LIGHTNING - Part 1 (Dean Koontz)

LIGHTNING
- Dean Koontz





One

A CANDLE IN THE WIND

A storm struck on the night Laura Shane was born, and there was a strangeness about the weather that people
would remember for years.
Wednesday, January 12, 1955, was frigid, gray, and somber. At twilight thick, fluffy snowflakes spiraled out of the
low sky, and the people of Denver huddled in expectation of a Rocky Mountain blizzard. By ten o'clock that night, a
bitterly cold gale blew in from the west, howling out of the mountain passes and shrieking down those rugged,
wooded slopes. The snowflakes grew smaller, until they were as fine as sand, and they sounded as abrasive as
sand, so, when the wind blew them across the windows of Dr. Paul Markwell's book -lined study.
Markwell slumped in the chair behind his desk, drinking Scotch to keep warm. The persistent chill that troubled him
was not caused by a winter draft but by an internal frigidity of the mind and heart.
In the four years since his only child, Lenny, had died of polio, Markwell's drinking had gotten steadily worse. Now,
though on call for emergencies at County Medical, he picked up the bottle and poured more Chivas Regal.
In the enlightened year of 1955, children were being inoculated with Dr. Jonas Salk's vaccine, and the day was
near when no child would be paralyzed or die from poliomyelitis. But Lenny had been afflicted in 1951, a year
before Salk tested the vaccine. The boy's respiratory muscles had been paralyzed, too, and the case had been
complicated by bronchopneumonia. Lenny never had a chance.
From the mountains to the west, a low rumble echoed across the winter night, but at first Markwell thought nothing
of it. He was so involved with his own enduring, bile-black grief that sometimes he was only subliminally aware of
events that transpired around him.
A photograph of Lenny stood on his desk. Even after four years he was tortured by his son's smiling face. He
should have put the photo away but instead left it in view because unceasing self-flagellation was his method of
attempting to atone for his guilt.
None of Paul Markwell's colleagues was aware of his drinking problem. He never appeared to be drunk. The errors
he made in the treatment of some patients had resulted in complications that might have arisen naturally and were
not attributed to malpractice. But he knew that he had blundered, and self-loathing only induced him to drink more.
The rumbling came again. This time he recognized the thunder, but he still did not wonder about it.
The phone rang. The Scotch had left him numb and slow to react, so he did not pick up the receiver until the third
ring. "Hello?"
"Dr. Markwell? Henry Yamatta." Yamatta, an intern at County Medical, sounded nervous. "One of your patients,
Janet Shane, was just brought in by her husband. She's in labor. Fact is, they were delayed by the storm, so she
was well along when they got here."
Markwell drank Scotch while he listened. Then, pleased to hear that his voice was not slurred, he asked, "She still
in first stage?"
"Yes, but her labor pains are intense and unusually protracted for this point in the process. There's blood-tinged
vaginal mucus — "
"That's to be expected."
Impatiently Yamatta said, "No, no. This isn't ordinary show."
Show, or blood-tainted vaginal mucus, was a reliable sign that labor was impending. However Yamatta had said
Mrs. Shane was already well into labor. Markwell had blundered by suggesting that the intern was reporting
ordinary show.
Yamatta said, "Not enough blood for hemorrhage, but something's wrong. Uterine inertia, obstruction of the pelvis,
systemic diseas e — "
"I'd have noticed any physiological irregularity that would've made pregnancy dangerous," Markwell said sharply.
But he knew that he might not have noticed ... if he had been drunk. "Dr. Carlson's on duty tonight. If something
goes wrong before I get there, he — "
"We've just had four accident victims brought in, two in bad shape. Carlson's hands are full. We need you, Dr.
Markwell."
"I'm on my way. Twenty minutes."
Markwell hung up, finished his Scotch, and took a peppermint lozenge from his pocket. Since becoming a heavy
drinker, he always carried mints. As he unwrapped the lozenge and popped it into his mouth, he left the study and
went along the hall to the foyer closet.
He was drunk, and he was going to deliver a baby, and maybe he was going to botch it, which would mean the end
of his career, the destruction of his reputation, but he did not care. In fact he anticipated that catastrophe with a
perverse longing.
He was pulling on his overcoat when a peal of thunder rocked the night. The house reverberated with it.
He frowned and looked at the window beside the front door. Fine, dry snow swirled against the glass, briefly hung
suspended as the wind held its breath, then swirled again. On a couple of other occasions over the years, he had


heard thunder in a snowstorm, though always at the beginning, always soft and far away, nothing as menacing as
this.
Lightning flashed, then again. Falling snow flickered queerly in the inconstant light, and the window was briefly
transformed into a mirror in which Markwell saw his own haunted face. The subsequent crash of thunder was the
loudest yet.
He opened the door and peered curiously at the turbulent night. The hard-driving wind hurled snow under the porch
roof, drifting it against the front wall of the house. A fresh, two- or three-inch white mantle covered the lawn, and the
windward boughs of the pine trees were flocked as well.
Lightning flared bright enough to sting Markwell's eyes. The thunderclap was so tremendous that it seemed to
come not only from the sky but from the ground, too, as if heaven and earth were splitting open, announcing
Armageddon. Two extended, overlapping, brilliant bolts seared the darkness. On all sides eerie silhouettes leaped,
writhed, throbbed. The shadows of porch railings, balusters, trees, barren shrubs, and streetlamps were so weirdly
distorted by every flash that Markwell's familiar world acquired the characteristics of a Surrealistic painting: the
unearthly light illuminated common objects in such a way as to give them mutant forms, altering them disturbingly.
Disoriented by the blazing sky, thunder, wind, and billowing white curtains of the storm, Markwell abruptly felt drunk
for the first time that night. He wondered how much of the bizarre electrical phenomenon was real and how much
was alcohol-induced hallucination. He edged cautiously across the slippery porch to the head of the steps that led
to the snow-covered front walk, and he leaned against a porch post, craning his head out to look up at the light-
shattered heavens.
A chain of thunderbolts made the front lawn and street appear to jump repeatedly as if that scene were a length of
motion picture film stuttering in a jammed projector. All color was burned out of the night, leaving only the dazzling
white of the lightning, the starless sky, the sparkling white of snow, and ink -black shuddering shadows.
As he stared in awe and fear at the freakish celestial display, another jagged crack opened in the heavens. The
earth-seeking tip of the hot bolt touched an iron streetlamp only sixty feet away, and Markwell cried out in fear. At
the moment of contact the night became incandescent, and the glass panes in the lamp exploded. The clap of
thunder vibrated in Markwells teeth; the porch floor rattled. The cold air instantly reeked of ozone and hot iron.
Silence, stillness, and darkness returned.
Markwell had swallowed the peppermint.
Astonished neighbors appeared on their porches along the street. Or perhaps they were present throughout the
tumult, and perhaps he saw them only when the comparative calm of an ordinary blizzard was restored. A few
trudged through the snow to have a closer look at the stricken streetlamp, the iron crown of which appeared half
melted. They called to one another and to Markwell, but he did not respond.
He had not been sobered by the terrifying exhibition. Afraid that neighbors would detect his drunkenness, he turned
away from the porch steps and went into the house.
Besides, he had no time to chat about the weather. He had a pregnant woman to treat, a baby to deliver.
Striving to regain control of himself, he took a wool scarf from the foyer closet, wound it around his neck, and
crossed the ends over his chest. His hands were trembling, and his fingers were slightly stiff, but he managed to
button his overc oat. Fighting dizziness, he pulled on a pair of galoshes.
He was gripped by the conviction that the incongruous lightning had some special meaning for him. A sign, an
omen. Nonsense. Just the whiskey confusing him. Yet the feeling remained as he went into the garage, put up the
door, and backed the car into the driveway, the chain-wrapped winter tires crunching and clinking softly in the
snow.
As he shifted the car into park, intending to get out and close the garage, someone rapped hard on the window
beside him. Startled, Markwell turned his head and saw a man bending down and peering at him through the glass.
The stranger was approximately thirty-five. His features were bold, well-formed. Even through the partly fogged
window he was a striking man. He was wearing a navy peacoat with the collar turned up. In the arctic air his nostrils
smoked, and when he spoke, the words were dressed in pale puffs of breath. "Dr. Markwell?" Markwell rolled down
the window. "Yes?" "Dr. Paul Markwell?"
"Yes, yes. Didn't I jus t say so? But I've no office hours here tonight, and I'm on my way to see a patient at the
hospital."
The stranger had unusually blue eyes that conjured in Markwell the image of a clear winter sky reflected in the
millimeter-thin ice of a just-freezing pond. They were arresting, quite beautiful, but he knew at once that they were
also the eyes of a dangerous man.
Before Markwell could throw the car into gear and reverse toward the street where help might be found, the man in
the peacoat thrust a pistol through the open window. "Don't do anything stupid." When the muzzle pressed into the
tender flesh under his chin, the physician realized with some surprise that he did not want to die. He had long
nursed the idea that he was ready to embrace death. Yet now, instead of welcoming the realization of his will to
live, he was guilt-stricken. To embrace life seemed a betrayal of the son with whom he could be joined only in
death.
"Kill the headlights, Doctor. Good. Now switch off the engine."


Markwell withdrew the key from the ignition. "Who are you?" "That's not important."
"It is to me. What do you want? What're you going to do to me?"
"Cooperate, and you won't be hurt. But try to get away, and I'll blow your damn head off, then empty the gun into
your dead body just for the hell of it." His voice was soft, inaptly pleasant, but full of conviction. "Give me the keys."
Markwell passed them through the open window.
"Now come out of there."
Slowly sobering, Markwell got out of the car. The vicious wind bit his face. He had to squint to keep the fine snow
out of his eyes.
"Before you close the door, roll up the window." The stranger crowded him, allowing no avenue of escape. "Okay,
very good. Now, Doctor, walk with me to the garage."
"This is crazy. What —"
"Move."
The stranger stayed at Markwell's side, holding him by the left arm. If someone was watching from a neighboring
house or from the street, the gloom and falling snow would conceal the gun.
In the garage, at the stranger's direction, Markwell pulled the big door shut. The cold, unoiled hinges squealed.
"If you want money —"
"Shut up and get in the house."
"Listen, a patient of mine is in labor at the county—"
"If you don't shut up, I'll use the butt of this pistol to smash every tooth in your head, and you won't be able to talk."
Markwell believed him. Six feet tall, about a hundred and eighty pounds, the man was Markwell's size but was
intimidating. His blond hair was frosted with melting snow, and as the droplets trickled down his brow and temples,
he appeared to be as devoid of humanity as an ice statue at a winter carnival. Markwell had no doubt that in a
physical confrontation the stranger in the peacoat would win handily against most adversaries, especially against
one middle-aged, out-of-shape, drunken physician.
Bob Shane felt claustrophobic in the cramped maternity-ward lounge provided for expectant fathers. The room had
a low acoustic-tile ceiling, drab green walls, and a single window rimed with frost. The air was too warm. The six
chairs and two end tables were too much furniture for the narrow space. He had an urge to push through the
double swinging doors into the corridor, race to the other end of the hospital, cross the main public lounge, and
break out into the cold night, where there was no stink of antiseptics or illness.
He remained in the maternity lounge, however, to be near to Janet if she needed him. Something was wrong. Labor
was supposed to be painful but not as agonizing as the brutal, extended contractions that Janet had endured for so
long. The physicians would not admit that serious complications had arisen, but their concern was apparent.
Bob understood the source of his claustrophobia. He was not actually afraid that the walls were closing in. What
was closing in was death, perhaps that of his wife or of his unborn child—or both.
The swinging doors opened inward, and Dr. Yamatta entered.
As he rose from his chair, Bob bumped the end table, scattering half a dozen magazines across the floor. "How is
she, Doc?"
"No worse." Yamatta was a short, slender man with a kind face and large, sad eyes. "Dr. Markwell will be here
shortly."
"You're not delaying her treatment until he arrives, are you?"
"No, no, of course not. She's getting good care. I just thought you'd be relieved to know that your own doctor is on
his way."
"Oh. Well, yeah . . . thank you. Listen, can I see her, Doc?"
"Not yet," Yamatta said.
"When?"
"When she's ... in less distress."
"What kind of answer's that? When will she be in less distress? When the hell will she come out of this?" He
instantly regretted the outburst. "I ... I'm sorry, Doc. It's just . . . I'm afraid."
"I know. I know."
An inside door connected Markwell's garage to the house. They crossed the kitchen and followed the first-floor
hallway, switching on lights as they went. Clumps of melting snow fell off their boots.
The gunman looked into the dining room, living room, study, medical office, and the patients' waiting room, then
said, "Upstairs."
In the master bedroom the stranger snapped on one of the lamps. He moved a straight-backed, needlepoint chair
away from the vanity and stood it in the middle of the room.
"Doctor, please take off your gloves, coat, and scarf."
Markwell obeyed, dropping the garments on the floor, and at the gunman's direction he sat in the chair.
The stranger put the pistol on the dresser and produced a coiled length of sturdy rope from one pocket. He reached
beneath his coat and withdrew a short, wide-bladed knife that was evidently kept in a sheath attached to his belt.
He cut the rope into pieces with which, no doubt, to bind Markwell to the chair.


