No," she said sharply.  "Nothing's hopeless.  Where there's life,
there's hope.  Where there's hope, it's always worth trying, worth
going on."

He wheeled around another corner from one street full of dark houses to
another, straightened out the van, let up on the accelerator a little,
and looked at her in astonishment.  "Nothing's hopeless?

What's happened to you?"

She shook her head.  "I don't know.  It's still happening."

Although they had spent at least half of the hour-long Pause on the run
before they had wound up in the warehouse at the end of that canyon,
they didn't need nearly as long to get back to where they had started
from.  According to Connie's wristwatch, they reached the coast highway
less than five minutes after commandeering the nitrous-oxide dealers'
wheels, partly because they took a more direct return route and partly
because Harry drove fast enough to scare even her.

In fact, when they slid to a stop in front of The Green House, with
some still-unbroken Christmas lights clinking noisily along the sides
of the van, the time was just thirty-five seconds past 1:37 in the
morning.  That was little more than eight minutes since the Pause had
both begun and ended at 1:29, which meant they had taken about three
minutes to fight their way out of the crowded warehouse and seize their
transportation at gunpoint-though it sure had seemed a lot longer.

The tow truck and the Volvo, which had been frozen in the southbound
lane, were gone.  When time had started up again, their drivers had
continued on with no realization that anything unusual had happened.

Other traffic was moving north and south.

Connie was relieved to see Sammy standing on the sidewalk in front of
The Green House.  He was gesticulating wildly, arguing with the permed
host in the Armani suit and hand-painted silk tie.

One of the waiters was standing in the doorway, apparently prepared to
help the boss if the confrontation got physical.

When Connie and Harry got out of the van, the host saw them and turned
away from Sammy "You!"  he said.  "My God, it's you!"

He came toward them purposefully, almost angrily as if they had left
without paying their check.

Bar patrons and other employees were at the windows, watching.

Connie recognized some of them as the people who had been watching her
and Harry with Sammy and the dog, and who had been frozen there,
staring fixedly after the Pause hit.  They were no longer as rigid as
stone, but they were still watching with fascination.

"What's going on here?"  the host asked as he approached, an edge of
hysteria in his voice.  "How did that happen, where did you go' What is
this .  . . this .  . . this van!"

Connie had to remind herself that the man had seen them vanish in what
seemed to him a split second.  The dog had yelped and nipped the air
and plunged for the shrubbery, alerting them that something was
happening, which had spooked Sammy into sprinting for the alley.  But
Connie and Harry had remained ø on the sidewalk in full view of the
people at the restaurant windows, the Pause had hit, they had been
forced to run for their lives, then the Pause had ended without them
where they originally had been on the sidewalk, and to the onlookers it
had seemed as if two people had vanished into thin air.  Only to turn
up eight minutes later in a white van decorated with strings of red and
green Christmas lights.

The host's exasperation and curiosity were understandable.

If their window of opportunity for finding and dealing with Ticktock
had not been so small, if the ticking seconds had not been leading them
inexorably closer to sudden death, the uproar in front of the
restaurant might even have been funny.  Hell, it was funny, but that
didn't mean she and Harry could take the time to laugh at it.

Maybe later.  If they lived.

"What is this, what happened here, what's going on?"  the host
demanded.  "I can't make heads or tails out of what your raving lunatic
over there is telling me."

By "raving lunatic," he meant Sammy.

"He's not our raving lunatic," Harry said.

"Yes he is," Connie reminded Harry, "and you better go talk to him.

I'll handle this."

She was half afraid that Harry as painfully aware of their time limit
as she was-might pull his revolver on the host and threaten to blow his
teeth out the back of his head if he didn't shut up and get inside.  As
much as she approved of Harry taking a more aggressive approach to
certain problems, there was a proper time and place for aggression, and
this was not it.

Harry went off to talk with Sammy.

Connie put one arm around the host's shoulders and escorted him up the
walkway to the front door of his restaurant, speaking in a soft but
authoritative voice, informing him that she and Detective Lyon were in
the middle of important and urgent police business, and sincerely
assuring him that she would return to explain everything, even what
might seem to him inexplicable, "just as soon as the ongoing situation
is resolved."

Considering that it was traditionally Harry's job to calm and placate
people, her job to upset them, she had a lot of success with the
restauranteur.  She had no intention of ever returning to explain
anything whatsoever to him, and she had no idea how he thought she
could explain people vanishing into thin air.  But he calmed down, and
she persuaded him to go inside his restaurant with the bodyguard-waiter
who was standing in the doorway.

She checked the shrubbery but confirmed what she already knew: the dog
was not hiding there any more.  He was gone.

She joined Harry and Sammy on the sidewalk in time to hear the hobo
say, "How should I-know where he lives?  He's an alien, he's a long way
from his planet, he must have a spaceship hidden around here
somewhere."

More patiently than Connie expected, Harry said, "Forget that stuff,
he's no alien.  He-" A dog barked, startling them.

Connie spun around and saw the flop-eared mutt.  He was uphill, just
turning the corner at the south end of the block.  Following him were a
woman and a boy of about five.

As soon as the dog saw that he had gotten their attention, he snatched
hold of one cuff of the boy's jeans, and with his teeth impatiently
pulled him along.  After a couple of steps he let go, ran toward
Connie, stopped halfway between his people and hers, barked at her,
barked at the woman and boy, barked at Connie again, then just sat
there looking left and right and left again, as if to say, Well,
haven't I done enough?

The woman and the boy appeared to be curious but frightened.

The mother was attractive in a way, and the child was cute, neatly and
cleanly dressed, but they both had the wary and haunted look of people
who knew the streets too well Connie approached them slowly, with a
smile.  When she passed the dog, he got off his butt and padded along
at her side, panting and grinning.

There was a qualityøof mystery and awe about the moment, and Connie
knew that whatever connection they were about to make was going to mean
life or death to her and Harry, maybe to all of them.

She had no idea what she was going to say to them until she was close
enough to speak: "Have you had... had... a strange experience
lately?"

The woman blinked at her in surprise.  "Strange experience?  Oh yes.

Oh my, yes."

Faraway in China, the people sometimes say, life is often bitter and
all too seldom gay.

Bitter as dragon tears, great cascades of sorrow flood down all the
years, drowning our tomorrows.

Faraway in China, the people also say, life is sometimes joyous if all
too often gray.

Although he is seasoned with bitter dragon tears, seasoning is just a
spice within our brew of years.

Bad times are only rice, tears are one more flavor, that gives us
sustenance, something we can savor.

-The Book of Counted Sorrows

Now they know.

He is a good dog, good dog, good.

They are all together now.  The woman and the boy, the stinky man, the
not-so-stinky man, and the woman without a boy.  All of them smelling
of the touch of the thing-that-will-kill-you, which is why he knew they
had to be together.

They know it, too.  They know why they are together.  They stand in
front of the people food place, talking to each other, talking fast,
all excited, sometimes all talking at once, while the women and the boy
and the not-so-stinky man are always sure to keep the stinky man
up-wind from them.

They keep stooping down to pet him and scratch behind his ears and tell
him he's a good dog, good, and they say other nice things about him
that he can't really understand.  This is the best.  It is so good to
be petted and scratched and liked by people who will, he is pretty
sure, not set his fur on fire, and by people who do not have any cat.

smell on them, none.

Once, long after the little girl who called him Prince, there were some
people who took him into their place and fed him and were nice to him,
called him Max, but they had a cat.  Big cat.  Mean.  The cat was
called Fluffy.  Max was nice to Fluffy.  Max never once chased
Fluffy.

In those days Max never chased cats.  Well, hardly ever.  Some cats, he
liked.  But Fluffy did not like Max and did not want Max in the people
place, so sometimes Fluffy stole Max's food, and other times Fluffy
peed in Max's water bowl.  During the day when the nice people were
gone from their place to some other place, Max and Fluffy were left
alone, and Fluffy would screech, all crazy and spitting, and scare Max
and chase him around the place.  Or jump off high things onto Max.  Big
cat.  Screeching.  Spitting.  Crazy.  So Max understood that it was
Fluffy's place, not Max's and Fluffy's place, just Fluffy's, so he went
away from the nice people and was just Fella again.

Ever since, he worries that when he finds nice people who want to take
him into their place and feed him forever, they will have cat smell on
them, and when he goes to their place with them and walks in the door
with them, there will be Fluffy.  Big.  Mean.

Crazy.

So now it is nice that none of these people has any cat smell, because
if one of them wants to be a family with him, he will be safe and he
won't have to worry about pee in his water bowl.

After a while, they are so excited talking to each other that they
aren't petting him so much and saying how good he is, so he gets
bored.

Yawns.  Lies down.  Might sleep.  He is tired.  Busy day, being a good
dog.

But then he sees the people in the food place, looking out the windows
of the food place.  Interesting.  At the windows, looking out.

Looking at him.

Maybe they think he is cute.

Maybe they want to give him food.

Why woulln't they want to give him food?

So he gets up and pads to the food place.  Head high.  Prance a
little.

Wag the tail.  They like that.

At the door, he waits.  Nobody opens it.  He puts one paw on it.

Waits.  Nobody.  He scratches.  Nobody.

He goes out where the people at the window can see him.  He wags his
tail.  He tilts his head, pricks up one ear.  They see him.  He knows
they see him.

He goes to the door again.  Waits.  Waits.

Waits.

Scratches.  Nobody.

Maybe they don't know he wants food.  Or maybe they're scared of him,
think he's a bad dog.  He doesn't look like a bad dog.  How could they
be scared?  Don't they know when to be scared, when not?  He would
never jump off high places on top of them or pee in their water
bowls.

Stupid people.  Stupid.

Finally he decides he's not going to get any food, so he goes back to
the nice people he brought together.  On his way he keeps his head up,
prances, wags his tail, just to show the people at the window what
they're missing.

When he gets back to the women and the boy and the stinky man and the
not so-still:ky man, something is wrong.  He can feel it and smell
it.

They are scared.  This is not new.  They have all been scared since he
first smelled each of them.  But this is a different scared.  Worse
scared.

And they have a little trace of the just-lie-down-and-die smell.

Animals get that smell sometimes, when they're old, when they're very
tired and sick People, not so often.  Though he knows a place where
people have that smell.  He was there earlier in the night with the
woman and the boy.

Interesting.

But bad interesting.

He is worried that these nice people have even a little bit of the
just-lie-down-and-die smell.  What is wrong with them?  Not sick.

Maybe the stinky man, sick a little, but not the rest of them.  Not
old, either.

Their voices are different, too.  A little excited, not so much as
before.  Tired, a little.  Sad, a little.  Something else .  . .

What?

Something.  What?  What?

He sniffs around their feet; one at a time, sniffs sniffs sniffs sniffs
even the stinky man, and suddenly he knows what's wrong with them, and
he can't believe it, can't.

He is amazed.  Amazed.  He backs away, looks at them, amazed.

All of them have the special smell that says
do-I-chase-it-ordoes-it-chase-me?-do-I-run-or-do-I-fight?-am-I-hungry-e
ought-to-dig-something-out-of-its-hole-and-eat-it-or-should-I-waitand-s
e-if people-will-give-me-something-good?  It is the smell of not
knowing what to do, which is sometimes a different kind of fear
smell.

Like now.  They are afraid of the thing-that-will-kill-you, but they
are also afraid because they don't know what to do next.

He is amazed because he knows what to do next, and he is not even a
people.  But sometimes they can be so slow, people.

All right.  He will show them what to do next.

He barks, and of course they all look at him because he's not a dog
that barks much.

He barks again, then runs past them, downhill, runs, runs, and then
stops and looks back and barks again.

They stare at him.  He is amazed.

He runs back to them, barks, turns, runs downhill again, runs, runs,
stops, looks back, barks again.

They're talking.  Looking at him and talking.  Like maybe they get
It.

So he runs a little farther, turns, looks back, barks.

They're excited.  They get it.  Amazing.

They did not know how far the dog was going to lead them, and they were
agreed that the five of them would be too conspicuous on foot, as a
group, at almost two o'clock in the morning.  They decided to see if
Woofer would be as eager to run ahead and lead the van as he was to
lead them on foot, because in the vehicle they would be considerably
less of a spectacle.

Janet helped Detective Gulliver and Detective Lyon quickly take the
Christmas-tree lights off the van.  They were attached with metal clips
in some places and with pieces of masking tape in others.

It seemed doubtful that the dog was going to lead them directly to the
person they were calling Ticktock.  Just in case, however, it made a
lot of sense not to draw attention to themselves with strings of red
and green lights.

While they worked, Sammy Shamroe followed them around the Ford, telling
them, not for the first time, that he had been a fool and a fallen man,
but that he was going to turn over a new leaf after this.

It seemed important to him that they believe he was sincere in making a
commitment to a new life as if he needed other people to believe it
before he would be convinced himself.

"I never really thought I had anything the world really needed," Sammy
said, "thought I was pretty much worthless, just a hype artist, smooth
talker, empty inside, but now here I am saving the world from an
alien.

Okay not an alien, actually and not saving the world all by myselœ but
helping to save it damn sure enough."

Janet was still astonished by what Woofer had done.  No one was quite
sure how he knew that the five of them were living under the same
bizarre threat or that it would be useful for them to be brought
together.  Everyone knew that animals' senses were in some respects
weaker than those of human beings but in many respects stronger, and
that beyond the usual five senses they might have others that were
difficult to understand.  But after this, she would never look at
another dogr any animal, for that matter-in quite the same way that she
had regarded them before.

Taking the dog into their lives and feeding him when she could least
afford it had turned out to be perhaps the smartest thing she had ever
done.

She and the two detectives finished removing the lights, rolled them
up, and put them in the back of the van.

"I've quit drinking for good," Sammy said, following them to the rear
door.  "Can you believe it?  But it's true.  No more.  Not one drop.

Nada."

Woofer was sitting on the sidewalk with Danny, in the fall of light
under a streetlamp, watching them, waiting patiently.

Initially when she learned that Ms. Gulliver and Mr. Lyon were police
detectives, Janet had almost grabbed Danny and run.  After all, she had
left a dead husband, killed by her own hand, moldering f on desert
sands in Arizona, and she had no way of knowing if the hateful man was
still where she had left him.  If Vince's body had been found, she
might be wanted for questioning; there might even be a warrant for her
arrest.

More to the point, no authority figure in her life had been a friend to
her, with the possible exception of Mr. Ishigura at Pacific View Care
Home.  She thought of them as a different breed, people with whom she
had nothing in common.

But Ms. Gulliver and Mr. Lyon seemed reliable and kind and
wellmeaning.  She did not think they were the type of people who would
let Danny be taken away from her, though she had no intention of
telling them she'd killed Vince.  And Janet certainly did have things
in common with them-not least of all, the will to live and the desire
to get Ticktock before he got them.

She had decided to trust the detectives largely because she had no
choice; they were all in this together.  But she also decided to trust
them because the dog trusted them.

"It's five minutes till two," Detective Lyon said, checking his
wristwatch.  "Let's get moving, for God's sake."

Janet called Danny to her, and he got into the back of the van with her
and Sammy Shamroe, who pulled the rear door shut after them Detective
Lyon climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and switched
on the headlights The rear of the van was open to the front
compartment.  Janet, Danny, and Sammy crowded forward to look over the
front seat and through the windshield.

Serpentine tendrils of thin fog were beginning to slither across the
coast highway from the ocean.  The headlights of an oncoming car, the
only other traffic in sight, caught the lazily drifting mist at just
the right angle and created a horizontal ribbon of rainbowlike colors
that began at the right-hand curb and ended at the left-hand curb.  The
car drove through the colors, carrying them off into the night.

Detective Gulliver was still standing out on the sidewalk with
Woofer.

Detective Lyon released the hand brake and put the van in gear.

Raising his voice slightly, he said, "Okay, we're ready."

On the sidewalk, Detective Gulliver could hear him because the van's
side window was open.  She talked to the dog, made a shooing motion
with her hands, and the dog studied her quizzically.

Realizing that they were asking him to lead them where he had wanted to
lead them just a couple of minutes ago, Woofer took off downhill, north
along the sidewalk.  He ran about one-third of a block, stopped, and
looked back to see if Detective Gulliver was following.  He seemed
pleased to discover that she was staying with him.  He wagged his
tail.

Detective Lyon took his foot off the brake and let the van drift
downhill, close behind Detective Gulliver, keeping pace with her, so
the dog would get the idea that the vehicle was also following him.

Though the van was not moving fast, Janet gripped the seat behind
Detective Lyon's head to steady herself, and Sammy clutched the
headrest behind the empty passenger seat.  With one hand, Danny held
fast to Janet's belt, and stood on his tiptoes to try to see what was
happening outside.

When Detective Gulliver had almost caught up with Woofer, the dog took
off again, sprinted to the end of the block and stopped at the
intersection to look back.  He watched the woman approaching him, then
studied the van for a moment, then the woman, then the van.  He was a
smart dog; he would get it.

"Wish he'd just talk to us and tell us what we need to know," Detective
Lyon said.

"Who?"  Sammy asked.

"The dog."

After Detective Gulliver followed Woofer across the intersection and
halfway along the next block, she stopped and let Detective Lyon catch
up to her.  She waited until Woofer was looking at her, then opened the
passenger door and got into the van.

The dog sat down and stared at them.

Detective Lyon let the van drift forward a little.

The dog pricked up his ears lopsidedly.

The van drifted.

The dog got up and trotted farther north.  He stopped, looked back to
be sure the van was still coming, then trotted farther.

"Good dog," Detective Gulliver said.

"Very good dog," Detective Lyon said.

Danny said proudly "He's the best dog there is."

"I'll second that," said Sammy Shamroe, and rubbed one hand on the
boy's head.

Turning his face into Janet's side, Danny said, "Mama, the man really
stinks."

"Danny!"  Janet said, appalled.

"It's okay," Sammy said.  He was inspired to launch into another of his
earnest but rambling assurances of repentance.  "It's true.  I stir I'm
a mess.  Been a mess for a long time, but that's over now.  You know
one reason I was a mess?  Because I thought I knew everything, thought
I understood exactly what life was about, that it was meaningless, that
there was no mystery to it, just biology.  But after this, after
tonight, I have a different view on things.  I don't know everything,
after all.  It's true.  Hell, I don't know diddly-squat!  There's
plenry of mystery in life, something more than biology for sure.  And
if there's something more, who needs wine or cocaine or anything?

Nope.  Nothing.  Not a drop.  Nada."

One block later, the dog turned right, heading east along a steeply
rising street.

Detective Lyon turned the corner after Woofer, then glanced at his
wristwatch.  "Two o'clock.  Damn, time's just going too fast."

Outside, Woofer rarely turned his head to glance at them any more.  He
was confident that they would stay with him.

The sidewalk along which he padded was littered with bristly red blooms
from the large bottlebrush trees that lined the entire block.

Woofer sniffed at them as he proceeded east, and they made him sneeze a
couple of times.

Suddenly Janet thought she knew where the dog was taking them.

"Mr.  Ishigura's nursing home," she said.

Detective Gulliver turned in the front seat to look at her.  "You know
where he's going?"

"We were there for dinner.  In the kitchen."  And then: "My God, the
poor blind woman with no eyes!"

Pacific View Care Home was in the next block.  The dog climbed the
steps and sat at the front door.

After visiting hours, no receptionist was on duty.  Harry could look
through the glass in the top of the door and see the dimly lit and
totally deserted public lounge.

When he rang the bell, a woman's voice responded through the
intercom.

He identified himself as a police officer on urgent business, and she
sounded concerned and eager to cooperate.

He checked his wristwatch three times before she appeared in the
lounge.  She didn't take an extraordinarily long time; he was just
remembering Ricky Estephen and the girl who had lost an arm at the
rave, and each second blinked off by the red indicator light on his
watch was part of the countdown to his own execution.

The nurse, who identified herself as the night supervisor, was a
no-nonsense Filipino lady, petite but not in the least fragile, and
when she saw him through the portal in the door, she was less sanguine
than she had been over the intercom.  She would not open up to him.

First of all, she didn't believe he was a police officer.  He couldn't
blame her for being suspicious, considering that after all he had been
through during the past twelve or fourteen hours, he looked as if he
lived in a packing crate.  Well, actually, Sammy Shamroe lived in a
packing crate, and Harry didn't look quite that bad, but he certainly C
looked like a flophouse dweller with a long-term moral debt to the
Salvation Army.

She would only open the door the width of the industrial-quality
security chain, so heavy it was surely the model used to restrict
access to nuclear-missile silos.  At her demand, he passed through his
police ID wallet.  Although it included a photograph that was
sufficiently unflattering to resemble him in his current battered and
filthy condition, she was unconvinced that he was an officer of the
law.

Wrinkling her cute nose, the night supervisor said, "What else have you
got?"

He was sorely tempted to draw his revolver, shove it through the gap,
cock the hammer, and threaten to blow her teeth out through the back of
her head.  But she was in her middle to late thirties, and it was
possible that she had grown up under-and been toughened by-the Marcos
regime before emigrating to the US, so she might just laugh in his
face, stick her finger in the barrel, and tell him to go to hell.

Instead, he produced Connie Gulliver, who was for once a more
presentable police officer than he was.  She grinned through the door
glass at the pint-sized Gestapo Florence Nightingale, made nice talk,
and passed her own credentials through the gap on demand.  You would
have thought they were trying to get into the main vault at Fort Knox
instead of a pricey private nursing home.