The doctor stared at the pistol on the dresser, calculating his chances of reaching the weapon before the gunman
could get it. Then he met the stranger's winter-blue eyes and realized that his scheming was as transparent to his
adversary as a child's simple cunning was apparent to an adult.
The blond man smiled as if to say, Go ahead, go for it. Paul Markwell wanted to live. He remained docile and
compliant, as the intruder tied him, hand and foot, to the needlepoint chair.
Making the knots tight but not painfully so, the stranger seemed oddly concerned about his captive. "I don't want to
have to gag you. You're drunk, and with a rag jammed in your mouth, you might vomit, choke to death. So to some
extent I'm going to trust you. But if you cry out for help at any time, I'll kill you on the spot. Understand?"
"Yes."
When the gunman spoke more than a few words, he revealed a vague accent, so mild that Markwell could not
place it. He clipped the ends of some words, and occasionally his pronunciation had a guttural note that was barely
perceptible.
The stranger sat on the edge of the bed and put one hand on the telephone. "What's the number of the county
hospital?" Markwell blinked. "Why?"
' 'Damn it, I asked you the number. If you won't give it to me, I'd rather beat it out of you than look it up in the
directory." Chastened, Markwell gave him the number. "Who's on duty there tonight?" "Dr. Carlson. Herb Carlson."
"Is he a good man?" "What do you mean?"
"Is he a better doctor than you—or is he a lush too?" "I'm not a lush. I have—"
"You're an irresponsible, self-pitying, alcoholic wreck, and you know it. Answer my question, Doctor. Is Carlson
reliable?"
Markwell's sudden nausea resulted only partly from overindulgence in Scotch; the other cause was revulsion at the
truth of what the intruder had said. "Yeah, Herb Carlson's good. A very good doctor.”
''Who's the supervising nurse tonight?"
Markwell had to ponder that for a moment. "Ella Hanlow, I think. I'm not sure. If it isn't Ella, it's Virginia Keene."
The stranger called the county hospital and said he was speaking on behalf of Dr. Paul Markwell. He asked for Ella
Hanlow.
A blast of wind slammed into the house, rattling a loose window, whistling in the eaves, and Markwell was reminded
of the storm. As he watched the fast-falling snow at the window, he felt another gust of disorientation blow through
him. The night was so eve ntful—the lightning, the inexplicable intruder—that suddenly it did not seem real. He
pulled at the ropes that bound him to the chair, certain that they were fragments of a whiskey dream and would
dissolve like gossamer, but they held him fast, and the effort made him dizzy again.
At the phone the stranger said, "Nurse Hanlow? Dr. Markwell won't be able to come to the hospital tonight. One of
his patients here, Janet Shane, is having a difficult labor. Hmmmm? Yes, of course. He wants Dr. Carlson to handle
the delivery. No, no, I'm afraid he can't possibly make it. No, not the weather. He's drunk. That's right. He'd be a
danger to the patient. No ... he's so drunk, there's no point putting him on the line. Sorry. He's been drinking a lot
lately, trying to cover it, but tonight he's worse than usual. Hmmmm? I'm a neighbor. Okay. Thank you, Nurse
Hanlow. Goodbye."
Markwell was angry but also surprisingly relieved to have his secret revealed. "You bastard, you've ruined me."
"No, Doctor. You've ruined yourself. Self-hatred is destroying your career. And it drove your wife away from you.
The marriage was already troubled, sure, but it might've been saved if Lenny had lived, and it might even have
been saved after he died if you hadn't withdrawn into yourself so completely."
Markwell was astonished. "How the hell do you know what it was like with me and Anna? And how do you know
about Lenny? I've never met you before. How can you know anything about me?"
Ignoring the questions, the stranger piled two pillows against the padded headboard of the bed. He swung his wet,
dirty, booted feet onto the covers and stretched out. "No matter how you feel about it, losing your son wasn't your
fault. You're just a physician, not a miracle worker. But losing Anna was your fault. And what you've become—an
extreme danger to your patients—that's your fault too."
Markwell started to object, then sighed and let his head drop forward until his chin was on his chest.
"You know what your trouble is, Doctor?"
"I suppose you'll tell me."
"Your trouble is you never had to struggle for anything, never knew adversity. Your father was well-to-do, so you
got everything you wanted, went to the finest schools. And though you were successful in your practice, you never
needed the money—you had your inheritance. So when Lenny got polio, you didn't know how to deal with adversity
because you'd never had any practice. You hadn't been inoculated, so you had no resistance, and you got a bad
case of despair."
Lifting his head, blinking until his vision cleared, Markwell said, "I can't figure this."
"Through all this suffering, you've learned something, Markwell, and if you'll sober up long enough to think straight,
you might get back on track. You've still got a slim chance to redeem yourself."
"Maybe I don't want to redeem myself."
"I'm afraid that could be true. I think you're scared to die, but I don't know if you have the guts to go on living."


The doctor's breath was sour with stale peppermint and whiskey. His mouth was dry, and his tongue swollen. He
longed for a drink.
He halfheartedly tested the ropes that bound his hands to the chair. Finally, disgusted by the self-pitying whine in
his own voice but unable to regain his dignity, he said, "What do you want from me?"
"I want to prevent you from going to the hospital tonight. I want to be damn sure you don't deliver Janet Shane's
baby. You've become a butcher, a potential killer, and you have to be stopped this time."
Markwell licked his dry lips. "I still don't know who you are."
"And you never will, Doctor. You never will."
Bob Shane had never been so scared. He repressed his tears, for he had the superstitious feeling that revealing his
fear so openly would tempt the fates and insure Janet's and the baby's deaths.
He leaned forward in the waiting-room chair, bowed his head, and prayed silently: Lord, Janet could've done better
than me. She's so pretty, and I'm as homely as a rag rug. I'm just a grocer, and my corner store isn't ever going to
turn big profits, but she loves me. Lord, she's good, honest, humble . . . she doesn't deserve to die. Maybe You
want to take her 'cause she's already good enough for heaven. But I'm not good enough yet, and I need her to help
me be a better man.
One of the lounge doors opened.
Bob looked up.
Doctors Carlson and Yamatta entered in their hospital greens.
The sight of them frightened Bob, and he rose slowly from his chair.
Yamatta's eyes were sadder than ever.
Dr. Carlson was a tall, portly man who managed to look dignified even in his baggy hospital uniform. "Mr. Shane . . .
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but your wife died in childbirth."
Bob stood rock-still, as if the dreadful news had transformed his flesh to stone. He heard only part of what Carlson
said:
"... major uterine obstruction . . . one of those women not really designed to have children. She should never have
gotten pregnant. I'm sorry ... so sorry . . . everything we could . . . massive hemorrhaging . . . but the baby ..."
The word "baby" broke Bob's paralysis. He took a halting step toward Carlson. "What did you say about the baby?"
"It's a girl," Carlson said. "A healthy little girl."
Bob had thought everything was lost. Now he stared at Carlson, cautiously hopeful that a part of Janet had not died
and that he was not, after all, entirely alone in the world. "Really? A girl?"
"Yes," Carlson said. "She's an exceptionally beautiful baby. Born with a full head of dark brown hair."
Looking at Yamatta, Bob said, "My baby lived."
"Yes," Yamatta said. His poignant smile flickered briefly. "And you've got Dr. Carlson to thank. I'm afraid Mrs.
Shane never had a chance. In less experienced hands the baby might've been lost too."
Bob turned to Carlson, still afraid to believe. "The ... the baby lived, and that's something to be thankful for, anyway,
isn't it?"
The physicians stood in awkward silence. Then Yamatta put one hand on Bob Shane's shoulder, perhaps sensing
that the contact would comfort him.
Though Bob was five inches taller and forty pounds heavier than the diminutive doctor, he leaned against Yamatta.
Overcome with grief he wept, and Yamatta held him.
The stranger stayed with Markwell for another hour, though he spoke no more and would respond to none of
Markwells questions. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, so intent on his thoughts that he seldom moved.
As the doctor sobered, a throbbing headache began to torment him. As usual his hangover was an excuse for even
greater self-pity than that which had driven him to drink.
Eventually the intruder looked at his wristwatch. "Eleven-thirty. I'll be going now." He got off the bed, came to the
chair, and again drew the knife from beneath his coat.
Markwell tensed.
"I'm going to saw partway through your ropes, Doctor. If you struggle with them for half an hour or so, you'll be able
to free yourself. Which gives me time enough to get out of here."
As the man stooped behind the chair and set to work, Markwell expected to feel the blade slip between his ribs.
But in less than a minute the stranger put the knife away and went to the bedroom door. "You do have a chance to
redeem yourself, Doctor. I think you're too weak to do it, but I hope I'm wrong."
Then he walked out.
For ten minutes, as Markwell struggled to free himself, he heard occasional noises downstairs. Evidently the
intruder was searching for valuables. Although he had seemed mysterious, perhaps he was nothing but a burglar
with a singularly odd modus operandi.
Markwell finally broke loose at twenty-five past midnight. His wrists were severely abraded, bleeding.
Though he had not heard a sound from the first floor in half an hour, he took his pistol from the nightstand drawer
and descended the stairs with caution. He went to his office in the professional wing, where he expected to find
drugs missing from his medical supplies; neither of the two tall, white cabinets had been touched.


He hurried into his study, convinced that the flimsy wall safe had been opened. The safe was unbreached.
Baffled, turning to leave, he saw empty whiskey, gin, tequila, and vodka bottles piled in the bar sink. The intruder
had paused only to locate the liquor supply and pour it down the drain.
A note was taped to the bar mirror. The intruder had printed his message in neat block letters:
IF YOU DON'T STOP DRINKING, IF YOU DON'T LEARN TO ACCEPT LENNY'S DEATH, YOU WILL PUT A GUN
IN YOUR MOUTH AND BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT WITHIN ONE YEAR. THIS IS NOT A PREDICTION. THIS IS
A FACT.
Clutching the note and the gun, Markwell looked around the empty room, as if the stranger was still there, unseen,
a ghost that could choose at will between visibility and invisibility. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Who the hell are
you?"
Only the wind at the window answered him, and its mournful moan had no meaning that he could discern.
At eleven o'clock the next morning, after an early meeting with the funeral director regarding Janet's body, Bob
Shane returned to the county hospital to see his newborn daughter. After he donned a cotton gown, a cap, and a
surgical mask, and after thoroughly scrubbing his hands under a nurse's direction, he was permitted into the
nursery, where he gently lifted Laura from her cradle.
Nine other newborns shared the room. All of them were cute in one way or another, but Bob did not believe he was
unduly prejudiced in his judgment that Laura Jean was the cutest of the crop. Although the popular image of an
angel required blue eyes and blond hair, and though Laura had brown eyes and hair, she was nevertheless angelic
in appearance. During the ten minutes that he held her, she did not cry; she blinked, squinted, rolled her eyes,
yawned. She looked pensive, too, as if perhaps she knew that she was motherless and that she and her father had
only each other in a cold, difficult world.
A viewing window, through which relatives could see the newborns, filled one wall. Five people were gathered at
the glass. Four were smiling, pointing, and making funny faces to entertain the babies.
The fifth was a blond man wearing a navy peacoat and standing with his hands in his pockets. He did not smile or
point or make faces. He was staring at Laura.
After a few minutes during which the stranger's gaze did not shift from the child, Bob bec ame concerned. The guy
was good looking and clean-cut, but there was a hardness in his face, too, and some quality that could not be put
into words but that made Bob think this was a man who had seen and done terrible things.
He began to remember sensational tabloid stories of kidnappers, babies being sold on the black market. He told
himself that he was paranoid, imagining a danger where none existed because, having lost Janet, he was now
worried about losing his daughter as well. But the longer the blond man studied Laura, the more uneasy Bob
became.
As if sensing that uneasiness, the man looked up. They stared at each other. The stranger's blue eyes were
unusually bright, intense. Bob's fear deepened. He held his daughter closer, as if the stranger might smash through
the nursery window to seize her. He considered calling one of the creche nurses and suggesting that she speak to
the man, make inquiries about him.
Then the stranger smiled. His was a broad, warm, genuine smile that transformed his face. In an instant he no
longer looked sinister but friendly. He winked at Bob and mouthed one word through the thick glass: "Beautiful."
Bob relaxed, smiled, realized his smile could not be seen behind his mask, and nodded a thank you.
The stranger looked once more at Laura, winked at Bob again, and walked away from the window.
Later, after Bob Shane had gone home for the day, a tall man in dark clothing approached the creche window. His
name was Kokoschka. He studied the infants; then his field of vision shifted, and he became aware of his colorless
reflection in the polished glass. He had a broad, flat face with sharp-edged features, lips so thin and hard that they
seemed to be made of horn. A two-inch dueling scar marked his left cheek. His dark eyes had no depth, as if they
were painted ceramic spheres, much like the cold eyes of a shark cruising in shadowy ocean trenches. He was
amused to realize how starkly his face contrasted to the innocent visages of the cradled babies beyond the window;
he smiled, a rare ex pression for him, which imparted no warmth to his face but actually made him appear more
threatening.
He looked beyond his reflection again. He had no trouble finding Laura Shane among the swaddled infants, for the
surname of each child was printed on a card and affixed to the back of his or her cradle.
Why is there such interest in you, Laura? he wondered. Why is your life so important? Why all this energy
expended to see that you are brought safely into the world? Should I kill you now and put an end to the traitor's
scheme?
He'd be able to murder her without compunction. He had killed children before, though none quite so young as this.
No crime was too terrible if it furthered the cause to which he had devoted his life.
The babe was sleeping. Now and then her mouth worked, and her tiny face briefly wrinkled, as perhaps she
dreamed of the womb with regret and longing.
At last he decided not to kill her. Not yet.
"I can always eliminate you later, little one," he murmured. "When I understand what part you play in the traitor's
plans, then I can kill you."


Kokoschka walked away from the window. He knew he would not see the girl again for more than eight years.
In southern California rain falls rarely in the spring, summer, and autumn. The true rainy season us ually begins in
December and ends in March. But on Saturday the second of April, 1963, the sky was overcast, and humidity was
high. Holding open the front door of his small, neighborhood grocery in Santa Ana, Bob Shane decided that the
prospects were good for one last big downpour of the season.
The ficus trees in the yard of the house across the street and the date palm on the corner were motionless in the
dead air and seemed to droop as if with the weight of the oncoming storm.
By the cash register, the radio was turned low. The Beach Boys were singing their new hit "Surfin' U.S.A."
Considering the weather, their tune was as appropriate as "White Christmas" sung in July.
Bob looked at his watch: three-fifteen.
There'll be rain by three-thirty, he thought, and a lot of it.
Business had been good during the morning, but the afternoon had been slow. At the moment no shoppers were in
the store.
The family-owned grocery faced new, deadly competition from convenience store chains like 7-Eleven. He was
planning to shift to a deli-style operation, offering more fresh foods, but was delaying as long as possible because a
deli required considerably more work.
If the oncoming storm was bad he would have few customers the rest of the day. He might close early and take
Laura to a movie.
Turning from the door, he said, "Better get the boat, doll."
Laura was kneeling at the head of the first aisle, across from the cash register, absorbed in her work. Bob had
carried four cartons of canned soup from the stockroom, then Laura had taken over. She was only eight years old,
but she was a reliable kid, and she liked to help out around the store. After stamping the correct price on each of
the cans, she stacked them on the shelves, remembering to cycle the merchandise, putting the new soup behind
the old.
She looked up reluctantly. "Boat? What boat?"
"Upstairs in the apartment. The boat in the closet. From the look of the sky, we're going to need it to get around
later today."
"Silly," she said. "We don't have a boat in the closet."
He walked behind the checkout counter. "Nice little blue boat."
"Yeah? In a closet? Which closet?"
He began to clip packages of Slim Jims to the metal display rack beside the snack pack crackers. "The library
closet, of course."
"We don't have a library."
"We don't? Oh. Well, now that you mention it, the boat isn't in the library. It's in the closet in the toad's room."
She giggled. "What toad?"
"Why, you mean to tell me that you don't know about the toad?"
Grinning, she shook her head.
"As of today we are renting a room to a fine, upstanding toad from England. A gentleman toad who's here on the
queen's business."
Lightning flared and thunder rumbled through the April sky. On the radio, static crackled through The Cascades'
"Rhythm of the Rain."
Laura paid no attention to the storm. She was not frightened of things that scared most kids. She was so self-
confident and self-contained that sometimes she seemed to be an old lady masquerading as a child. "Why would
the queen let a toad handle her business?"
"To ads are excellent businessmen," he said, opening one of the Slim Jims and taking a bite. Since Janet's death,
since moving to California to start over, he had put on fifty pounds. He had never been a handsome man. Now at
thirty-eight he was pleasantly round, with little chance of turning a woman's head. He was not a great success,
either; no one got rich operating a corner grocery. But he didn't care. He had Laura, and he was a good father, and
she loved him with all her heart, as he loved her, so what the rest of the world might think of him was of no
consequence. "Yes, toads are excellent businessmen indeed. And this toad's family has served the crown for
hundreds of years. In fact he's been knighted. Sir Thomas Toad."
Lightning crackled brighter than before. The thunder was louder as well.
Having finished stocking the soup shelves, Laura rose from her knees and wiped her hands on the white apron that
she was wearing over T-shirt and jeans. She was lovely; with her thick, brown hair and large, brown eyes, she bore
more than a passing resemblance to her mother. "And how much rent is Sir Thomas Toad paying?"
"Six pence a week."
"Is he in the room next to mine?"
"Yes, the room with the boat in the closet."
She giggled again. "Well, he better not snore."
"He said the same of you."


A battered, rusted Buick pulled up in front of the store, and as the driver's door opened, a third thunderbolt blasted a
hole in the darkening sky. The day was filled with molten light that appeared to flow liquidly along the street outside,
sprayed lavalike over the park ed Buick and the passing cars. The accompanying thunder shook the building from
roof to foundation, as though the stormy heavens were reflected in the land below, precipitating an earth quake.
"Wow!" Laura said, moving fearlessly toward the windows.
Though no rain had fallen yet, wind suddenly swept in from the west, harrying leaves and litter before it.
The man who got out of the decrepit, blue Buick was looking at the sky in astonishment.
Bolt after bolt of lightning pierced the clouds, seared the air, cast their blazing images in windows and automobile
chrome, and with each flash came thunder that struck the day with god-size fists.
The lightning spooked Bob. When he called to Laura — "Honey, get away from the windows"—she rushed behind
the counter and let him put an arm around her, probably more for his comfort than hers.
The man from the Buick hurried into the store. Looking out at the fulminous sky, he said, "You see that, man?
Whew!"
The thunder faded; silence returned.
Rain fell. Fat droplets at first struck the windows without much force then came in blinding torrents that blurred the
world beyond the small shop.
The customer turned and smiled. "Some show, huh?"
Bob started to respond but fell silent when he took a clos er look at the man, sensing trouble as a deer might sense
a stalking wolf. The guy was wearing scuffed engineer boots, dirty jeans, and a stained windbreaker half zipped
over a soiled white T-shirt. His windblown hair was oily, and his face was shaded with beard stubble. He had
bloodshot, fevered eyes. A junkie. Approaching the counter, he drew a revolver from his windbreaker, and the gun
was no surprise.
"Gimme what's in the register, asshole."
"Sure."
"Make it quick."
"Just take it easy."
The junkie licked his pale, cracked lips. "Don't hold out on me, asshole."
"Okay, okay, sure. You got it," Bob said, trying to push Laura behind him with one hand.
"Leave the girl so I can see her! I want to see her. Now, right now, get her the fuck out from behind you!"
"Okay, just cool off."
The guy was strung out as taut as a dead man's grin, and his entire body vibrated visibly. "Right where I can see
her. And don't you reach for nothin' but the cash register, don't you go reachin' for no gun, or I'll blow your fuckin'
head off."
"I don't have a gun," Bob assured him. He glanced at the rain-washed windows, hoping that no other customers
would arrive while the holdup was in progress. The junkie seemed so unstable that he might shoot anyone who
walked through the door.
Laura tried to ease behind her father, but the junkie said, "Hey, don't move!"
Bob said, "She's only eight—"
"She's a bitch, they're all fuckin' bitches no matter how big or little." His shrill voice cracked repeatedly. He sounded
even more frightened than Bob was, which scared Bob more than anything else.
Though he was focused intently on the junkie and the revolver, Bob was also crazily aware that the radio was
playing Skeeter Davis singing "The End of the World," which struck him as uncomfortably prophetic. With the
excusable superstition of a man being held at gunpoint, he wished fervently that the song would conclude before it
magically precipitated the end of his and Laura's world.
"Here's the money, here's all of it, take it."
Scooping the cash off the counter and stuffing it into a pocket of his dirty windbreaker, the man said, "You got a
storeroom in back?"
"Why?"
With one arm the junkie angrily swept the Slim Jims, Life Savers, crackers, and chewing gum off the counter onto
the floor. He thrust the gun at Bob. "You got a storeroom, asshole, I know you do. We're gonna go back there in the
storeroom."
Bob's mouth was suddenly dry. "Listen, take the money and go. You got what you want. Just go. Please."
Grinning, more confident now that he had the money, emboldened by Bob's fear but still visibly trembling, the
gunman said, "Don't worry, I ain't gonna kill no one. I'm a lover not a killer. All I want's a piece of that little bitch, and
then I'm out of here."
Bob cursed himself for not having a gun. Laura was clinging to him, trusting in him, but he could do nothing to save
her. On the way to the storeroom, he'd lunge at the junkie, try to grab the revolver. He was overweight, out of
shape. Unable to move fast enough, he would be shot in the gut and left to die on the floor, while the filthy bastard
took Laura into the back room and raped her.
"Move," the junkie said impatiently. "Now!"


A gun fired, Laura screamed, and Bob pulled her tight against him, sheltering her, but it was the junkie who had
been shot. The bullet struck his left temple, blowing out part of his skull, and he went down hard atop the Slim Jims
and crackers and chewing gum that he had knocked off the counter, dead so instantaneously that he did not even
reflexively pull the trigger of his own revolver.
Stunned, Bob looked to his right and saw a tall, blond man with a pistol. Evidently he had entered the building
through the rear service door and had crept silently through the storage room. Upon entering the grocery he had
shot the junkie without warning. As he stared at the dead body, he looked cool, dispassionate, as if he were an
experienced executioner.
"Thank God," Bob said, "police."
"I'm not the police." The man wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a dark gray jacket under which a shoulder holster
was visible.
Bob was confused, wondering if their rescuer was another thief about to take over where the junkie had been
violently interrupted.
The stranger looked up from the corpse. His eyes were pure blue, intense, and direct.
Bob was sure that he had seen the guy before, but he could not remember where or when.
The stranger looked at Laura. "You all right, sweetheart?"
"Yes," she said, but she clung to her father.
The pungent odor of urine rose from the dead man, for he had lost control of his bladder at the moment of death.
The stranger crossed the room, stepping around the corpse, and engaged the dead-bolt lock on the front door. He
pulled down the shade. He looked worriedly at the big display windows over which flowed a continuous film of rain,
distorting the stormy afternoon beyond. "No way to cover those, I guess. We'll just have to hope nobody comes
along and looks in."
"What're you going to do to us?" Bob asked.
"Me? Nothing. I'm not like that creep. I don't want anything from you. I just locked the door so we could work out the
story you're going to have to tell the police. We have to get it straight before anyone walks in here and sees the
body."
"Why do I need a story?"
Stooping beside the corpse, the stranger took a set of car keys and the wad of money from the pockets of the
bloodstained windbreaker. Rising again, he said, "Okay, what you have to tell them is that there were two gunmen.
This one wanted Laura, but the other was sickened by the idea of raping a little girl, and he just wanted to get out.
So they argued, it got nasty, the other one shot this bastard and skipped with the money. Can you make that sound
right?"
Bob was reluctant to believe that he and Laura had been spared.
With one arm he held his daughter tightly against him. "I ... I don't understand. You weren't really with him. You're
not in trouble for killing him—after all, he was going to kill us. So why don't we just tell them the truth?"
Stepping to the end of the checkout counter, returning the money to Bob, the man said, "And what is the truth?"
"Well . . . you happened along and saw the robbery in progress—"
"I didn't just happen along, Bob. I've been watching over you and Laura." Slipping his pistol into his shoulder
holster, the man looked down at Laura. She stared at him wide-eyed. He smiled and whispered, "Guardian angel."
Not believing in guardian angels, Bob said, "Watching over us? From where, how long, why?"
In a voice colored by urgency and by a vague, unplaceable accent that Bob heard for the first time, the stranger
said, "Can't tell you that." He glanced at the rain-washed windows. "And I can't afford to be questioned by police.
So you've got to get this story straight.''
Bob said, "Where do I know you from?"
"You don't know me."
"But I'm sure I've seen you before."
"You haven't. You don't need to know. Now for God's sake, hide that money and leave the register empty; it'll seem
odd if the second man left without what he came for. I'll take his Buick, abandon it in a few blocks, so you can give
the cops a description of it. Give them a description of me, too. It won't matter."
Thunder rumbled outside, but it was low and distant, not like the explosions with which the storm had begun.
The humid air thickened as the slower-spreading, coppery scent of blood mixed with the stench of urine.
Queasy, leaning on the counter but still holding Laura at his side, Bob said, "Why can't I just tell them how you
interrupted the robbery, shot the guy, and didn't want publicity, so you left?"
Impatient, the stranger raised his voice. "An armed man just happens to stroll by while the robbery's in progress
and decides to be a hero? The cops won't believe a cockeyed story like that."
"That's what happened—"
"But they won't buy it! Listen, they'll start thinking maybe you shot the junkie. Since you don't own a gun, at least
not according to public record, they'll wonder if maybe it was an illegal weapon and if you disposed of it after you
shot this guy, then cooked up a crazy story about some Lone Ranger type walking in and saving your ass."
"I'm a respectable businessman with a good reputation."