He checked his watch.  It was 2:03 A.M. Based on the limited experience
they'd had with Ticktock, Harry guessed that their psychotic Houdini
required as little as an hour but more commonly an hour and a half of
rest between performances, recharging his supernatural batteries in
about the same amount of time that a stage magician needed to stuff all
the silk scarves and doves and rabbits back up his sleeves to get ready
for the late show.  If that was the case, then they were safe at least
until twothirty and probably until three o'clock.

Less than an hour at the outside.

Harry was so intently focused on the blinking red light of his watch
that he lost track of what Connie said to the nurse.  Either she
charmed the lady or came up with an incredibly effective threat,
because the security chain was removed, the door was opened, their ID
wallets were returned to them with smiles, and they were welcomed into
Pacific View.

When the night supervisor saw Janet and Danny, who had been out of
sight on the lower front steps, she had second thoughts.  When she saw
the dog; she had third thoughts, even though he was wagging his tail
and grinning and, quite clearly, being intentionally cute.

When she saw-and smelled-Sammy, she almost became intractable again.

For policemen, as well as for house-to-house salesmen, the supreme
difficulty was always getting through the door.  Once inside, Harry and
Connie were no easier to dislodge than the average vacuum-cleaner
salesman intent on scattering all manner of sample filth on the carpet
to demonstrate the superior suction of his product.

When it became clear to the Filipino nurse that resistance to them was
going to disturb the home's patients more than would cooperation, she
spoke a few musical words in Tagalog, which Harry assumed was a curse
on their ancestors and progeny, and led them through the facility to
the room of the patient they sought.

Not surprisingly, in all of Pacific View's accommodations, there was
only one eyeless woman with lids sewn shut over empty sockets.

Her name was Jennifer Drab.

Mrs. Drackman's handsome but "distant" son-they were told in whispered
confidence while in transit-paid for three shifts of the finest private
nurses, seven days a week, to care for his "mentally disoriented"
mother.  She was the only patient in Pacific View provided with such
"suffocating" ministrations on top of the already "extravagant" care
that the facility offered in its minimum package.  With those and a
number of other loaded words, the night supervisor made it clear, ever
so politely that she didn't care for the son, felt the private nurses
were unnecessary and an insult to the staff, and thought the patient
was creepy.

."?

The private nurse on the graveyard shift was an exotically beautiful
black woman named Tanya Delaney.  She was not sure of the propriety and
wisdom of letting them disturb her patient at such an ungodly hour,
even if some of them were police officers, and briefly she threatened
to be even more of a barrier to their survival than the night
supervisor had been.

The gaunt, mealy, bony woman in the bed was a ghastly sight, but Harry
could not look away from her.  She compelled attention because within
the horror of her current condition there was a tragically faint but
undeniable ghost of the beauty that had once been, a specter that
haunted the ravaged face and body and, by refusing to relinquish entire
possession of her, allowed a chilling comparison between what she most
likely had been in her youth and what she had become.

"She's been sleeping."  Tanya Delaney spoke in a whisper, as they all
did.  She stood between them and the bed, making it clear that she took
nursing seriously.  "She doesn't sleep peacefully very often, so I
wouldn't like to wake her."

Beyond the piled pillows and the patient's face, on a nightstand that
also held a cork-bottom tray with a chrome carafe of ice-water, stood a
simple black-lacquered picture frame with a photograph of a
good-looking young man of about twenty.  An aquiline nose.

Thick dark hair.  His pale eyes were gray in the black-and white photo
and were surely gray in reality, the precise shade of slightly
tarnished silver.  It was the boy in blue jeans and a Tecate T-shirt,
the boy licking his lips with a pink tongue at the sight of James
Ordegard's blood-soaked victims.  Harry remembered the hateful glare in
the boy's eyes after he'd been forced back behind the yellow
crime-scene tape and humiliated in front of the crowd.

"It's him," Harry said softly, wonderingly.

Tanya Delaney followed his gaze.  "Bryan.  Mrs.  Drackman's son."

Turning to meet Connie's eyes, Harry said, "It's him."

"Doesn't look like the ratman," Sammy said.  He had moved to the corner
of the room farthest from the patient, perhaps remembering that the
blind supposedly compensated for their loss of sight by developing
better hearing and a sharper sense of smell.

The dog mewled once, briefly, quietly.

Janet Marco pulled her sleepy boy tighter against her side and stared
worriedly at the photograph.  "Looks a little like .......

the hair... the eyes.  No wonder I thought Vince was coming back."

Harry wondered who Vince was, decided it wasn't a priority, and said to
Connie, "If her son really does pay all of her bills-" "Oh, yes, it's
the son," said Nurse Delaney.  "He takes such good care of his
mother."

-then the business office here will have an address for him."

Connie finished.

Harry shook his head.  "That night supervisor won't let us look at the
records, no way.  She'll guard them with her life until we come back
with a warrant."

Nurse Delaney said, "I really think you should go before you wake
her."

"I'm not asleep," said the white scarecrow in the bed.  Her permanently
shut eyelids didn't even twitch, lay slack, as if the muscles in them
had atrophied over the years.  "And I don't want his photo here.

He forces me to keep it."

Harry said, "Mrs.  Drackman-" "Miss.  They call me Mrs.  but I'm not.

Never was."  Her voice was thin but not frail.  Brittle.  Cold.  "What
do you want with him?"

"Miss Drackman," Harry continued, "we're police officers.  We need to
ask you some questions about your son."

If they had the opportunity to learn more than Ticktock's address,
Harry believed they should seize it.  The mother might tell them
something that would reveal some vulnerability in her exceptional
offspring, even if she had no idea of his true nature.

She was silent a moment, chewing on her lip.  Her mouth was pinched,
her lips so bloodless they were almost gray.

Harry looked at his watch.

2:08.

The wasted woman raised one arm and hooked her hand, as lean and
fierce-looking as a talon, around the bed rail.  "Tanya, would you
leave us alone?"

When the nurse began to voice a mild objection, the patient repeated
the request more sharply, as a command.

As soon as the nurse had gone, closing the door behind her, Jennifer
Drackman said, "How many of you are there?"

"Five," Connie said, failing to mention the dog.

"You aren't all police officers, and you aren't here just on police
business, "Jennifer Drackman said with perspicacity that might have
been a gift she'd been given to compensate for the long years of
blindness.

Something in her tone of voice, a curious hopefulness, induced Harry to
answer her truthfully.  "No.  We're not all cops, and we're not here
just as cops."

"What has he done to you?"  the woman asked.

He had done so much that no one could think how to put it into words
succinctly.

Interpreting the silence correctly, the woman said, "Do you know what
he is?"  It was an extraordinary question, and revealed that the mother
was aware, at least to some degree, of the son's difference.

"Yes," Harry said.  "We know."

"Everyone thinks he's such a nice boy," the mother said, her voice
tremulous.  "They won't listen.  The stupid fools.  They won't listen
All these years... they won't believe."

"We'll listen," Harry said.  "And we already believe."

A look of hope flickered across the ravaged face, but hope was an
expression so.  unfamiliar to those features that it could not be
sustained.  She raised her head off the pillows, a simple act that made
the cords go taut with strain under the sagging skin of her neck.  "Do
you hate him?"

After a moment of silence, Connie said, "Yes.  I hate him."

"Yes," Janet Marco said.

"I hate him almost as much as I hate myself," the invalid said.  Her
voice was now as bitter as bile.  For a moment the ghost of beauty past
was no longer visible in her withered face.  She was sheer ugliness, a
grotesque hag.  "Will you kill him?"

Harry was not sure what to say.

Bryan Drackman's mother was at no such loss for words: "I'd kill him
myself, kill him... but I'm so weak... so weak.  Will you kill him?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"It won't be easy," she warned.

"No, it won't be easy," he agreed.  He glanced at his watch again.

"And we don't have much time."

Bryan Drackman slept.

His was a deep, satisfying sleep.  Replenishing.

He dreamed of power.  He was a conduit for lightning.  Though it was
daylight in the dream, the heavens were almost night-dark, churning
with the black clouds of Final Judgment.  From that storm to end all
storms, great surging rivers of electric current flowed into him, and
from his hands, when he willed them, flashed lances and balls of
lightning.  He was Becoming.  When that process was someday concluded,
he would be the storm, a great destroyer and cleanser, washing away
what had been, bathing the world in blood, and in the eyes of those who
were permitted to survive, he would see respect, adoration, love,
love.

Through the eyeless night came blind hands of fog, seeking.  White
vaporous fingers pressed inquisitively against the windows of Jennifer
Dracknaan's room.

Lamplight glimmered in the cold beads of sweat on the water carafe, and
burnished the stainless steel.

Connie stood with Harry at the side of the bed.  Janet sat in the
nurse's chair, holding her sleeping boy on her lap, the dog lying at
her feet with its head upon its paws.  Sammy stood in the corner,
wrapped in shadows, silent and solemn, perhaps recognizing a few
elements of his own story in the one to which they listened.

The withered woman in the bed appeared to shrivel further while she
spoke, as though she needed to burn her very substance for the
requisite energy to share her dark memories.

Harry had the feeling that she'd held fast to life all these years only
for this moment, for an audience that would not merely listen
patronizingly but would believe.

In that voice of dust and corrosion, she said, "He's only twenty years
old.  I was twenty-two when I became pregnant with him..

but I should begin... a few years before his... conception."

Simple calculation revealed she was now only forty-two or
forty-three.

Harry heard small startled sounds and nervous fidgeting from Connie and
the others as the awareness of Jennifer's relative youth swept through
them.  She looked more than merely old.  Ancient.  Not prematurely aged
by ten or even twenty years, but by fonry.

As thickening cataracts of fog formed over the night windows, the
mother of Ticktock spoke of running away from home when sheøwas
sixteen, sick to death of school, childishly eager for excitement and
experience, physically mature beyond her years since she'd been
thirteen but, as she would later realize, emotionally underdeveloped
and not half as smart as she thought she was.

In Los Angeles and later in San Francisco, during the height of the
free-love culture of the late '60s and early '70s, a beautiful girl had
a choice of like-minded young men with whom to crash and an almost
infinite variety of mind-altering chemicals with which to experiment.

After several jobs in head shops, selling psychedelic posters and Lava
lamps and drug paraphernalia, she went for the main chance and started
selling drugs themselves.  As a dealer and a woman who was romanced by
suppliers for both her sales ability and her good looks, she had the
opportunity to sample a lot of exotic substances that were never widely
distributed on the street.