In the stranger's eyes a peculiar sadness arose, a haunted look. "Bob, you're a nice man . . . but you're a little naive
sometimes."
"What're you—"
The stranger held up a hand to silenc e him. ' 'In a crunch a man's reputation never counts for as much as it ought
to. Most people are good-hearted and willing to give a man the benefit of the doubt, but the poisonous few are
eager to see others brought down, ruined." His voice had fallen to a whisper, and although he continued to look at
Bob, he seemed to be seeing other places, other people. "Envy, Bob. Envy eats them alive. If you had money,
they'd envy you that. But since you don't, they envy you for having such a good, bright, loving daughter. They envy
you for just being a happy man. They envy you for not envying them. One of the greatest sorrows of human
existence is that some people aren't happy merely to be alive but find their happiness only in the misery of others."
The charge of naiveté was one that Bob could not refute, and he knew the stranger spoke the truth. He shivered.
After a moment of silence, the man's haunted expression gave way to a look of urgency again. "And when the cops
decide you're lying about the Lone Ranger who saved you, then they'll begin to wonder if maybe the junkie wasn't
here to rob you at all, if maybe you knew him, had a falling out with him over something, even planned his murder
and tried to make it look like a robbery. That's how cops think, Bob. Even if they can't pin this on you, they'll try so
hard that they'll make a mess of your life. Do you want to put Laura through that?''
"No."
"Then do it my way."
Bob nodded. "I will. Your way. But who the hell are you?"
"That doesn't matter. We don't have time for it anyway." He stepped behind the counter and stooped in front of
Laura, face to face with her. "Did you understand what I told your father? If the police ask you what happened—"
"You were with that man," she said, pointing in the general direction of the corpse.
"That's right."
"You were his friend," she said, "but then you started arguing about me, though I'm not sure why, 'cause I didn't do
anything—''
"It doesn't matter why, honey," the stranger said.
Laura nodded. "And the next thing you shot him and ran out with all our money and drove away, and I was very
scared."
The man looked up at Bob. "Eight years old, huh?"
"She's a smart girl."
"But it'd still be best if the cops didn't question her much."
"I won't let them."
"If they do," Laura said, "I'll just cry and cry till they stop."
The stranger smiled. He stared at Laura so lovingly that he made Bob uneasy. His manner was not that of the
pervert who had wanted to take her into the storeroom; his expression was tender, affectionate. He touched her
cheek. Astonishingly, tears shimmered in his eyes. He blinked, stood. "Bob, put that money away. Remember, I left
with it."
Bob realized the wad of cash was still in his hand. He jammed it into his pants pocket, and his loose apron
concealed the bulge.
The stranger unlocked the door and put up the shade. "Take care of her, Bob. She's special." Then he dashed into
the rain, letting the door stand open behind him, and got into the Buick. The tires squealed as he pulled out of the
parking lot.
The radio was on, but Bob heard it for the first time since "The End of the World" had been playing, before the
junkie had been shot. Now Shelley Fabares was singing "Johnny Angel."
Suddenly he heard the rain again, not just as a dull background hiss and patter but really heard it, beating furiously
on the windows and on the roof of the apartment above. In spite of the wind rushing through the open door, the
stink of blood and urine was abruptly far worse than it had been a moment ago, and just as precipitously, as if
coming out of a trance of terror and regaining his full senses, he realized how close his precious Laura had come to
dying. He scooped her into" his arms, lifted her off the floor, and held her, repeating her name, smoothing her hair.
He buried his face against her neck and smelled the sweet freshness of her skin, felt the pulse of the artery in her
throat, and thanked God that she was alive.
"I love you, Laura."
"I love you, too, Daddy. I love you because of Sir Tommy Toad and a million other reasons. But we've got to call the
police now."
"Yes, of course," he said, reluctantly putting her down.
His eyes were full of tears. He was so unnerved that he could not recall where the telephone was.
Laura had already taken the handset off the hook. She held it out to him. "Or I can call them, Daddy. The number's
right here on the phone. Do you want me to call them?"
"No. I'll do it, baby." Blinking back tears, he took the phone from her and sat on the old wooden stool behind the
cash register.


She put one hand on his arm, as if she knew he needed her touch.
Janet had been emotionally strong. But Laura's strength and self-possession were unusual for her age, and Bob
Shane was not sure where they came from. Maybe being motherless made her self-reliant.
"Daddy?" Laura said, tapping the phone with one finger. "The police, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," he said. Trying not to gag on the odor of death that permeated the store, he dialed the police
emergency number.
Kokoschka sat in a car across the street from Bob Shane's small grocery, thoughtfully fingering the scar on his
cheek.
The rain had stopped. The police had gone. Neon shop signs and lampposts lit at nightfall, but the macadam
streets glistened darkly in spite of that illumination, as if the pavement absorbed the light instead of reflecting it.
Kokoschka had arrived in the neighborhood simultaneously with Stefan, the blond and blue-eyed traitor. He had
heard the shooting, had seen Stefan flee in the dead man's car, had joined the crowd of onlookers when the police
arrived, and had learned most of the details of what had happened in the store.
He had, of course, seen through Bob Shane's preposterous story about Stefan having been merely a second thief.
Stefan was not their assailant but their self-appointed guardian, and he had no doubt lied to cover his true identity.
Laura had been saved again.
But why?
Kokoschka tried to imagine what part the girl could possibly play in the traitor's plans, but he was stumped. He
knew nothing would be gained by interrogating the girl, for she was too young to have been told anything useful.
The reason for her rescue would be as much a mystery to her as it was to Kokoschka.
He was sure that her father knew nothing, either. The girl was obviously the one who interested Stefan, not the
father, so Bob Shane would not have been made privy to Stefan's origins or intentions.
Finally Kokoschka drove several blocks to a restaurant, had dinner, then returned to the grocery well after nightfall.
He parked on the side street, in the shadows under the expansive fronds of a date palm. The store was dark, but
lights shone at the windows of the second-floor apartment.
From a deep pocket of his raincoat, he withdrew a revolver. It was a snub-nosed Colt Agent .38, compact but
powerful. Kokoschka admired well-designed and well-made weapons, and he especially liked the feel of this gun in
his hand: this was Death himself imprisoned in steel.
Kokoschka could cut the Shanes' phone wires, quietly force entry, kill the girl and her father, and slip away before
police responded to the shots. He had a talent and affinity for that kind of work.
But if he killed them without knowing why he was killing them, without understanding what role they played in
Stefan's schemes, he might later discover that eliminating them was a mistake. He had to know Stefan's purpose
before acting.
Reluctantly he put the revolver in his pocket.
In the windless night, rain fell straight down on the city, as if every droplet was enormously heavy. It drummed
noisily on the roof and windshield of the small, black car.
At one o'clock in the morning on that Tuesday in late March, the rainswept streets, flooded at some intersections,
were generally deserted but for military vehicles. Stefan chose an indirect route to the institute to avoid known
inspection stations, but he was afraid of encountering an impromptu checkpoint. His papers were in order, and his
security clearance exempted him from the new curfew. Nevertheless he preferred not to come under the scrutiny of
military police. He could not afford to have the car searched, for the suitcase in the back seat contained copper
wire, detonators, and plastic explosives not legally in his possession.
Because his breath fogged the windshield, because rain obscured the eerily dark city, because the car's wipers
were worn, and because the hooded headlights illuminated a limited field of vision, he almost missed the narrow,
cobblestone street that led behind the institute. He braked, turned the wheel sharply. The sedan took the corner
with a shudder and a squeal of tires, sliding slightly on the slick cobbles.
He parked in darkness near the rear entrance, got out of the car, and took the suitcase from the back seat. The
institute was a drab, four-story brick building with heavily barred windows. An air of menace hung about the place,
though it did not look as if it harbored secrets that would radically change the world. The metal door had concealed
hinges and was painted black. He pushed the button, heard the buzzer ring inside, and waited nervously for a
response.
He was wearing rubber boots and a trenchcoat with the collar turned up, but he had neither a hat nor an umbrella.
The cold rain pasted his hair to his skull and drizzled down the nape of his neck.
Shivering, he looked at a slit window that was set in the wall beside the door. It was six inches wide, a foot high,
with glass that was mirrored from outside, transparent from inside.
He patiently listened to the rain beating on the car, splashing in puddles, and gurgling in a nearby downspout. With
a cold sizzle it struck the leaves of plane trees at the curb.
A light came on above the door. It was in a cone-shaped shade, the yellow glow tightly contained and directed
straight down on him.
Stefan smiled at the mirrored observation window, at the guard he could not see.


The light went out, the lock bolts clattered open, and the door swung inward. He knew the guard: Viktor something,
a stout, fiftyish man with close-cropped gray hair and steel-rimmed spectacles, who was more pleasant -tempered
than he looked and was in fact a mother hen who worried about the health of friends and acquaintances.
"Sir, what are you doing out at this hour, in this downpour?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Dreadful weather. Come in, in! You'll catch cold for sure."
"Kept worrying about work I'd left undone, so I thought I might as well come in and do it."
"You'll work yourself into an early grave, sir. Truly you will."
As Stefan stepped into the antechamber and watched the guard close the door, he searched his memory for a
scrap of knowledge about Viktor's personal life. "From the look of you, I guess your wife still makes those incredible
noodle dishes you've told me about."
Turning from the door, Viktor laughed softly, patted his belly. "I swear, she's employed by the devil to lead me into
sin, primarily gluttony. What's that, sir, a suitcase? Are you moving in?"
Wiping rain from his face with one hand, Stefan said, "Research data. Took it home weeks ago, been working on it
evenings."
"Have you no private life at all?"
"I get twenty minutes for myself every second Thursday."
Viktor clucked his tongue disapprovingly. He stepped to the desk that occupied a third of the floor space in the
small room, picked up the phone, and called the other night guard, who was stationed in a similar antechamber at
the front entrance to the institute. When anyone was let in after hours, the admitting guard always alerted his
colleague at the other end of the building, in part to avoid false alarms and perhaps the accidental shooting of an
innocent visitor.
Dripping rain on the worn carpet runner, fishing a set of keys from his trenchcoat pocket, Stefan went to the inner
door. Like the outer portal, it was made of steel with concealed hinges. However, it could be unlocked only with two
keys turned in tandem—one belonging to an authorized employee, the other carried by the guard on duty. The work
being conducted at the institute was so extraordinary and secret that even the night watchmen could not be trusted
to have access to the labs and file rooms.
Viktor put down the phone. "How long are you staying, sir?"
"A couple of hours. Is anyone else working tonight?"
"No. You're the only martyr. And no one truly appreciates martyrs, sir. You'll work yourself to death, I swear, and for
what? Who'll care?"
"Eliot wrote: 'Saints and martyrs rule from the tomb.' "
"Eliot? He a poet or something?"
"T. S. Eliot, a poet, yes."
" 'Saints and martyrs rule from the tomb'? I don't know about that fellow. Doesn't sound like an approved poet. Sounds
subversive. " Viktor laughed warmly, apparently amused by the ridiculous notion that his hard-working friend could
be a traitor.
Together they opened the inner door.
Stefan lugged the suitcase of explosives into the institute's ground floor hallway, where he switched on the lights.
' 'If you're going to make a habit of working in the middle of the night," Viktor said, "I'll bring you one of my wife's
cakes to give you energy."
"Thank you, Viktor, but I hope not to make a habit of this."
The guard closed the metal door. The lock bolt clanked shut automatically.
Alone in the hallway Stefan thought, not for the first time, that he was fortunate in his appearance: blond, strong-
featured, blue-eyed. His looks partly explained why he could brazenly carry explosives into the institute without
expecting to be searched. Nothing about him was dark, sly, or suspect; he was the ideal, angelic when he smiled,
and his devotion to country would never be questioned by men like Viktor, men whose blind obedience to the state
and whose beery, sentimental patriotism prevented them from thinking clearly about a lot of things. A lot of things.
He rode the elevator to the third floor and went directly to his office where he turned on a brass, gooseneck lamp.
After removing his rubber boots and trenchcoat, he selected a manila folder from the file cabinet and arranged its
contents across the desk to create a convincing impression that work was underway. In the unlikely event that
another staff member decided to put in an appearance in the heart of the night, as much as possible must be done
to allay suspicion.
Carrying the suitcase and a flashlight that he had taken from an inner pocket of his trenchcoat, he climbed the
stairs past the fourth floor and ascended all the way to the attic. The flashlight revealed huge timbers from which a
few misdriven nails bristled here and there. Though the attic had a rough wood floor, it was not used for storage
and was empty of all but a film of gray dust and spiderwebs. The space under the highly pitched slate roof was
sufficient to allow him to stand erect along the center of the building, though he would have to drop to his hands
and knees when he worked closer to the eaves.
With the roof only inches away, the steady roar of the rain was as thunderous as the flight of an endless fleet of


bombers crossing low overhead. That image came to mind perhaps because he believed that exactly such
ruination would be the inevitable fate of his city.
He opened the suitcase. Working with the speed and confidence of a demolitions expert, he placed the bricks of
plastic explosives and shaped each charge to direct the power of the explosion downward and inward. The blast
must not merely blow the roof off but pulverize the middle floors and bring the heavy roof slates and timbers
crashing down through the debris to cause further destruction. He secreted the plastique among the rafters and in
the corners of the long room, even pried up a couple of floorboards and left explosives under them.
Outside, the storm briefly abated. But soon more ominous peals of thunder rolled across the night, and the rain
returned, falling harder than before. The long-delayed wind arrived, too, keening along the gutters and moaning
under the eaves; its strange, hollow voice seemed simultaneously to threaten and mourn the city.
Chilled by the unheated attic air, he conducted his delicate work with increasingly tremulous hands. Though
shivering, he broke out in a sweat.
He inserted a detonator in every charge and strung wire from all the charges to the northwest corner of the attic. He
braided them to a single copper line and dropped it down a ventilation chase that went all the way to the basement.
The charges and wire were as well concealed as possible and would not be spotted by someone who merely
opened the attic door for a quick look. But on closer inspection or if the space was needed for storage, the wires
and molded plastique surely would be noticed.
He needed twenty-four hours during which no one would go into the attic. That wasn't much to ask, considering that
he was the only one who had visited the institute's garret in months.
Tomorrow night he would return with a second suitcase and plant charges in the basement. Crushing the building
between simultaneous explosions above and below was the only way to be certain of reducing it—and its
contents—to splinters, gravel, and twisted scraps. After the blast and accompanying fire, no files must remain to
rekindle the dangerous research now conducted there.
The great quantity of explosives, although carefully placed and shaped, would damage structures on all sides of the
institute, and he was afraid that other people, some of them no doubt innocent, would be killed in the blast. Those
deaths could not be avoided. He dared not use less plastique, for if every file and every duplicate of every file
throughout the institute were not utterly destroyed, the project might be quickly relaunched. And this was a project
that must be brought to an end swiftly, for the hope of all mankind hinged on its destruction. If innocent people
perished, he would just have to live with the guilt.
In two hours, at a few minutes past three o'clock, he finished his work in the attic.
He returned to his office on the third floor and sat for a while behind his desk. He did not want to leave until his
sweat -soaked hair had dried and he had stopped trembling, for Viktor might notice.
He closed his eyes. In his mind he summoned Laura's face. He could always calm himself with thoughts of her. The
mere fact of her existence brought him peace and greater courage.
Bob Shane's friends did not want Laura to attend her father's funeral. They believed that a twelve-year-old girl
ought to be spared such a grim ordeal. She insisted, however, and when she wanted anything as badly as she
wanted to say one last goodbye to her father, no one could thwart her.
That Thursday, July 24, 1967, was the worst day of her life, even more distressing than the preceding Tuesday
when her father had died. Some of the anesthetizing shock had worn off, and Laura no longer felt numb; her
emotions were closer to the surface and less easily controlled. She was beginning to realize fully how much she
had lost.
She chose a dark blue dress because she did not own a black one. She wore black shoes and dark blue socks,
and she worried about the socks because they made her feel childish, frivolous. Having never worn nylons,
however, she didn't think it a good idea to don them for the first time at the funeral. She expected her father to look
down from heaven during the service, and she intended to be just the way he remembered her. If he saw her in
nylons, a changeling striving awkwardly to be grown up, he might be embarrassed for her.
At the funeral home she sat in the front row between Cora Lance, who owned a beauty shop half a block from
Shane's Grocery, and Anita Passadopolis, who had done charity work with Bob at St. Andrew's Presbyterian
Church. Both were in their late fifties, grandmotherly types who touched Laura reassuringly and watched her with
concern.
They did not need to worry about her. She would not cry, become hysterical, or tear out her hair. She understood
death. Everyone had to die. People died, dogs died, cats died, birds died, flowers died. Even the ancient redwood
trees died sooner or later, though they lived twenty or thirty times longer than a person, which didn't seem right. On
the other hand, living a thousand years as a tree would be a lot duller than living just forty-two years as a happy
human being. Her father had been forty-two when his heart failed—bang, a sudden attack—which was too young.
But that was the way of the world, and crying about it was pointless. Laura prided herself on her sensibleness.
Besides, death was not the end of a person. Death was actually only the beginning. Another and better life
followed. She knew that must be true because her father had told her so, and her father never lied. Her father was
the most truthful man, and kind, and sweet.
As the minister approached the lectern to the left of the casket, Cora Lance leaned close to Laura. "Are you okay,


dear?"
"Yes. I'm fine," she said, but she did not look at Cora. She dared not meet anyone's eyes, so she studied inanimate
things with great interest.
This was the first funeral home she had ever entered, and she did not like it. The burgundy carpet was ridiculously
thick. The drapes and upholstered chairs were burgundy, too, with only minimal gold trim, and the lamps had
burgundy shades, so all the rooms appeared to have been decorated by an obsessed interior designer with a
burgundy fetish.
Fetish was a new word for her. She used it too much, just as she always overused a new word, but in this case it
was appropriate.
Last month, when she'd first heard the lovely word "seques tered," meaning "secluded or isolated," she had used it
at every opportunity, until her father had begun to tease her with silly variations: "Hey, how's my little sequestrian
this morning?" he would say, or "Potato chips are a high turnover item, so we'll shift them into the first aisle, closer
to the register, 'cause the corner they're in now is sort of sequesteriacious." He enjoyed making her giggle. as with
his tales of Sir Tommy Toad, a British amphibian he had invented when she was eight years old and whose comic
biography he embellished nearly every day. In some ways her father had been more of a child than she was, and
she had loved him for that.
Her lower lip trembled. She bit it. Hard. If she cried, she'd be doubting what her father had always told her about the
next life, the better life. By crying she would be pronouncing him dead, dead for once and all, forever, finito.
She longed to be sequestered in her room above the grocery, in bed, the covers pulled over her head. That idea
was so appealing, she figured she could easily develop a fetish for sequestering herself.
From the funeral home they went to the cemetery.
The graveyard had no headstones. The plots were marked by bronze plaques on marble bases set flush with the
ground. The rolling green lawns, shaded by huge Indian laurels and smaller magnolias, might have been mistaken
for a park, a place to play games and run and laugh—if not for the open grave over which Bob Shane's casket was
suspended.
Last night she'd awakened twice to the sound of distant thunder, and though half asleep she had thought she'd
seen lightning flickering at the windows, but if unseasonal storms had passed through during the darkness, there
was no sign of them now. The day was blue, cloudless.
Laura stood between Cora and Anita, who touched her and murmured reassurances, but she was not comforted by
anything they did or said. The bleak chill in her deepened with each word of the minister's final prayer, until she felt
as if she were standing unclothed in an arctic winter instead of in the shade of a tree on a hot, windless July
morning.
The funeral director activated the motorized sling on which the casket was suspended. Bob Shane's body was
lowered into the earth.
Unable to watch the slow descent of the casket, having difficulty drawing breath, Laura turned away, slipped out
from under the caring hands of her two honorary grandmothers, and took a few steps across the cemetery. She
was as cold as marble; she needed to escape the shade. She stopped as soon as she reached sunlight, which felt
warm on her skin but which failed to relieve her chills.
She stared down the long, gentle hill for perhaps a minute before she saw the man standing at the far end of the
cemetery in shadows at the edge of a large grove of laurels. He was wearing light tan slacks and a white shirt that
appeared faintly luminous in that gloom, as if he were a ghost who had forsaken his usual night haunts for daylight.
He was watching her and the other mourners around Bob Shane's grave near the top of the slope. At that distance
Laura could not see his face clearly, but she could discern that he was tall and strong and blond—and disturbingly
familiar.
The observer intrigued her, though she did not know why. As if spellbound, she descended the hill, stepping
between and across the graves. The nearer she drew to the blond, the more familiar he looked. At first he did not
react to her approach, but she knew he was studying her intently; she could feel the weight of his gaze.
Cora and Anita called to her, but she ignored them. Seized by an inexplicable excitement, she walked faster, now
only a hundred feet from the stranger.
The man retreated into the false twilight among the trees.
Afraid that he would slip away before she had gotten a good look at him—yet not certain why seeing him more
clearly was so important—Laura ran. The soles of her new black shoes were slippery and several times she nearly
fell. At the place where he had been standing, the grass was tramped flat, so he was no ghost.
Laura saw a flicker of movement among the trees, the spectral of his shirt. She hurried after him. Only sparse, pale
grass under the laurels, beyond the reach of the sun. However, surface roots and treacherous shadows sprouted
everywhere. She stumbled, grabbed the trunk of a tree to avoid a bad fall, regained her balance, looked up—and
discovered that the man had vanished.
The grove was comprised of perhaps a hundred trees. The branches were densely interlaced, allowing sunlight
through only in thin golden threads, as if the fabric of the sky had begun unraveling into the woods. She hurried
forward, squinting at the darkness. Half a dozen times she thought she saw him, but it was always phantom