"Hallucinogens were my main thing," said the lost girl still wandering
somewhere within the ancient woman on the bed.  "Dehydrated mushrooms
from Tibetan caves, luminescent fungus from remote valleys of Peru,
liquids distilled from cactus flowers and strange roots, the powdered
skin of exotic African lizards, eye of newt, and anything that clever
chemists could concoct in laboratories.  I wanted to try it all, much
of it over and over, anything that would take me places I'd never been,
show me things that no one else might ever see."

In spite of the depths of despair into which that life had led her, a
frigorific wistfulness informed Jennifer Drackman's voice, an eerie
longing.

Harry sensed that a part of Jennifer would want to make all the same
choices if given a chance to live those years again.

He had never entirely rid himself of the chill that had seeped into him
during the Pause, and now coldness spread deeper into the marrow of his
bones.

He checked his watch.  2:12.

She continued, speaking more quickly, as if aware of his impatience.

"In nineteen-seventy-two, I got myself knocked up..."

Not sure which of three men might be the father, nevertheless she had
at first been delighted by the prospect of a baby.  Although she could
not coherently have defined what the relentless ingestion of so many
mind-altering chemicals had taught her, she felt that she had a great
store of wisdom to impart to her offspring.  It was then one small step
of illogic to decide that continuedven increased-use of hallucinogens
during pregnancy would result in the birth of a child of heightened
consciousness.  Those were strange days when many believed that the
meaning of life was to be found in peyote and that a tab of LSD could
provide access to the throne room of Heaven and a glimpse of the face
of God.

For the first two to three months of her term, Jennifer had been aglow
with the prospect of nurturing the perfect child.  Perhaps he would be
another Dylan, Lennon, or Lenin, a genius and peacemaker, but more
advanced than any of them because his enlightenment had begun in the
womb, thanks to the foresight and daring of his mother.

Then everything had changed with one bad trip.  She could not recall
all of the ingredients of the chemical cocktail that marked the
beginning of the end of her life, but she knew that among other things
it had contained LSD and the powdered carapace of a rare Asian
beetle.

In what she had believed to be the highest state of consciousness that
she had ever achieved, a series of luminous and uplifting
hallucinations had suddenly turned terrifying, filling her with a
nameless but crippling dread.

Even when the bad trip ended and the hallucinations of death and
genetic horrors had passed, the dread remained with her-and grew day by
day.  She did not at first understand the source of her fear, but
gradually she focused on the child within and came to understand that
in her altered state of mind she had been sent a warning: her baby was
no Dylan, but a monster, not a light unto the world but a bringer of
darkness.

Whether that perception was in fact correct or merely drug induced
madness, whether the child inside her was already a mutant or still a
perfectly normal fetus, she would never know, for as a result of her
overwhelming fear, she set out upon a course of action that in itself
might have introduced the final mutagenic factor which, e hanced by her
pharmacopeia of drugs, made Bryan what he was.  She sought an abortion,
but not from the usual sources, for she was afraid of midwives with
their coat hangers and of back-alley doctors whose alcoholism had
driven them to operate beyond the law.  Instead, she resorted to
strikingly untraditional and, in the end, riskier methods.

"That was in seventy-two."  She clutched the bed rail and squirmed
under the sheets to pull her half-paralyzed and wasted body into a more
comfortable position.  Her white hair was wirestiff.

The light caught her face from a slightly new angle, revealing to Harry
that the milk-white skin over her empty eye sockets was embroidered
with a network of thread-fine blue veins.

His watch.  2:16.

She said, "The Supreme Court didn't legalize abortion until early
seventy-three, when I was in the last month of my term, so it wasn't
available to me until it was too late."

In fact, had abortion been legal, she still might not have gone to a
clinic, for she feared and distrusted all doctors.  She first tried to
rid herself of the unwanted child with the help of a mystic Indian
homeopathic practitioner who operated out of an apartment in
HaightAshbury, the center of the counterculture in San Francisco at
that time.  He had first given her a series of herb potions known to
affect the walls of the uterus and sometimes cause miscarriages.

When those medications did not work, he tried a series of potent herbal
douches, administered with increasing pressure, to flush the child
away.

When those treatments failed as well, she turned in desperation to a
quack offering a briefly popular radium douche, supposedly not
radioactive enough to harm the woman but deadly to the fetus.  That
more radical approach was equally unsuccessful.

It seemed to her as if the unwanted child was consciously aware of her
efforts to be free of it and was clinging to life with inhuman
tenacity, a hateful thing already stronger than any ordinary unborn
mortal, invulnerable even in the womb.

2:18.

Harry was impatient.  She had told them nothing, thus far, that would
help them deal with Ticktoc "Where can we find your son?"

Jennifer probably felt she would never have another audience like this
one, and she was not going to tailor her story to their schedule,
regardless of the cost.  Clearly, in the telling there was some form of
expiation for her.

Harry could barely stand the sound of the woman's voice, and could no
longer tolerate the sight of her face.  He left Connie by the bed and
went to the window to stare out at the fog, which looked cool and
clean.

"Life became, like, really a bad trip for me," Jennifer said.

Harry found it disorienting to hear this pinched and haggard ancient
use such dated slang.

She said her fear of the unborn was worse than anything she had
experienced on drugs.  Her certainty that she harbored a monster only
increased daily.  She needed sleep but dreaded it because her sleep was
troubled by dreams of shocking violence, human suffering in infinite
variety, and something unseen but terrible moving always in shadows.

"One day they found me in the street, screaming, clawing at my stomach,
raving about a beast inside of me.  They put me in a psychiatric
ward."

From there she had been brought to Orange County, under the care of her
mother, whom she'd deserted six years earlier.  Physical examinations
had revealed a scarred uterus, strange adhesions and polyps, and wildly
abnormal blood chemistry.

Although no abnormalities were detectable in the unborn child, Jennifer
remained convinced that it was a monster, and became more hysterical by
the day, the hour.  No secular or religious counseling could calm her
fears.

Hospitalized for a monitored delivery that was necessitated by the
things she had done to be rid of the child, Jennifer had slipped beyond
hysteria, into madness.  She experienced drug flashbacks rife with
visions of organic monstrosities, and developed the irrational
conviction that if she merely looked upon the child she was bringing
into the world, she would be at once damned to Hell.  Her labor was
unusually difficult and protracted, and due to her mental condition,
she was restrained through most of it.  But when her restraints were
briefly loosened for her comfort, even as the stubborn child was coming
forth, she gouged out her eyes with her own thumbs.

At the window, staring into the faces that formed and dissolved in the
fog, Harry shuddered.

"And he was born," Jennifer Drackman said.  "He was born" Even eyeless,
she knew the dark nature of the creature to which she had given
birth.

But he was a beautiful baby, and then a lovely boy (so they told her),
and then a handsome young man.  Year after year no one would take
seriously the paranoid ravings of a woman who had put out her own
eyes.

Harry checked his watch.  2:21.

At most they had forty minutes of safe time remaining.  Perhaps
substantially less.

"There were so many surgeries, complications from the pregnancy, my
eyes, infections.  My health went steadily downhill, a couple of
strokes, and I never returned home with my mother.

Which was good.  Because he was there.  I lived in a public nursing
home for a lot of years, wanting to die, praying to die, but too weak
to kill myself... too weak in many ways.  Then, two years ago, after he
killed my mother, he moved me here."

"How do you know he killed your mother?"  Connie asked.

"He told me so.  And he told me how.  He describes his power to me, how
it grows and grows.  He's even shown me things.  ... And I believe he
can do everything he says.  Do you?"

"Yes," Connie said.

"Where does he live?"  Harry asked, still facing the fog.

"In my mother's house."

"What's the address?"

"My mind's not clear on a lot of things... but I remember that."

She gave them the address.

Harry thought he knew approximately where the place was.  Not far from
Pacific View.

He checked his watch yet again.  2:23.

Eager to get out of that room, and not merely because they urgently
needed to deal with Bryan Drackman, Harry turned away from the
window.

"Let's go."

Sammy Shamroe stepped out of the shadow-hung corner.  Janet rose from
the nurse's chair, holding her sleeping child, and the dog got to his
feet.

But Connie had a question.  It was the kind of personal question Harry
ordinarily would have asked and that until tonight would have made
Connie scowl with impatience because they had already learned the
essentials.

"Why does Bryan keep coming here to see you?"  Connie inquired.

"To torture me in one way or another," the woman said.

"That's all-when he has a world full of people to torture?"

Letting her hand slide off the bed rail, which she had been grasping
all this time, Jennifer Drackman said, "Love."

"He comes because he loves you?"

"No, no.  Not him.  He's incapable of love, doesn't understand the
word, only thinks he does.  But he wants love from me."  A dr humorless
laugh escaped the skeletal figure in the bed.  "Can you believe he
comes to me for this?"

Harry was surprised that he could feel a grudging pity for the
psychotic child who had entered the world, unwanted, from this
disturbed woman.

That room, though warm and comfortable enough, was the last place in
creation to which anyone should go in search of love.

Fog poured off the Pacific and embraced the night coast, dense and deep
and cool.  It flowed through the sleeping town, like the ghost of an
ancient ocean with a high-tide line far above that of the modern sea.

Harry drove south along the coast highway, faster than seemed wise in
that limited visibility.  He had decided that the risk of a rearend
collision was outweighed by the danger of getting to the Drackman house
too late to catch Ticktock before he had recovered his energy.

The palms of his hands were damp on the steering wheel, as if the fog
had condensed on his skin.  But there was no fog inside the van.

2:27.

Almost an hour had passed since Ticktock had gone away to rest.

On the one hand, they had accomplished a lot in that brief time.  On
the other hand, it seemed that time was not a river, like the song
said, but a crashing avalanche of minutes.

In back, Janet and Sammy rode in uneasy silence.  The boy slept.

The dog seemed restless.

In the passenger seat, Connie switched on the small overhead
map-reading lamp.  She cracked open the cylinder of her revolver to be
sure there was a round in every chamber.

That was the second time she had checked.

Harry knew what she must be thinking: What if Ticktock had awakened;
had stopped time since she had last checked her weapon; had removed all
the cartridges; and when she had the chance to shoot him, what if he
only smiled while the hammer fell on empty chambers?

As before, in the revolver, a full complement of case heads gleamed.

All chambers loaded.

Connie snapped the cylinder shut.  Clicked off the light.

Harry thought she looked extremely tired.  Face drawn.  Eyes watery,
bloodshot.  He worried that they were going to have to stalk the most
dangerous criminal of their careers at a time when they were
exhausted.

He knew he was far off his usual form.  Perceptions dulled, reactions
slow.

"Who goes into his house?"  Sammy asked.

"Harry and me," Connie said.  "We're the professionals.  It's the only
thing that makes sense."

"And us?"  Janet asked.

"Wait in the van."

"Feel like I should help," Sammy said.

"Don't even think about it," Connie said sharply.

"How will you get in?"

Harry said, "My partner here carries a set of lock picks."

Connie patted one jacket pocket to be sure the folding packet of
burglary tools was still there.