movement, a trick of light or of her own mind. When a breeze sprang up, she was certain she heard his furtive
footsteps in the masking rustle of the leaves, but when she pursued the crisp its source eluded her.
After a couple of minutes she came out of the trees to a road that served another section of the sprawling
cemetery. Cars were parked along the verge, sparkling in the brightness, and a hundred yards away was a group of
mourners at another graveside service.
Laura stood at the edge of the lane, breathing hard, wondering where the man in the white shirt had gone and why
she had been compelled to chase him.
The blazing sun, the cessation of the short -lived breeze, and the return of perfect silence to the cemetery made her
uneasy. The sun seemed to pass through her as if she were transparent, and she was strangely light, almost
weightless, and mildly dizzy too: She felt as if she were in a dream, floating an inch above an unreal lands cape.
I'm going to pass out, she thought.
She put one hand against the front fender of a parked car and gritted her teeth, struggling to hold on to
consciousness.
Though she was only twelve she did not often think or act like a child, and she never felt like a child—not until that
moment in the cemetery when suddenly she felt very young, weak, and helpless.
A tan Ford came slowly along the road, slowing even further as it drew near her. Behind the wheel was the man in
the white shirt.
The moment she saw him, she knew why he'd seemed familiar. Four years ago. The robbery. Her guardian angel.
Although she had been just eight years old at the time, she would never forget his face.
He brought the Ford almost to a halt and drifted by her slowly, scrutinizing her as he passed. They were just a few
feet apart.
Through the open window of his car, every detail of his handsome face was as clear as on that terrible day when
she had first seen him in the store. His eyes were as brilliantly blue and riveting as she had remembered. When
their gazes locked, she shuddered.
He said nothing, did not smile, but studied her intently, as if trying to fix every detail of her appearance in his mind.
He stared at her the way a man might stare at a tall glass of cool water after crossing a desert. His silence and
unwavering gaze frightened Laura but also filled her with an inexplicable sense of security.
The car was rolling past her. She shouted, "Wait!"
She pushed away from the car against which she had been leaning, dashed toward the tan Ford. The stranger
accelerated and sped out of the graveyard, leaving her alone in the sun until a moment later she heard a man
speak behind her, "Laura?"
When she turned she could not see him at first. He called her name again, softly, and she spotted him fifteen feet
away at the edge of the trees, standing in the purple shadows under an Indian laurel. He wore black slacks, a black
shirt, and seemed out of place in this summer day.
Curious, perplexed, wondering if somehow this man was connected with her guardian angel, Laura started forward.
She closed to within two steps of the new stranger before she realized that the disharmony between him and the
bright, warm summer day was not solely a result of his black clothing; wintry darkness was an integral part of the
man himself; a coldness seemed to come from within him, as if he had been born to dwell in polar regions or in the
high caves of ice-bound mountains.
She stopped less than five feet from him.
He said no more but stared at her intently, with a look that seemed as much puzzlement as anything.
She saw a scar on his left cheek.
"Why you?" the wintry man asked, and he took a step forward, reaching for her.
Laura stumbled backward, suddenly too scared to cry out.
From the middle of the copse of trees, Cora Lance called, "Laura? Are you all right, Laura?"
The stranger reacted to the nearness of Cora's voice, turned, and moved away through the laurels, his black-clad
body disappearing quickly in the shadows, as if he had not been a real man at all but a bit of darkness briefly come
to life.
Five days after the funeral, on Tuesday the twenty-ninth of July, Laura was back in her own room above the
grocery store for the first time in a week. She was packing and saying goodbye to the place that had been home to
her for as long as she could recall.
Pausing to rest, she sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, trying to remember how secure and happy she had been
in that room only days ago. A hundred paperback books, mostly dog and horse stories, were shelved in one corner.
Fifty miniature dogs and cats—glass, brass, porcelain, pewter—filled the shelves above the headboard of her bed.
She had no pets, for the health code prohibited animals in an apartment above a grocery. Some day she hoped to
have a dog, perhaps even a horse. But more importantly she might be a veterinarian when she grew up, a healer of
sick and injured animals.
Her father had said she could be anything: a vet, a lawyer, a movie star, anything. "You can be a moose herder if
you want, or a ballerina on a pogo stick. Nothing can stop you."
Laura smiled, remembering how her father had imitated a ballerina on a pogo stick. But she also remembered he


was gone, and a dreadful emptiness opened in her.
She cleaned out the closet, carefully folded her clothes, and filled two large suitcases. She had a steamer trunk as
well, into which she packed her favorite books, a few games, a teddy bear.
Cora and Tom Lance were taking an inventory of the contents of the rest of the small apartment and of the grocery
store downstairs. Laura was going to stay with them, though she was not yet clear as to whether the arrangement
was permanent or temporary.
Made nervous and fretful by thoughts of her uncertain future, Laura returned to her packing. She pulled open the
drawer in the nearest of the two nightstands and froze at the sight of the elfin boots, tiny umbrella, and four-inch-
long neck scarf that her father had acquired as proof that Sir Tommy Toad indeed rented quarters from them.
He had persuaded one of his friends, a skilled leatherworker, to make the boots, which were wide and shaped to
accommodate webbed feet. He had obtained the umbrella from a shop that sold miniatures, and he had made the
green-plaid scarf himself, laboriously fashioning fringe for the ends of it. On her ninth birthday, when she came
home from school, the boots and umbrella were standing against the wall just inside the apartment door, and the
scrap of scarf was hung carefully on the coatrack. "Sssshh," her father whispered dramatically. "Sir Tommy has just
returned from an arduous trip to Ecuador on the queen's business —she owns a diamond farm there, you know—
and he's exhausted. I'm sure he'll sleep for days. However, he told me to wish you a very happy birthday, and he
left a gift in the yard out back." The gift had been a new Schwinn bicycle.
Now, staring at the three items in the nightstand drawer, Laura realized that her father had not died alone. With him
had gone Sir Tommy Toad, the many other characters he had created, and the silly but wonderful fantasies with
which he'd entertained her. The webbed-foot boots, the tiny umbrella, and the little scarf looked so sweet and
pathetic; she could almost believe that Sir Tommy, in fact, had been real and that he was now gone to a better
world of his own. A low, miserable groan escaped her. She fell onto the bed and buried her face in the pillows,
muffling her agonized sobs, and for the first time since her father's death she finally let her grief overwhelm her.
She did not want to live without him, yet she must not only live but prosper because every day of her life would be a
testament to him. Even as young as she was, she understood that by living well and being a good person, she
would make it possible for her father to go on living in some small way through her.
But facing the future with optimism and finding happiness was going to be hard. She now knew that life was
frighteningly subject to tragedy and change, blue and warm one moment, cold and stormy the next, so you never
knew when a bolt of lightning might strike someone you cared about. Nothing lasts forever. Life is a candle in the
wind. That was a hard lesson for a girl her age, and it made her feel old, very old, ancient.
When the flood of warm tears abated, she did not take long to collect hers elf, for she did not want the Lances to
discover that she had been crying. If the world was hard and cruel and unpredictable, then it did not seem wise to
show the slightest weakness.
She carefully wrapped the webbed-foot boots, umbrella, and little scarf in tissue paper. She tucked them away in
the steamer trunk.
When she had disposed of the contents of both nightstands, she went to her desk to clean that out as well, and on
the felt blotter she found a folded sheet of tablet paper with a message for her in clear, elegant, almost machine-
neat handwriting.
Dear Laura,
Some things are meant to be, and no one can prevent them. Not even your special guardian. Be content with the
knowledge that your father loved you with all his heart in a way that few people are ever lucky enough to be loved.
Though you think now that you will never be happy again, you are wrong. In time happiness will come to you. This
is not an empty promise. This is a fact.
The note was unsigned, but she knew who must have written it: the man who had been at the cemetery, who had
studied her from the passing car, who years ago saved her and her father from being shot. No one else could call
himself her special guardian. A tremor swept through her not because she was afraid but because the strangeness
and the mystery of her guardian filled her with curiosity and wonder.
She hurried to the bedroom window and pushed aside the sheer curtain that hung between the drapes, certain that
she would see him standing in the street, watching the store, but he was not there.
The man in dark clothing was not there, either, but she had not expected to see him. She had half convinced
herself that the other stranger was unrelated to her guardian, that he had been in the cemetery for some other
reason. He had known her name . . . but perhaps he had heard Cora calling her earlier, from the top of the
graveyard hill. She was able to put him out of her mind because she did not want him to be part of her life, not as
she so desperately wanted to have a special guardian.
She read the message again.
Although she did not understand who the blond man was or why he had taken an interest in her, Laura was
reassured by the note he had left. Understanding wasn't always necessary, as long as you believed.
The following night, after he had planted explosives in the attic of the institute, Stefan returned with the same
suitcase, claiming he had insomnia again. Anticipating the post-midnight visit, Viktor had brought half of one of his
wife's cakes as a gift.


Stefan nibbled at the cake while he shaped and placed the plastic explosives. The enormous basement was
divided into two rooms, and unlike the attic it was used daily by employees. He would have to conceal the charges
and wires with considerable care.
The first chamber contained research files and a pair of long, oak worktables. The file cabinets were six feet tall and
stood in banks along two of the walls. He was able to place the explosives atop the cabinets, tucking them toward
the back, against the walls, where not even the tallest man on the staff could see them.
He strung the wires behind the cabinets, though he was forced to drill a small hole in the partition between halves
of the cellar in order to continue that detonation line into the next chamber. He managed to put the hole in an
inconspicuous place, and the wires were visible only for a couple of inches on either side of the partition.
The second room was used for storage of office and lab supplies and to cage the score of animals—several
hamsters, a few white rats, two dogs, one energetic monkey in a big cage with three bars to swing on—that had
participated in (and survived) the institute's early experiments. Though the animals were of no more use, they were
kept in order to learn if over the long term they developed unforeseen medical problems that could be related to
their singular adventures.
Stefan molded powerful charges of plastique into hollow spaces toward the back of the stacked supplies and
brought all of the wires to the screened ventilation chase down which he had dropped the attic wires the previous
night, and as he worked, he felt the animals watching with unusual intensity, as if they knew they had less than
twenty-four hours to live. His cheeks flushed with guilt, which strangely he had failed to feel when contemplating the
deaths of the men who worked in the institute, perhaps because the animals were innocent and the men were not.
By four o'clock in the morning, Stefan had finished both the job in the basement and the work he had to do in his
office on the third floor. Before leaving the institute, he went to the main lab on the ground floor and for a minute
stared at the gate.
The gate.
The scores of dials and gauges and graphs in the gate's support machinery all glowed softly orange, yellow, or
green, for the power to it was never turned off. The thing was cylindrical, twelve feet long and eight feet in diameter,
barely visible in the dim light; its stainless-steel outer skin gleamed with faint reflections of the spots of light in the
machinery that lined three of the room's walls.
He had used the gate scores of times, but he was still in awe of it—not so much because it was an astonishing
scientific breakthrough but because its potential for evil was unlimited. It was not a gate to hell, but in the hands of
the wrong men, it might as well have been just that. And it was indeed in the hands of the wrong
men.
After thanking Viktor for the cake and claiming to have eaten all that he had been given—though in fact he fed the
larger part of it to the animals—Stefan drove back to his apartment.
For the second night in a row, a storm raged. Rain slashed out of the northwest. Water foamed out of downspouts
into nearby drains, drizzled off roofs, puddled in the streets, and overflowed gutters, and because the city was
almost entirely dark, the pools and streams looked more like oil than water. Only a few military personnel were out,
and they all wore dark slickers that made them look as if they were creatures from an old Gothic novel by Bram
Stoker.
Stefan took a direct route home, making no effort to skirt the known police inspection stations. His papers were in
order; his exemption from curfew was current; and he was no longer transporting illegally obtained explosives.
In his apartment he set the alarm on the large bedside clock and fell almost immediately to sleep. He desperately
needed his rest because, in the afternoon to come, there would be two arduous journeys and much killing. If he
was not fully alert, he might find himself on the wrong end of a bullet.
His dreams were of Laura, which he interpreted as a good omen.

Two

THE ENDURING FLAME

Laura Shane was swept from her twelfth through her seventeenth years as if she were a tumbleweed blown across
the California deserts, coming to rest briefly here and there in becalmed moments, torn loose and sent rolling again
as soon as the wind gusted.
She had no relatives, and she could not stay with her father's best friends, the Lances. Tom was sixty-two, and
Cora was fifty-seven, and though married thirty-five years, they had no children. The prospect of raising a young girl
daunted them.
Laura understood and bore no grudge against them. On the day in August when she left the Lance house in the
company of a woman from the Orange County Child Welfare Agency, Laura kissed both Cora and Tom and
assured them that she would be fine. Riding away in the social worker's car, she waved gaily, hoping they felt
absolved.
Absolved. That word was a recent acquisition. Absolved: freed from the consequences of one's actions; to set free


or release from some duty, obligation, or responsibility. She wished that she could grant herself absolution from the
obligation to make her way in the world without the guidance of a loving father, absolution from the responsibility to
live and carry on his memory.
From the Lances' house she was conveyed to a child shelter—the McIlroy Home—an old, rambling, twenty-seven-
room Victorian mansion built by a produce magnate in the days of Orange County's agricultural glory. Later it had
been converted to a dormitory where children in public custody were housed temporarily between foster homes.
That institution was unlike any she had read about in fiction. For one thing, it lacked kindly nuns in flowing black
habits.
And there was Willy Sheener.
Laura first noticed him shortly after arriving at the home, while a social worker, Mrs. Bowmaine, was showing her to
the room she would share with—she had been told—the Ackerson twins and a girl named Tammy. Sheener was
sweeping a tile-floored hallway with a pushbroom.
He was strong, wiry, pale, freckled, about thirty, with hair the color of a new copper penny and green eyes. He
smiled and whistled softly while he worked. "How're you this morning, Mrs. Bowmaine?"
"Right as rain, Willy." She clearly liked Sheener. "This is Laura Shane, a new girl. Laura, this is Mr. Sheener."
Sheener stared at Laura with a creepy intensity. When he managed to speak, the words were thick, "Uhhh . . .
welcome to McIlroy."
Following the social worker, Laura glanced back at Sheener. With no one but Laura to see, he lowered one hand to
his crotch and lazily massaged himself. Laura did not look at him again.
Later, as she was unpacking her meager belongings, trying to make her quarter of the third-floor bedroom more like
home, she turned and saw Sheener in the doorway. She was alone, for the other kids were at play in the backyard
or the game room. His smile was different from the one with which he'd favored Mrs. Bowmaine: predatory, cold.
Light from one of the two small windows fell across the doorway and met his eyes at such an angle as to make
them appear silver instead of green, like the cataract-filmed eyes of a dead man.
Laura tried to speak but could not. She edged backward until she came up against the wall beside her bed.
He stood with his arms at his sides, motionless, hands fisted. The McIlroy Home was not air conditioned. The
bedroom windows were open, but the place was tropically hot. Yet Laura had not been sweating until she turned
and saw Sheener. Now her T-shirt was damp.
Outside, children at play shouted and laughed. They were nearby, but they sounded far away.
The hard, rhythmic rasp of Sheener's breathing seemed to grow louder, gradually drowning out the voices of the
children.
For a long time neither of them moved or spoke. Then abruptly he turned and walked away.
Weak -kneed, sweat -soaked, Laura moved to her bed and sat on the edge of it. The mushy mattress sagged, and
the springs creaked.
As her thudding heartbeat deaccelerated, she surveyed the gray -walled room and despaired of her circumstances.
In the four corners were narrow, iron-framed beds with tattered chenille spreads and lumpy pillows. Each bed had a
battered, Formica-topped nightstand, and on each was a metal reading lamp. The scarred dresser had eight
drawers, two of which were hers. There were two closets, and she was allotted half of one. The ancient curtains
were faded, stained; they hung limp and greasy from rust-spotted rods. The entire house was moldering and
haunted; the air had a vaguely unpleasant odor; and Willy Sheener roamed the rooms and halls as if he were a
malevolent spirit waiting for the full moon and the blood games attendant thereon.
That night after dinner the Ackerson twins closed the door to the room and encouraged Laura to join them on the
threadbare maroon carpet where they could sit in a circle and share secrets.
Their other roomie—a strange, quiet, frail blonde named Tammy—had no interest in joining them. Propped up by
pillows, she sat in bed and read a book, nibbling her nails continuously, mouselike.
Laura liked Thelma and Ruth Ackerson immediately. Having just turned twelve, they were only months younger
than Laura and were wise for their age. They had been orphaned when they were nine and had lived at the shelter
for almost three years. Finding adoptive parents for children their age was difficult, especially for twins who were
determined not to be split up.
Not pretty girls, they were astonishingly identical in their plainness: lusterless brown hair, myopic brown eyes, broad
faces, blunt chins, wide mouths. Although lacking in good looks, they were abundantly intelligent, energetic, and
good-natured.
Ruth was wearing blue pajamas with dark green piping on the cuffs and collar, blue slippers; her hair was tied in a
ponytail. Thelma wore raspberry-red pajamas and furry yellow slippers, each with two buttons painted to represent
eyes, and her hair was unfettered. With darkfall the insufferable heat of the day had passed. They were less than
ten miles from the Pacific, so the night breezes made comfortable sleep possible. Now, with the windows open,
currents of mild air stirred the aged curtains and circulated through the room.
"Summer's a bore here," Ruth told Laura as they sat in a circle on the floor. "We're not allowed off the property, and
it's just not big enough. And in the summer all the do-gooders are busy with their own vacations, their own trips to
the beach, so they forget about us."


"Christmas is great, though," Thelma said.
"All of November and December are great," Ruth said.
"Yeah," Thelma said. "Holidays are fine because the do-gooders start feeling guilty about having so much when we
poor, drab, homeless waifs have to wear newspaper coats, cardboard shoes, and eat last year's gruel. So they
send us baskets of goodies, take us on shopping sprees and to the movies, though never the good movies."
"Oh, I like some of them," Ruth said.
' 'The kind of movies where no one ever, ever gets blown up. And never any feelies. They'll never take us to a
movie in which some guy puts his hand on a girl's boob. Family films. Dull, dull, dull."
"You'll have to forgive my sister," Ruth told Laura. "She thinks she's on the trembling edge of puberty—"
"I am on the trembling edge of puberty! I feel my sap rising!" Thelma said, thrusting one thin arm into the air above
her head.
Ruth said, "The lack of parental guidance has taken a toll on her, I'm afraid. She hasn't adapted well to being an
orphan."
"You'll have to forgive my sister," Thelma said. "She's decided to skip puberty and go directly from childhood to
senility."
Laura said, "What about Willy Sheener?"
The Ackerson twins glanced knowingly at each other and spoke with such synchronization that not a fraction of a
second was lost between their statements: "Oh, a disturbed man," Ruth said, and Thelma said, "He's scum," and
Ruth said, "He needs therapy," and Thelma said, "No, what he needs is a hit over the head with a baseball bat
maybe a dozen times, maybe two dozen, then locked away for the rest of his life."
Laura told them about encountering Sheener in her doorway.
"He didn't say anything?" Ruth asked. "That's creepy. Usually he says 'You're a very pretty little girl' or—"
"—he offers you candy." Thelma grimaced. "Can you imagine? Candy? How trite! It's as if he learned to be a
scumbag by reading those booklets the police hand out to warn kids about perverts."
"No candy," Laura said, shivering as she remembered Sheener's sun-silvered eyes and heavy, rhythmic breathing.
Thelma leaned forward, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. "Sounds like the White Eel was tongue-tied, too hot
even to think of his usual lines. Maybe he has a special lech for you, Laura."
"White Eel?"
"That's Sheener," Ruth said. "Or just the Eel for short."
"Pale and slick as he is," Thelma said, "the name fits. I'll bet the Eel has a special lech for you. I mean, kid, you are
a knockout."
"Not me," Laura said.
"Are you kidding?" Ruth said. "That dark hair, those big eyes."
Laura blushed and started to protest, and Thelma said, "Listen, Shane, the Dazzling Ackerson Duo—Ruth and
moi—cannot abide false modesty any more than we can tolerate bragging. We're straight-from-the-shoulder types.
We know what our strengths are, and we're proud of them. God knows, neither of us will win the Miss America
contest, but we're intelligent, very intelligent, and we're not reluctant to admit to brains. And you are gorgeous, so
stop being coy."
"My sister is sometimes too blunt and too colorful in the way she expresses herself," Ruth said apologetically.
"And my sister," Thelma told Laura, "is trying out for the part of Melanie in Gone With the Wind.'' She put on a thick
Southern accent and spoke with exaggerated sympathy: "Oh, Scarlett doesn't mean any harm. Scarlett's a lovely
girl, really she is. Rhett is so lovely at heart, too, and even the Yankees are lovely, even those who sacked Tara,
burned our crops, and made boots out of the skin of our babies."
Laura began to giggle halfway through Thelma's performance.
"So drop the modest maiden act, Shane! You're gorgeous."
"Okay, okay. I know I'm . . . pretty."
"Kiddo, when the White Eel saw you, a fuse blew in his brain."
"Yes," Ruth agreed, "you stunned him. That's why he couldn't even think to reach in his pocket for the candy he
always carries."
"Candy!" Thelma said. "Little bags of M&Ms, Tootsie Rolls!"
"Laura, be real careful," Ruth warned. "He's a sick man—"
"He's a geek!" Thelma said. "A sewer rat!"
From the far corner of the room, Tammy said softly, "He's not as bad as you say."
The blond girl was so quiet, so thin and colorless, so adept at fading into the background that Laura had forgotten
her. Now she saw that Tammy had put her book aside and was sitting up in bed; she had drawn her bony knees
against her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She was ten, two years younger than her roommates,
small for her age. In a white nightgown and socks Tammy looked more like an apparition than like a real person.
"He wouldn't hurt anyone," Tammy said hesitantly, tremulously, as though stating her opinion about Sheener—
about anything, anyone—was like walking on a tightrope without a net.
"He would hurt someone if he could get away with it," Ruth said.


"He's just . . ." Tammy bit her lip. "He's . . . lonely."
"No, honey," Thelma said, "he's not lonely. He's so much in love with himself that he'll never be lonely."
Tammy looked away from them. She got up, slipped her feet into floppy slippers, and mumbled, "Almost bedtime."
She took her toiletry kit from her nightstand and shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind her, heading for
one of the baths at the end of the hall.
"She takes the candy," Ruth explained.
An icy wave of revulsion washed through Laura. "Ah, no."
"Yes," Thelma said. "Not because she wants the candy. She's . . . messed up. She needs the kind of approval she
gets from the Eel."
"But why?" Laura asked.
Ruth and Thelma exchanged another of their looks, through which they seemed to debate an issue and reach a
decision in a second or two, without words. Sighing, Ruth said, "Well, see, Tammy needs that kind of approval
because . . . her father taught her to need it."
Laura was jolted. ''Her own father?''
"Not all the kids at McIlroy are orphans," Thelma said. "Some are here because their parents committed crimes and
went to jail. And others were abused by their folks physically or . . . sexually."
The freshening air coming through the open windows was probably only a degree or two colder than when they had
sat down in a circle on the floor, but it seemed to Laura like a chilly late-autumn wind that had mysteriously leaped
the months and infiltrated the August night. Laura said, "But Tammy doesn't really like it?" "No, I don't think she
does," Ruth said. "But she's —" "—compelled," Thelma said, "can't help herself. Twisted." They were all silent,
thinking the unthinkable, and finally Laura said, "Strange and ... so sad. Can't we stop it? Can't we tell Mrs.
Bowmaine or one of the other social workers about Sheener?" "It wouldn't do any good," Thelma said. "The Eel
would deny it, and Tammy would deny it, too, and we don't have any proof." "But if she's not the only kid he's
abused, one of the others —" Ruth shook her head. "Most have gone to foster homes, adoptive parents, or back to
their own families. Those two or three still here . . . well, they're either like Tammy, or they're just scared to death of
the Eel, too scared ever to rat on him."
"Besides," Thelma said, "the adults don't want to know, don't want to deal with it. Bad publicity for the home. And it
makes them look stupid to have this going on under their noses. Besides, who can believe children?" Thelma
imitated Mrs. Bowmaine, catching the note of phoniness so perfectly that Laura recognized it at once: "Oh, my
dear, they're horrible, lying little creatures. Noisy, rambunctious, bothersome little beasts, capable of destroying Mr.
Sheener's fine reputation for the fun of it. If only they could be drugged, hung on wall hooks, and fed intravenously,
how much more efficient that system would be, my dear—and really so much better for them, too."
"Then the Eel would be cleared," Ruth said, "and he'd come back to work, and he'd find ways to make us pay for
speaking against him. It happened that way before with another perv who used to work here, a guy we called Ferret
Fogel. Poor Denny Jenkins ..."
"Denny ratted on Ferret Fogel; he told Bowmaine the Ferret molested him and two other boys. Fogel was
suspended. But the two other boys wouldn't support Denny's story. They were afraid of the Ferret . . . but they also
had this sick need for his approval. When Bowmaine and her staff interrogated Denny —"
"They hammered at him," Ruth said angrily, "with trick questions, trying to trip him up. He got confused,
contradicted himself, so they said he was making it all up."
"And Fogel came back to work," Thelma said.
"He bided his time," Ruth said, "and then he found ways to make Denny miserable. He tormented the boy
relentlessly until one day . . . Denny just started screaming and couldn't stop. The doctor had to give him a shot,
and then they took him away. Emotionally disturbed, they said." She was on the brink of tears. "We never saw him
again."
Thelma put one hand on her sister's shoulder. To Laura, she said, "Ruth was fond of Denny. He was a nice boy.
Small, shy, sweet ... he never had a chance. That's why you've got to be tough with the White Eel. You can't let him
see that you're afraid of him. If he tries anything, scream. And kick him in the crotch."
Tammy returned from the bathroom. She did not look at them but stepped out of her slippers and got under the
covers.
Although Laura was repulsed by the thought of Tammy submitting to Sheener, she regarded the frail blonde with
less disgust than sympathy. No sight could be more pitiful than that small, lonely, defeated girl lying on her narrow,
sagging bed.
That night Laura dreamed of Sheener. He had his own human head, but his body was that of a white eel, and
wherever Laura ran, Sheener slithered after her, wriggling under closed doors and other obstacles.
Sickened by what he'd just seen, Stefan returned from the institute's main lab to his third-floor office. He sat at his
desk with his head in his hands, shaking with horror and anger and fear.
That red-haired bastard, Willy Sheener, was going to rape Laura repeatedly, beat her half to death, and leave her
so traumatized that she would never recover. That was not just a possibility; it would come to pass if Stefan did not
move to prevent it. He had seen the aftermath: Laura's bruised face, broken mouth. Her eyes had been the worst of