"What if he's not sleeping?"  Janet asked.

Checking the names on the street signs as he drove, Harry said, "He
will be."

"But what if he's not?"

"He has to be," Harry replied, which pretty much said all that could be
said about how frighteningly limited their options were.

2:29.  Damn.  Time stopped, now going too fast.

The name of the street was Phaedra Way.  Letters on the Laguna Beach
street signs were too small, hard to read.  Especially in the fog.

He leaned over the wheel, squinting.

"How can he be killed?"  Sammy asked worriedly.  "I don't see how the
ratman can be killed, not him."

"Well, we can't just risk wounding him, that's for damned sure," Connie
said.  "He might be able to heal himself."

Phaedra Way.  Phaedra.  Come on, come on.

"But if he's got healing power," Harry said, "it comes from the same
place all his other power comes from."

"His mind," Janet said.

Phaedra, Phaedra, Phaedra...

Letting the van slow because he was sure they were in the area where
Ticktock's street ought to be, Harry said, "Yeah.  Will power.

Mind power.  Psychic ability is the power of the mind, and the mind is
seated in the brain."

"Head shot," Connie said.

Harry agreed.  "At close range."

Connie looked grim.  "It's the only way.  No jury trial for this
bastard.  Damage the brain instantly, kill him instantly, and he
doesn't have a chance to strike back."

Remembering how the golem-vagrant had hurled fireballs around his condo
bedroom and how instantly white-hot flames erupted from the things he
torched, Harry said, "Yeah.  For sure, before he has a chance to strike
back.  Hey!  There.  Phaedra Way.

The address they had gotten from Jennifer Drackman was less than two
miles from Pacific View Care Home.  They located the street at 2:31,
slightly more than one hour after the Pause had begun and ended.

It was actually more of a long driveway than a short street, serving
only five homes with ocean views, though now the Pacific was lost in
fog.  Because, from spring through autumn, the entire coastal area was
crawling with tourists seeking parking spaces near beaches, a sign was
posted at the entrance, sternly announcing PRIVATE VIOLATORS WILL BE
TOWED, but no security gate restricted access.

Harry didn't make the turn.  Because the street was so short and
because the van would be loud enough to wake the sleeping and draw
attention at that dead hour of the morning, he drove past the turnoff
and coasted to a stop two hundred feet farther along the highway.

Everything better, everyone together, so maybe they can all be a family
and want a dog to feed and all live in a people place, warm and dry-and
then suddenly everything wrong, wrong.

Death coming.  The woman who has no boy.  The not-so-stinky man.

Sitting up front in the van, and death coming all around them.

He smells it on them, yet it is not an odor.  He sees it on them, yet
they look no different.  It makes no sound, yet he hears it when he
listens to them.  If he licked their hands, their faces, death coming
would have no taste of its own, yet he would know it was on them.  If
they petted or scratched him, he would feel it in their touch, death
coming.  It is one of those few things he senses without really knowing
how he knows.  Death coming.

He is shaking.  He cannot stop shaking.

Death coming.

Bad.  Very bad.  The worst.

He must do something.  But what?  What what what what?

He doesn't know when the death coming will be or where it will be or
how it will be.  He doesn't know whether death coming will be to both
of them or only to one of them.  It could be only to one of them, and
he senses it on both of them only because it will happen when they are
together.  He cannot sense this thing as clearly as he can sense the
countless odors of the stinky man or the fear on all of them, because
it is not really something to be smelled or tasted so much as just
felt, a coldness, a dark, a deepness.

Death coming.

So...

Do something.

So...

Do something.

What what what?

When Harry switched off the engine and doused the headlights, the
silence seemed almost as deep as it had been during the Pause.

The dog was agitated, sniffing and whining.  If he began to bark the
walls of the van would muffle the sound.  Besides, Harry was confident
that they were too far from the Drackman house for Ticktock to be
disturbed by any.  sound the dog could make.

Sammy said, "How long before we should.figure... you know ... you
didn't get him, he got you?  Sorry, but I had to ask.  When should we
run?"

"If he gets us, you won't have a chance to run," Connie said.

Harry turned to look at them in the shadowy rear compartment.

"Yeah.  He's going to wonder how the hell we found him, and after he
kills us, there'll be another Pause, immediately, while he checks out
all of you, everything, trying to figure it out.  If he gets us, you'll
know it, because just a few seconds later in real time, one of his
golems will probably appear right here in the van with you.

Sammy blinked owlishly.  He wetted his cracked lips with his tongue.

"Then, for God's sake, be sure you kill him."

Harry opened his door quietly, while Connie left the van on her side.

When he stepped out; the dog slipped between the front seats and.

followed him before he realized what was happening.

He made a grab at the mutt as it brushed past his legs, but he
missed.

"Woofer, no!"  he whispered.

Ignoring him, the dog padded to the back of the van.

Harry went after him.

The dog broke into a sprint, and Harry ran several steps in pursuit,
but the dog was faster and vanished into the heavy fog heading north
along the highway in the general direction of the turnoff to the
Drackman house.

Harry was cursing under his breath when Connie joined him.

"He can't be going there," she whispered.

"Why can't he?"

"Jesus.  If he does anything to alert Ticktock..."  .If.

Harry checked his watch.  2:34.

Maybe they had twenty, twenty-five minutes.  Or maybe they were already
too late.

He decided they couldn't worry about the dog.

"Remember," he said, "headshot.  Quick and up close.  It's the only
way."

When they reached the entrance to Phaedra Way, he glanced back toward
the van.  It had been swallowed by the fog.

He is not afraid.  Not.  Not afraid.

He is a dog, sharp teeth and claws, strong and quick.

Creeping, he passes thick, high oleander.  Then the people place where
he's been before.  High white walls.  Windows dark.  Near the top, one
square of pale light.

The smell of the thing-that-will-kill-you is heavy on the fog.  But
like all smells in fog, not as sharp, not as easy to trace The iron
fence.  Tight.  Wriggle.  Through.

Careful at the corner of the people place.  The bad thing was out there
last time, behind the place, with bags of food.  Chocolate.

Marshmallow.  Potato chips.  Didn't get any.  But almost got caught.

So put just the nose past the corner this time.  Sniff sniff sniff.

Then the whole head for a look.  No sign of the young-man-bad-thing.

Was there, not now, safe so far.

Behind the people place.  Grass, dirt, some flat stones that people put
down.  Bushes.  Flowers.

The door.  And in the door the little door for dogs.

Careful.  Sniff.  Young-man-bad-thing smell, very strong.  Not
afraid.

Not, not, not, not.  He is a dog.  Good dog, good.

Careful.  Head in, lifting the dog door.  It makes a faint squeak
People food place.  Dark.  Dark.

Inside.

The softly fluorescent fog refracted every ray of ambient light on
Phaedra Way, from the low mushroom-shaped Malibu lamps along the front
walk at one house to the lighted numerals of the address on another,
seeming to brighten the night.  But, in fact, its slowly churning,
amorphous luminosity was deceptive; it revealed nothing and obscured
much.

Harry could see little of the houses past which they walked, except
that they were large.  The first of them was modern, sharp angles
looming out of the fog in several places, but the others seemed to be
older Mediterranean-style homes from a more graceful era ofLagunas
history than the end of the millennium, sheltered by mature palms and
ficuses.

Phaedra Way followed the shoreline of a small promontory that jutted
out into the sea.  According to the prematurely aged woman at Pacific
View, the Drackman house was the farthest out, at the point of the
bluff Considering how much of his ordeal had seemed to be based upon
the darker elements of fairy tales, Harry would not have been at all
surprised if they had found a small but preternaturally dark forest at
the end of the promontory filled with lantern-eyed owls and slinking
wolves, the Drackman house tucked therein, decidedly gloomy and
brooding, in the finest tradition of the residences of witches,
warlocks, sorcerers, trolls, and the like.

He almost hoped that was the kind of house he would find.  It would be
a comforting symbol of order.

But when they reached the Drackman place, only the eerie pall of fog
upheld the tradition.  In both its landscaping and architecture, it was
less menacing than the scary little cottage in the woods for which folk
and fairy tales had long prepared him.

Like the neighboring houses, it had palm trees in its shallow front
yard.  Even in the cloaking mist, masses of bougainvillaea vines were
visible climbing one white stucco wall and spreading onto the red tile
roof The driveway was littered with their bright blossoms.  A
night-light to one side of the garage door illuminated the house
number, its glow reflected in beads of dew on the hundreds of bright
bougainvillaea blossoms that glimmered like jewels on the driveway.

It was too pretty He was irrationally angry at its prettiness.

Nothing was as it ought to be any more, all hope of order gone.

They quickly checked the north and south sides of the house for signs
of occupancy.  Two lights.

One was upstairs on the south side, toward the back.  A single window,
not visible from the front.  It might have been a bedroom.

If the light was on, Ticktock must have awakened from his nap, or had
never gone to sleep.  Unless... some children wouldn't sleep without a
light on, and in many ways Ticktock was a child.  A twenty-year-old,
insane, vicious, exceedingly dangerous child.

The second light was on the north side, first floor at the rear-or
westorner Because it was at ground level, they were able to look inside
and see a white-on-white kitchen.  Deserted.  One chair was turned
half-away from the glass-topped table, as if someone had been sitting
there earlier.

2:39.

Since both lights were toward the back of the house, they did not
attempt to gain entrance on the westr rearide.  If Ticktock was in the
upstairs room with the light, awake or asleep, he would be more likely
to hear even the furtive noises they would make if they were directly
beneath him.

Because Connie had the set of picks, they didn't even try the windows,
but went straight to the front door.  It was a big oak slab with raised
panels and a brass knocker.

The lock might have been a Baldwin, which was good but not a Schlage.

In that gloom, it was difficult to tell the make.

Flanking the door were wide leaded-glass sidelights with beveled
panes.

Harry put his forehead against one to study the foyer beyond.

He could see through the foyer and down a shadowy hallway because, of
light leaking through a partially open door at the end, which had to be
the kitchen.

Connie opened the packet of lock picks.  Before starting to work, she
did what any good burglar did first-tried the door.  It was unlocked,
and she let it swing open a few inches.

She jammed the picks into one pocket without bothering to fold up the
packet.  From the shoulder holster under her corduroy jacket, she
withdrew her revolver.

Harry pulled his weapon, too.

When Connie hesitated, he realized that she had broken open the
cylinder.  She did a Braille check to be sure that cartridges still
filled all the chambers.  He heard a soft, soft click as she closed it,
evidently satisfied that Ticktock had not been playing any of his
tricks.

She crossed the threshold first because she was nearest to it.  He
followed her.

They stood in the marble-floored foyer for twenty seconds, half a
minute, very still, listening.  Both hands on their guns, sights just
below their lines of vision, Harry covering the left side, Connie
covering everything on the right.

Silence.

The Hall of the Mountain King.  Somewhere a sleeping troll.  Or not
sleeping.  Maybe just waiting.

Not much light, even with that second-hand fluorescent glow leaking
down the hall from the kitchen.  Mirrors to the left, dark images of
themselves in the glass, shadowy forms.  To the right was a doorway to
either a closet or a den.

Ahead and to the right, a switchback staircase led to a landing,
shrouded in shadows, then to an unseen second-floor hall.

Directly ahead, the first-floor hall.  Archways and dark rooms off both
sides, the kitchen door at the end ajar maybe four or five inches with
light beyond.

Harry hated this.  He had done it scores of times.  He was practiced
and skilled.  He still hated it.

Silence continuing.  Only inner noise.  He listened to his heart, not
bad yet, fast but steady, not crashing yet, in control.

They were committed now, so he eased the front door shut behind them
with no more noise than a padded coffin lid being lowered for the last
time in the velvet-curtained hush of a funeral parlor.

Bryan woke from a fantasy of destruction, into a world that offered the
satisfaction of real victims, real blood.

For a moment he lay naked on the black sheets, staring at the black
ceiling.  He was still dream-sodden enough to be able to imagine that
he was adrift in the night, out over the lightless sea, beneath a
starless sky weightless, floating.

Levitation was not a power he possessed, nor was he particularly
skilled at telekinesis.  But he was sure that the ability to fly and to
manipulate all matter in all imaginable ways would be his when he had
fully Become.

Gradually he became aware of wrinkled folds of silk that were pressing
uncomfortably against his back and buttocks, the coolness of the air, a
sour taste in his mouth, and a hunger that made his stomach growl.

Imagination was foiled.  The Stygian sea became only ebony sheets, the
starless sky became only a ceiling painted with black semi-gloss, and
he had to admit that gravity still exerted a claim on him.

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood.  He
yawned and stretched luxuriously studying himself in the wall of
mirrors.  Someday after he had thinned the human herd, there would be
artists among those he spared, and they would be inspired to paint him,
portraits infused with awe and reverence, like those that featured
biblical figures and hung now in the great museums of Europe,
apocalyptic scenes on cathedral ceilings where he would be shown as a
titan dealing punishment to the wretched masses who died at his feet.

Turning from the mirrors, he faced the black-lacquered shelves on which
stood the array of Mason jars.  Because he had left one bedside lamp on
while he slept, the votive eyes had watched him in his dreams of
godhood.  They watched him still, adoring.

He recalled the pleasure of blue eyes captured between the l of his
hands and his body, the smooth damp intimacy of their loving
inspection.

His red robe lay at the foot of the shelves, where he had dropped it He
picked it up, slipped into it, cinched and knotted the belt.

All the while, he scanned the eyes, and none of them regarded him with
scorn or rejected him.

Not for the first time, Bryan wished that his mother's eyes were part
of his collection.  If he possessed those eyes of all eyes, he would
allow her communion with every convexity and concavity of his
well-proportioned body, so she could understand the beauty of him,
which she had never seen, and could know that her fears of hideous
mutation had been foolish and that her sacrifice of vision had been so
pointless, stupid.

If he had her eyes before him now, he would take one gently into his
mouth and let it rest upon his tongue.  Then he would swallow it whole,
so she might see that his perfection was internal as well as
external.

Thus enlightened, she would lament her misguided act of self-mutilation
the night of his birth, and it would be as if the intervening years of
estrangement had never happened.  The mother of the new god would then
come willingly and supportively to his side, and his Becoming would be
easier and would move more rapidly toward completion, toward his
Ascension to the throne and the beginning of the Apocalypse.

But the hospital staff had disposed of her damaged eyes long ago, in
whatever manner they dealt with all dead tissue from tainted blood to
an excised appendix.

He sighed with regret.

Standing in the foyer, Harry tried not to look toward the light at the
end of the hall where the kitchen door was ajar, so his eyes would
adjust to the darkness quicker.  It was time to move on.  But they had
choices to make.

-Ordinarily he and Connie would conduct an interior search together,
room by room, but not always.  Good partners had a reliable and
mutually understood routine for every basic situation, but they were
also flexible.

Flexibility was essential because there were some situations that
weren't basic.  Like this one.

He didn't think it was a good idea to stay together because they were
up against an adversary who had weapons better than guns or submachine
guns or even explosives.  Ordegard had almost taken out both of them
with a grenade, but this scumbag could waste them with ball lightning
that he shot off his fingertips or some other bit of magic they hadn't
seen yet.

Welcome to the '90s.

If they stayed widely separated, say one of them searching the first
floor while the other took the rooms upstairs, they would not only save
time when time was at a premium, but they would double their chances of
surprising the gee Harry moved to Connie, touched her shoulder, put his
lips to her ear, and barely breathed the words: "Me upstairs, you
down."

From the way she stiffened, he knew she didn't like the division of
labor, and he understood why.  They had already looked through the
first floor window into the lighted kitchen and knew it was deserted.

The only other light in the house was upstairs, so it was more likely
than not that Ticktock was up in that other room.  She wasn't worried
that Harry would botch the job if he went up alone; it was just that
she had a big enough hate-on for Ticktock that she wanted to have an
equal chance to be the one who put the bullet in his head.

But there was neither time for debate nor the circumstances, and she
knew it.  They couldn't plan this one.  They had to ride the wave.

When he moved across the foyer toward the stairs, she didn't stop
him.

Bryan turned away from the votive eyes.  He crossed the room toward the
open door.  His silk robe rustled softly as he moved.

He was always aware of the time, the second and minute and hour, so he
knew dawn was still a few hours away.  He needn't be in a rush to keep
his promise to the bigshot hero cop, but he was eager to locate him and
see to what depths of despair the man had plummeted after experiencing
the stoppage of time, the world frozen for a game of hide-and-seek.

The fool would know, now, that he was up against immeasurable power,
and that escape was hopeless.  His fear, and the awe with which he'd
now regard his persecutor, would be enormously satisfying and worth
relishing for a while.

First, however, Bryan had to satisfy his physical hunger.  Sleep was
only part of the restorative he needed.  He knew that he had lost a few
pounds during the most recent creative session.  The use of his
Greatest and Most Secret Power always took a toll.  He was famished in
need of sweets and salties.

Stepping out of his bedroom, he turned right, away from the front of
the house, and hurried along the hallway toward the back stairs that
led directly down to the kitchen.

Enough light spilled from his open bedroom door to allow him to observe
himself in motion both to his left and right, reflections of the young
god Becoming, a spectacle of power and glory, striding purposefully to
infinity in swirls of royal red, royal red, red upon red upon red.

Connie did not want to split off from Harry.  She was worried about
him.

In the old woman's room at the nursing home, he had looked like death
warmed over and served on a paper plate.  He was desperately tired, a
walking mass of contusions and abrasions, and he had seen his world
fall apart in little more than twelve hours, losing not merely
possessions but cherished beliefs and much of his self-image.

Of course, aside from the part about lost possessions, much the same
could be said of Connie.  Which was another reason she did not want to
separate to search the house.  Neither of them had his usual sharp
edge, yet considering the nature of this perp, they needed a greater
advantage than usual, so they had to separate.

Reluctantly, as Harry moved toward the steps and then started up,
Connie turned to the door on the right, off the foyer.  It had a lever
handle.  She eased it down with her left hand, revolver in her right
and in front of her.  Faintest click of the latch.  Ease the door
inward and to the right.

Nothing for it but to cross the threshold, clearing the doorway as fast
as possible, doorways always being the most dangerous, and slipping to
the left as she entered, both hands on the gun in front of her, arms
straight and locked.  Keeping her back to the wall.  Straining her eyes
to see in the deep darkness, unable to find and use the light switch
without giving away the game.

A surprising plenitude of windows in the north and east and west
wallsrso many windows on the exterior, were the'e?fered only minor
relief from the darkness.  Vaguely luminous fog pressed against the
panes, like cloudy gray water, and she had the queer feeling of being
under the sea in a bathysphere.

The room was wrong.  Didn't feel right somehow.  She didn't know what
it was that she sensed, what wrongness, but it was there.

Something was also odd about the wall at her back when she brushed
against it.  Too smooth, cold.

She let go of the gun with her left hand, and felt behind her.

Glass.

The wall was glass but it wasn't a window because it was the wall
shared with the foyer.

For a moment Connie was confused, thinking frantically because anything
inexplicable was frightening under the circumstances.

Then she realized it was a mirror.  Her fingers slid across a vertical
seam, onto another big sheet of glass.  Mirrored.  Floor to ceiling.

Like the south wall of the foyer.

When she looked behind her, at the wall along which she had been
slipping so stealthily, she saw reflections of the north-side windows
and the fog beyond.  No wonder there were more windows than there
should have been.  The windowless south and west walls were mirrored,
so half the windows she saw were only reflections.

And she realized what bothered her about the room.  Although she had
kept on the move to the left, putting herself at changing angles to the
windows, she hadn't seen silhouettes of any furniture between her and
the grayish rectangles of glass.  She hadn't bumped against any piece
of furniture set with its back to the south wall either.

Both hands on the gun again, she eased toward the center of the room,
wary of knocking something over and drawing attention.  But inch by
inch, cautious step by step, she became convinced there was nothing in
her way.

The room was - empty.  Mirrored and empty As she neared the center, in
spite of the unrelenting gloom, she was able to see a dim image of
herself to her left.  A phantom with her form, moving across the
reflection of the fog-gray east-facing window.

Ticktock was not here.

A chaos of Harrys moved along the upstairs hall, gun-bearing clones in
dirty rumpled suits, unshaven faces gray with stubble, tense and
scowling.  Hundreds, thousands, an uncountable army they advanced
abreast in a single slightly curved line, stretching forever to the
left and right.  In their mathematical symmetry and perfect
choreography they should have been the apotheosis of order.

Even glimpsed with peripheral vision, however, they disoriented Harry,
could not look directly either left or right without risking dless.

Both walls were mirrored floor to ceiling, as were all of the doors to
the rooms, creating an illusion of irfirvty bouncing his reflection
back and forth, reflecting reflections of reflections of reflections.

Harry knew, he should check room by room as he advanced, leaving no
unexplored territory behind him, from which Ticktock might be able to
move in on his back.  But the sole light on the second floor was ahead,
spilling out of the only open door, and chances were that the bastard
who had murdered Ricky Estefan was in that lighted room and no other.

Although he was so tired that his cop instinct had deserted him, and
simultaneously so jumped-up with adrenaline that he did not I- trust
his reactions to be calm and measured, Harry decided to hell with
traditional procedure, go with the flow, ride the wave, and let
unexplored rooms at his back.  He went directly to the doorway with the
light beyond, on his right.

The mirrored wall opposite the open door would give him a look at part
of the room before he had to step into the doorway and across the
threshold, committing himself.  He halted beside the door with his back
to the mirrored wall, looking at an angle toward the wedge of the
room's interior that was reflected across the hallway in another length
of mirror.

All he could see was a confusion of black planes and angles, different
black textures revealed by lamplight, black shapes against black
backgrounds, all of it cubistic and strange.  No other color.  No
Ticktock.

Suddenly he realized that, because he was seeing only part of the room,
anyone standing in an unrevealed portion of it but looking toward the
door might be at such an angle as to see his infinite reflections
bouncing from wall to wall.

He stepped into the doorway and crossed the threshold, staying low and
moving fast, his revolver held out in front of him with both hands.

The hallway carpet did not continue into the bedroom.

There was black ceramic tile on the floor instead, against which his
shoes made noise, a click-scrape-click, and he froze within three
steps, hoping to God he hadn't been heard.

Another dark room, much larger than the first, what should have been' a
living room, off the downstairs hall.  More windows on the pearly
luminescent fog and more reflections of windows.

Connie had a feel for that special oddness now, and wasted less time
there than she had in the den off the foyer.  The three walls without
windows were mirrored, and there was no furniture.

Multiple reflections of her silhouette kept perfect time with her in
the dark reflective surfaces, like ghosts, like other Connies in
alternate universes briefly overlapping and barely visible.

Ticktock evidently liked to look at himself.

She would like to get a look at him, too, but in the flesh.

Silently she returned to the downstairs hall and moved on.

The big walk-in pantry off the kitchen was filled with cookies, hard
candies, taffy, chocolates of all kinds, caramels, red and black
licorice, tins of sweet biscuits and exotic cakes imported from every
corner of the world, bags of cheese popcorn, caramel popcorn, potato
chips, tortilla chips, cheese-flavored tortilla chips, pretzels, cans
of cashews, almonds, peanuts, mixed nuts, and millions of dollars in
cash stacked in tight bundles of twenty- and hundred dollar bills.

While he examined the sweets and salties, trying to make up his mind
what he most wanted to eat, what would be the least like a meal of
which Grandma Drackkaan would have approved, Bryan idly picked up a
packet of hundred-dollar bills and riffled the crisp edges with one
thumb.

He had acquired the cash immediately after he had killed his
grandmother, stopping the world-with his Greatest and Most Secret Power
and wandering at his leisure into all the places where money was kept
in large quantities and protected by steel doors and locked gates and
alarm systems and armed guards.  Taking whatever he wanted, he had
laughed at the uniformed fools with all their guns and their somber
expressions, who were oblivious of him.

Soon, however, he'd realized that he had little need of money.  He
could use his powers to take anything not merely cash, and to alter
sales and public records to create extensive legal support for his
ownership if he were ever questioned.  Besides, if ever he were
questioned, he had only to eliminate those idiots who dared to be
suspicious of him, and alter their records to insure no further
investigation.

He had stopped piling up cash in the pantry, but he still liked to
riffle it under his thumb and listen to the crisp flutter, smell it,
and play games with it sometimes.  It felt so good to know that he was
different from other people in this way, too: he was beyond money
beyond concerns related to things material.  And it was fun to think
that he could be the richest person in the world if he wanted, richer
than Rockefellers and Kennedys, could pile up cash to fill room after
room, cash and emeralds if he wanted emeralds, diamonds and rubies,
anything, anything, like pirates of old in their lairs and surrounded
by treasure.

He tossed the packet of currency back on the shelf from which he'd
taken it.  From the side of the pantry where he kept food, he took down
two boxes of Reese's peanut butter cups and a family-size bag of
Hawaiian-style potato chips, which were a lot oilier than ordinary
chips.  Grandma Drackman would've had a stroke at the very thought.

Harry's heart knocked so hard and fast that his ears were filled with
-double time drumming that would probably drown out the sound of
approaching footsteps.

In the black bedroom, on black shelves, scores of eyes floated in clear
fluid, slightly luminous in the amber lamplight, and some were animal
eyes, had to be because they were so strange, but others were human
eyes, oh shit, no doubt at all about that, some brown and some black,
blue, green, hazel.  Unhooded by lids or lashes, they all looked
scared, perpetually wide with fright.  Crazily he wondered if, by
looking closely enough, he would be able to see reflections of Ticktock
in all the lenses of those dead eyes, the last sight each victim had
seen in this world, but he knew that was impossible, and he had no
desire to look that close anyway.

Keep moving.  The insane sonofabitch was here.  In the house.

Somewhere.  Charles Manson with psychic power, for God's sake.

Not in the bed, sheets tossed and rumpled, but somewhere.

Jeffrey Dahmer crossed with Superman, John Wayne Gag with a sorcerer's
spells and magics.

And if not in the bed, awake, oh Jesus, awake and therefore more
formidable, harder to get close to.

Closet.  Check it.  Just clothes, not many, mostly jeans and red
robes.

Move, move.

The little creep was Ed Gein, Richard Ramirez, Randy Kraft, Richard
Speck, Charles Whitman, Jack the Ripper, all the homicidal sociopaths
of legend rolled into one and gifted with paranormal talents beyond
measure.

The adjoining bathroom.  Through the door, no light, find it, just
mirrors, more mirrors on all walls and the ceiling.

Back in the black bedroom, heading toward the door, stepping as
silently as possible on the black ceramic tiles, Harry didn't want to
look again at the floating eyes but couldn't stop himself.  When he
glanced at them again, he realized Ricky Estefan's eyes must be among
those in the jars, though he couldn't identify which pair they were,
couldn't, under the current circumstances, even remember what color
Ricky's eyes had been.

He reached the door, crossed the threshold, into the upstairs hall,
dizzied by infinite images of himself, and from the corner of his eye
he saw movement to his left.  Movement that was not another Harry
Lyon.

Coming straight at him and not from out of a mirror, either, coming
low.

He swiveled toward it, bringing the revolver around, pressure on the
trigger, telling himself it had to be a headshot, a headshot, only a
headshot would be sure to stop the bastard.

It was the dog.  Tail wagging.  Head cocked.  He almost killed it,
mistaking it for the enemy, almost alerted Ticktock that someone was in
the house.  He let up on the trigger a fraction of an ounce short of
the pressure needed to squeeze off a shot, and would have made the
mistake of cursing the dog aloud if his voice hadn't caught in his
throat.

Connie kept listening for gunfire from the second floor, hoping Harry
had found Ticktock asleep and would scramble his brain with a couple of
rounds.  The continued silence was beginning to worry her.

After quickly checking out another mirrored chamber opposite the living
room, Connie was in what she assumed would have been the dining room in
an ordinary house.  It was easier to inspect than the other areas she'd
been through, because a band of fluorescent '<a quality light came
under the door from the adjoining kitchen, dispelling some of the
gloom.

One wall featured windows, and the other three were mirrored.

No furniture, not one stick.  She supposed he never ate in the dining
room, and he was certainly not the sort of sociable guy who would
entertain a lot.

She started to return through the archway to the downstairs hall, then
decided to go directly to the kitchen from the dining room.

Having looked into the kitchen from an outside window, she knew
Ticktock wasn't there, but she had to sweep it again, just to be sure,
before joining Harry upstairs.

Carrying two boxes of Reese's peanut butter cups and one bag of chips,
Bryan left the light burning in the pantry and went into the kitchen.

He glanced at the table but didn't feel like eating there.

Heavy fog pressed at the windows, so if he went outside to the patio,
he would have no view of the breaking surf on the beach below, which
was the best reason for eating out there.

He was happiest, anyway, when the votive eyes watched him; he decided
to go upstairs and eat in the bedroom.  The glossy white-tile floor was
sufficiently polished to reflect the red of his robe, so it seemed as
if he walked through a thin, constantly evaporating film of blood as he
crossed the kitchen toward the rear stairs.

After pausing to wag his tail at Harry, the dog hurried past him to the
end of the hall.  It stopped and peered down into the back stairwell,
very alert.

If Ticktock was in any of the upstairs rooms that Harry had not yet
checked, the dog surely would have shown interest in that closed
door.

But he had trotted by all of them to the end of the hall, so Harry
joined him there.

The narrow stairwell was an enclosed spiral, curving down and around
and out of sight like stairs in a lighthouse.  The concave wall '<n on
the right was paneled with tall narrow mirrors that reflected the steps
immediately in front of them; because each was angled slightly toward
the one before it, every subsequent panel also partly reflected the
reflection in the previous one.  Because of the weird funhouse effect,
Harry saw his full reflection in the first couple of panels on the
right, then fractionally less of himself in each succeeding panel,
until he did not appear at all in the panel just this side of the first
turn in the stairwell.

He was about to start down the steps when the dog stiffened and nipped
a mouthful of trouser cuff to restrain him.  By now he knew the dog
well enough to understand that the attempt to hold him back meant there
was danger below.

But he was hunting danger, after all, and had to find it before it
found him; surprise was their only hope.  He tried to jerk loose of the
dog without making any noise or causing it to bark, but it held fast to
his cuff Damn it.

Connie thought she heard something just before she entered the kitchen,
so she paused on the dining-room side of the door and listened
closely.

Nothing.  Nothing.

She couldn't wait forever.  It was a swinging door.  Cautiously, she
pulled it toward her, easing around it, rather than pushing the door in
where it would block part of her view.

The kitchen appeared deserted.

Harry tugged again, with no better result than he'd gotten before; the
dog held tight.

Glancing nervously down the mirrored stairs again, Harry had the
terrible feeling that Ticktock was down there and was going to get
away, or more likely encounter Connie and kill her, all because the dog
wouldn't let him slip down and behind the perp.  So he rapped the dog
smartly on the top of the head with the barrel of his revolver, risking
its yelp of protest.

Startled, it let go of him, thankfully didn't bark, and Harry stepped
out of the hallway, onto the first stair.  Even as he started to
descend, he saw a flash of red in the mirror at the farthest curve of
the first spiral, another red flash, a billow of red fabric.

Before Harry could register the meaning of what he had seen, the dog
shot past him, nearly knocking him off his feet, and it plunged into
the stairwell.  Then Harry saw more red like a skirt and a red sleeve
and part of a bare wrist and a hand, a man's hand, holding something,
somebody coming up, maybe Ticktock, and the dog hurtling toward him.

Bryan heard something, looked up from the boxes of candy in his hands,
and saw a pack of snarling dogs erupting toward him, down the
staircase, all identical dogs.  Not a pack, of course, only one dog
reflected repeatedly in the angled mirrors, revealed in advance of its
attack, not yet even visible in the flesh.  But he only had time to
gasp before the beast flew around the curve in front of him.  It was
moving so fast that it lost its footing and bounced off the concave
outer wall.

Bryan dropped the candy, and the dog regained enough purchase on the
stairs to launch itself at him, crashing into his chest and face, both
of them falling backward, the dog snapping and snarling, end over
end.

Snarling, a startled cry, and the thump-crash of falling bodies caused
Connie to turn away from the open pantry door where shelves were
stacked with bundles of cash.  She spun toward the arch beyond which
the back stairs curved upward out of sight.

The dog and Ticktock spilled onto the kitchen floor, Ticktock flat on
his back and the dog on top of him, and for an instant it looked as if
the dog was going to tear out the kid's throat.  Then the dog squealed
and was flung away from the kid, not thrown by hands or booted with a
foot, but sent with a pale flash of telekinetic power, hurled across
the room.

It was going down, holy God, right there and then, but going down all
wrong.  She wasn't close enough to jam the muzzle of her revolver
against his skull and pull the trigger, she was about eight feet away,
but she fired just the same, once even as the dog was in the air, again
as the dog slammed into the front of the refrigerator.  She hit the
perp both times, because he didn't even realize she was in the kitchen
until the first shot took him, maybe in the chest, the second in the
leg, and he rolled off his back, onto his stomach.  She fired again,
the bullet -god off the tile, spraying up ceramic chips, and from his
prone position Ticktock held one hand toward her, the palm spread, that
strange flash as with the dog, and she felt herself airborne, then
slammed into the kitchen door hard enough to shatter all the glass in
it and send shock waves of pain up her spine.

Her gun flew out of her hand, and her corduroy jacket was suddenly on
fire.

As soon as the snarling dog exploded past Harry and
scrambled-bounced-leaped out of sight around the first curve in the
narrow spiral staircase, Harry followed, taking the steps two at a
time.  He fell before he reached the turn, cracked one of the mirrors
with his head, but didn't tumble all the way to the bottom, came up
wedged at the midpoint of the well, with one leg twisted under him.

Dazed, he looked around frantically for his weapon, discovered it was
still clutched in his hand.  He clambered to his feet and continued
down, dizzy, one hand braced against the mirrors to keep his balance.

The dog squealed, gunshots boomed, and Harry spiraled down into the
last turn, to the foot of the stairs in time to see Connie catapulted
backward, crashing into the door, on fire.  Ticktock was lying on his
stomach, directly in front of the stairs, facing out toward the
kitchen, and Harry leaped off the last step, landed hard on red silk
stretched taut across the kid's back, jammed the muzzle hard against
the base of the kid's skull, saw the gunmetal suddenly glow green and
felt the start of what might have been a swift and terrible heat in his
hand, but pulled the trigger.  The explosion was muffled like firing
into a pillow, the green glow disappeared in the instant it first
arose, and he squeezed the trigger again, both rounds into the troll's
brain.

That was surely enough, had to be enough, but you never knew with
magic, never knew in this pre-millennium cotillion, these wild '90s, so
he squeezed the trigger again.  The skull was coming apart like chunks
of rind from a cantaloupe hit with a hammer, and still Harry pulled the
trigger, and a fifth time, until there was a terrible spreading mess on
the floor and no more rounds in the revolver, the hammer snapping
against expended casings with a dry click, click, click, click,
click.

Connie had stripped off the burning jacket and stamped out the fire by
the time Harry realized his gun was empty, climbed off the dead traIl,
and managed to reach her.  It was amazing she'd been able to act fast
enough to avoid going up like a torch, because shedding the jacket had
been complicated by the fact that her left wrist was broken.  She'd
suffered a minor burn on the left arm, as well, but nothing serious.

"He's dead," Harry said, as if it needed saying, and then he put his
arms around her, held her as tightly as he could without touching her
injuries.

She returned his hug fiercely, one-armed, and they stood that way for a
while, unable to talk, until the dog came sniffing around.  He was
lame, holding his right rear leg off the floor, but he seemed otherwise
all right.

Harry realized that Woofer had not, after all, been the cause of a
disaster.  In fact, if he hadn't plunged down those stairs and knocked
Ticktock ass over teakettle, thereby preserving the surprise of
Connie's and Harry's presence in the house for just a few vital
additional seconds, they would be dead on the floor, the golem-master
alive and grinning.

A shiver of superstitious dread swept through Harry.  He had to let go
of Connie and return to the body, look at it again, just to be sure
Ticktock was dead.

They built houses better in the 1940s, with thick walls and lots of
insulation, which might have explained why none of the neighbors
responded to the gunfire and why no oncoming sirens wailed in the
fogbound night.

Suddenly, however, Connie wondered if, in his last moment of life,
Ticktock had thrown the world into another Pause, exempting only his
own house, figuring to disable them and then kill them at his
leisure.

And if he had died with the world stopped, would it ever start up
again?  Or would she and Harry and the dog wander through it alone,
among millions of once-living mannequins?

She raced to the kitchen door and through it to the night outside.  A
breeze, cool on her face, ruffling her hair.  log swirling, not
suspended like a cloud of glitter in an acrylic paperweight.  The
rumble of waves on the shore below.  Beautiful, beautiful sounds of a
world alive.

They were police officers with a sense of duty and justice, but they
were not foolish enough to follow prescribed procedures in the
aftermath of this one.  No way could they call it in to the local
authorities and explain the true circumstances.  Dead, Bryan Drackman
was just a twenty-year-old man, and there was nothing about him to
prove that he'd possessed astonishing powers.  To tell the truth would
be a ticket to institutionalization.

The jars of eyes, however, floating blindly on the shelves in
Ticktock's bedroom, and the mirrored strangeness of his house would be
evidence enough that they had crossed paths with a homicidal
psychopath, even if no one ever produced the bodies from which he had
removed the eyes.  They were able to provide one body, anyway, to
support a charge of brutal murder: Ricky Estefan down in Dana Point,
eyeless, with snakes and tarantulas.

"Somehow" Connie said, as they stood in the pantry staring at the
shelves laden with cash, "we've got to concoct a story to cover
everything, all the holes and weirdnesses, the reason why we broke
procedures on this case.  We can't just close the door and walk away
because too many people at Pacific View know we were there tonight,
talking to his mother, seeking his address."

"Story?"  he said blearily.  "Dear God in Heaven, what kind of
story?"

"I don't know" she said, wincing from the pain in her wrist.

"That's up to you."

"Me?  Why me?"

"You've always liked fairy tales.  Make one up.  It has to cover the
burning of your house, Ricky Estefan, and this.  At least that much."

He was still gaping at her when she pointed to all the piles of cash.

"This is only going to complicate the story.  Let's just simplify
things by getting it out of here."

"I don't want his money," Harry said.

"Neither do I. Not a dollar of it.  But we'll never know who it was
stolen from, so it'll only go to the government, the same damn
government that's given us this pre-millennium cotillion, and I can't
tolerate the idea of giving it more to waste.  Besides, we both know a
few people who could sure use it, don't we?"

"God, they're still waiting in the van," he said.

"Let's bag this cash and take it out to them.  Then Janet can drive
them away in the van, with the dog, so they don't get wrapped up in
it.

Meanwhile, you'll be putting together a story, and by the time they're
gone, we'll be ready to call in."

"Connie, I can't possibly-" "Better start thinking," she said, pulling
a plastic garbage bag from a box of them on one shelf.

"But this is crazier than-" "Not much time," she said warningly,
opening the bag with her one good hand.

"All right, all right," he said exasperatedly.

"Can't wait to hear it," she said, scooping bundles of currency into
the first open bag as he opened a second.  "It should be highly
entertaining."

Good day, good day, good.  Sun shining, breeze blowing through his fur,
interesting bugs busy in the grass, interesting smells on people's
shoes from faraway interesting places, and no cats.

Everyone there, all together.  Ever since this morning early, Janet
doing delicious-smelling things in the food room of the people place,
the people and place, their place.  Sammy in his garden, cutting
tomatoes off vines, pulling carrots out of the ground interesting,
must've buried them in the ground like bones-and then bringing them
into the food room for Janet to do delicious things.  Then Sammy
washing off the stones that people put down over part of the grass
behind their place.  Washing stones with the hose, yes yes yes yes yes,
the hose, splattering water, cool and tasty, everyone laughing,
dodging, yes yes yes yes.  And Danny there, helping to put the cloth on
the table that stands on the stones, arrange the chairs, plates and
things.  Janet, Danny, Sammy.  He knows their names now because they
have been together long enough for him to know them, Janet and Danny
and Sammy, all together at the Janet-and-Danny-and-Sammy-and-Woofer
place.

He remembers being Prince, sort of, and Max because of the cat who peed
in his water, and he remembers Fella from everyone for so long, but now
he answers only to Woofer.

The others come, too, driving up in their car, and he knows their names
almost as well because they're around so much, visiting so much.

Harry, Connie, and Ellie, Ellie who is Danny's size, all of them coming
over to visit from the Harry-and-Connie-and-Ellieand-Toto place.

Toto.  Good dog, good dog, good.  Friend.

He takes Toto straight to the garden, where they aren't allowed to
dig-bad dogs if they dig, bad dogs, had-to show him where the carrots
were buried like bones.  Sniff sniff sniff sniff More of them buried
here.  Interesting.  But don't dig.

Playing with Toto and Danny and Ellie, running and chasing and jumping
and rolling in the grass, rolling.

Good day.  The best.  The best.

Then food.  Food!  Bringing it out of the people food room and piling
it up on the table that stands on the stones in the shade of the
trees.

Sniff sniff sniff sniff ham, chicken, potato salad, mustard, cheese,
cheese is good, sticks to the teeth but is good, and more, much more
food, up there on the table.

Don't jump up.  Be good.  Be a good dog.  Good dogs get more scraps,
usually not just scraps, whole big pieces of things, yes yes yes yes
yes.

Cricket jumps.  Cricket!  Chase, chase, get it, get it, get it, got to
have it, Toto too, leaping, jumping, this way, that way, this way
cricket.  ...

Oh, wait, yes, the food.  Back to the table.  Sit.  Chest puffed out.

Head cocked.  Tail wagging.  They love that.  Lick your chops, give
them the hint.

Here it comes.  What what what what?  Ham.  A piece of ham to start.

Good, good, good, gone.  A delicious start, a very good start.

Such a good day, a day like he always knew would come, one of lots of
good days, one after another, for a long time now, because it happened,
it really happened, he went around that one more corner, looked in that
one more strange new place, and he found the wonderful thing, the
wonderful thing that he always knew was out there waiting for him.  The
wonderful thing, the wonderful thing, which is this place and this time
and these people.  And here comes a slice of chicken, thick and
juicy!

All of the outrages to which Connie and Harry refer as items in her
collection of atrocities from the "pre-millennium cotillion" are true
crimes that really happened.  No one as powerful as Ticktock walks the
real world, of course, but his capacity for evil is not unique to
fiction.

				 the end.