it, so flat looking and half-dead, the eyes of a child who no longer had the capacity for joy or hope.
Cold rain tapped on the office windows, and that hollow sound seemed to reverberate within him, as if the terrible
things he had seen had left him burnt out, an empty shell.
He had saved Laura from the junkie in her father's grocery, but here was another pedophile already. One of the
things he had learned from the experiments in the institute was that reshaping fate was not always easy. Destiny
struggled to reassert the pattern that was meant to be. Perhaps being molested and ps ychologically destroyed was
such an immutable part of Laura's fate that Stefan could not prevent it from happening sooner or later. Perhaps he
could not save her from Willy Sheener, or perhaps if he thwarted Sheener, another rapist would enter the girl's life.
But he had to try. Those half-dead, joyless eyes . . .
Seventy-six children resided at the McIlroy Home, all twelve or younger; upon turning thirteen, they were
transferred to Caswell Hall in Anaheim. Since the oak-paneled dining hall would hold only forty, meals were served
in two shifts. Laura was on the second shift, as were the Ackerson twins.
Standing in the cafeteria line between Thelma and Ruth on her first morning at the shelter, Laura saw that Willy
Sheener was one of the four attendants serving from behind the counter. He monitored the milk supply and
dispensed sweet rolls with a pair of tongs.
As Laura moved along the line, the Eel spent more time looking at her than at the kids he was serving.
"Don't let him intimidate you," Thelma whispered.
Laura tried to meet Sheener's gaze—and his challenge—boldly. But she was the one who always broke the staring
match.
When she reached his station, he said, "Good morning, Laura," and put a sweet roll on her tray, a particular pastry
he had saved for her. It was twice as large as the others, with more cherries and icing.
On Thursday, Laura's third full day at the shelter, she endured a how-are-we-adjusting meeting with Mrs.
Bowmaine in the social worker's first-floor office. Etta Bowmaine was stout, with an unflattering wardrobe of flower-
print dresses. She spoke in cliches and platitudes with that gushy insincerity that Thelma had imitated perfectly,
and she asked a lot of questions to which she actually did not want honest answers. Laura lied about how happy
she was at McIlroy , and the lies pleased Mrs. Bowmaine enormously.
Returning to her room on the third floor, Laura encountered the Eel on the north stairs. She turned at the second
landing, and he was on the next flight, wiping the oak handrail with a rag. An unopened bottle of furniture polish
stood on the step below him.
She froze, and her heart began to pound double time, for she knew he had been lying in wait for her. He'd have
known about her summons to Mrs. Bowmaine's office and would have counted on her using the nearest stairs to
return to her room.
They were alone. At any time another child or staff member might come along, but for the moment they were alone.
Her first impulse was to retreat and use the south stairs, but she remembered what Thelma had said about
standing up to the Eel and about how his type preyed only on weaklings. She told herself that the best thing to do
was walk past him without saying a word, but her feet seemed to have been nailed to the step; she could not move.
Looking down at her from half a flight up, the Eel smiled. It was a horrible smile: His skin was white, and his lips
were colorless, but his crooked teeth were as yellow and mottled with brownish spots as the skin of a ripe banana.
Under his unruly copper-red hair, his face resembled a clown's countenance—not the kind of clown you'd see in a
circus but the kind you might run into on Halloween night, the kind that might carry a chainsaw instead of a seltzer
bottle.
"You're a very pretty little girl, Laura."
She tried to tell him to go to hell. She couldn't speak.
"I'd like to be your friend," he said.
Somehow she found the strength to start up the steps toward him.
He smiled even more broadly, perhaps because he thought she was responding to his offer of friendship. He
reached into a pocket of his khaki pants and withdrew a couple of Tootsie Rolls.
Laura recalled Thelma's comical assessment of the Eel's stupidly unimaginative gambits, and suddenly he did not
look as scary to her as he had before. Offering Tootsie Rolls, leering at her, Sheener was a ridiculous figure, a
caricature of evil, and she would have laughed at him if she had not known what he had done to Tammy and other
girls. Though she could not quite laugh, the Eel's ludicrous appearance and manner gave her the courage to move
swiftly around him.
When he realized she was not going to take the candy or respond to his offer of friendship, he put a hand on her
shoulder to stop her.
She angrily took hold of his hand and threw it off. "Don't you ever touch me, you geek."
She hurried up the stairs, struggling against a desire to run. If she ran he would know that her fear of him had not
been entirely banished. He must see absolutely no weakness in her, for weakness would encourage him to
continue harassing her.
By the time she was only two steps from the next landing, she allowed herself to hope that she had won, that her
toughness had impressed him. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper. Behind her, in a loud whisper


he said, "Hey, Laura, look at this. Look at what I have for you." There was a demented, hateful tone in his voice.
"Look, look at what's in my hand now, Laura."
She did not glance back.
She reached the landing and started up the next flight, thinking: There's no reason to run; you don't dare run, don't
run, don't run.
From one flight below, the Eel said, "Look at the big Tootsie Roll I have in my hand now, Laura. It's lots bigger than
those others."
On the third floor Laura hurried directly to the bathroom where she vigorously scrubbed her hands. She felt filthy
after taking hold of Sheener's hand in order to remove it from her shoulder.
Later, when she and the Ackerson twins convened their nightly powwow on the floor of their room, Thelma howled
with laughter when she heard about the Eel wanting Laura to look at his "big Tootsie Roll." She said, "He's
priceless, isn't he? Where do you think he gets these lines of his? Does Doubleday publish the Perverts' Book of
Classic Come-ons or something?"
"The point is," Ruth said worriedly, "he wasn't turned off when Laura stood up to him. I don't think he's going to give
up on her as quickly as he gives up on other girls who resist him."
That night Laura had difficulty sleeping. She thought about her special guardian, and she wondered if he would
appear as miraculously as before and if he would deal with Willy Sheener. Somehow she didn't think she could
count on him this time.
During the following ten days, as August waned, the Eel shadowed Laura as reliably as the moon shadowed the
earth. When she and the Ackerson twins went to the game room to play cards or Monopoly, Sheener arrived within
ten minutes and set to work ostensibly washing windows or polishing furniture or repairing a drapery rod, though in
fact his attention was primarily focused on Laura. If the girls sought refuge in a corner of the playground behind the
mansion, either to talk or play a game of their own devising, Sheener entered the yard shortly thereafter, having
suddenly found shrubbery that had to be pruned or fertilized. And although the third floor was for girls only, it was
open to male staff members for the purpose of maintenance between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon
on weekdays, so Laura could not escape to her room during those hours with any degree of safet y.
Worse than the Eel's diligence was the frightening rate at which his dark passion for her grew, a sick need revealed
by the steadily increasing intensity of his gaze and the sour sweat that burst from him when he was in the same
room with her for more than a few minutes.
Laura, Ruth, and Thelma tried to convince themselves that the threat from the Eel lessened with every day he did
not act, that his hesitation revealed his awareness of Laura as unsuitable prey. At heart they knew they were
hoping to slay the dragon with a wish, but they were unable to face the full extent of the danger till a Saturday
afternoon late in August, when they returned to their room and found Tammy destroying Laura's book collection in a
fit of twisted jealousy.
The library of fifty paperbacks—her favorite books, which she had brought with her from the apartment above the
grocery —were kept under Laura's bed. Tammy had brought them out into the middle of the room and in a hateful
frenzy had ripped apart two-thirds of them.
Laura was too shocked to act, but Ruth and Thelma pulled the girl away from the books and restrained her.
Because those were her favorite books, because her father bought them for her and they were therefore a link to
him, but most of all because she owned so little, Laura was pained by the destruction. Her possessions were so
meager, of no value, but she suddenly realized that they formed ramparts against the worst cruelties of life.
Tammy lost interest in the books now that the true object of her rage stood before her. "I hate you, I hate you!" Her
pale, drawn face was alive for the first time since Laura had known her, flushed and contorted with emotion. The
bruiselike circles around her eyes hadn't vanished, but they no longer made her appear weak or broken; instead
she looked wild, savage. "I hate you, Laura, I hate you!"
"Tammy, honey," Thelma said, struggling to hold on to the girl, "Laura's never done anything to you."
Breathing hard but no longer thrashing to break free of Ruth and Thelma, Tammy shrieked at Laura: "You're all he
talks about, he isn't interested in me any more, just you, he can't stop talking about you, I hate you, why did you
have to come here, I hate you!"
No one had to ask her to whom she was referring. The Eel.
"He doesn't want me any more, nobody wants me now, he only wants me so I can help him get to you. Laura,
Laura, Laura. He wants me to trick you into a place where he can get you alone, where it'll be safe for him, but I
won't do it, I won't! 'Cause then what would I have once he's got you? Nothing." Her face was a furious red. Worse
than her rage was the awful desperation that lay behind it.
Laura ran out of the room, down the long hall into the lavatory. Sick with disgust and fear, she fell to her knees on
the cracked yellow tiles before one of the toilets and threw up. Once her stomach was purged she went to one of
the sinks, rinsed her mouth repeatedly, then splashed cold water on her face. When she raised her head and
looked in the mirror, the tears came at last.
It was not her own loneliness or fear that brought her to tears. She was crying for Tammy. The world was an
unthinkably mean place if it would allow a ten-year-old girl's life to be devalued to such an extent that the only


words of approval she ever heard from an adult were those spoken by the demented man who abused her, that the
only possession in which she could take pride was the underdeveloped sexual aspect of her own thin,
prepubescent body.
Laura realized that Tammy's situation was infinitely worse than her own. Even stripped of her books, Laura had
good memories of a loving, kind, gentle father, which Tammy did not. If what few things she owned were taken from
her, Laura would still be whole of mind, but Tammy was psychologically damaged, perhaps beyond repair.
Sheener lived in a bungalow on a quiet street in Santa Ana. It was one of those neighborhoods built after World
War II: small, neat houses with interesting architectural details. In this summer of 1967, the various types of ficus
trees had reached maturity, spreading their limbs protectively over the homes; Sheener's place was further cloaked
by overgrown shrubbery—azaleas, eugenias, and red-flowering hibiscus.
Near midnight, using a plastic loid, Stefan popped the lock on the back door and let himself into the house. As he
inspected the bungalow, he boldly turned on lights and did not bother to draw the drapes at the windows.
The kitchen was immaculate. The blue Formica counters glistened. The chrome handles on the appliances, the
faucet in the sink, and the metal frames of the kitchen chairs all gleamed, unmarred by a single fingerprint.
He opened the refrigerator, not sure what he expected to find there. Perhaps an indication of Willy Sheener's
abnormal psychology; a former victim of his molestations, murdered and frozen to preserve the memories of twisted
passion? Nothing that dramatic. However, the man's fetish for neatness was obvious: All the food was stored in
matching Tupperware containers.
Otherwise, the only thing odd about the contents of both the refrigerator and cupboards was the preponderance of
sweets: ice cream, cookies, cakes, candies, pies, doughnuts, even animal crackers. There were a great many
novelty foods, too, like Spaghetti-Os and cans of vegetable soup in which the noodles were shaped like popular
cartoon characters. Sheener's larder looked as if it had been stocked by a child with a checkbook but no adult
supervision.
Stefan moved deeper into the house.
The confrontation over the shredded books was sufficient to drain what little spirit Tammy possessed. She said no
more about Sheener and seemed no longer to harbor any animosity toward Laura. Retreating further into herself
day by day, she averted her eyes from everyone, hung her head lower; her voice grew softer.
Laura wasn't sure which was less tolerable—the constant threat posed by the White Eel or watching Tammy's
already wispy personality fading further as she slid toward a state hardly more active than catatonia. But on
Thursday, August 31, those two burdens were lifted unexpectedly from Laura's shoulders when she learned that
she would be transferred to a foster home in Costa Mesa the following day, Friday.
However, she regretted leaving the Ackersons. Though she'd known them only a few weeks, friendships forged in
extremity solidified faster and felt more enduring than those made in more ordinary times.
That night, as the three of them sat on the floor of their room, Thelma said, "Shane, if you wind up with a good
family, a happy home, just settle down snug and enjoy. If you're in a good place, forget us, make new friends, get
on with your life. But the legendary Ackerson sisters —Ruth and moi—have been through the foster-family mill,
three bad ones, so let me assure you that if you wind up in a rotten place, you don't have to stay there."
Ruth said, "Just weep a lot and let everyone know how unhappy you are. If you can't weep, pretend to."
"Sulk," Thelma advised. "Be clumsy. Accidentally break a dish each time you've got to wash them. Make a
nuisance of yourself.''
Laura was surprised. "You did all that to get back into McIlroy?"
"That and more," Ruth said.
"But didn't you feel terrible—breaking their things?"
"It was harder for Ruth than me," Thelma said. "I've got the devil in me, while Ruth is the reincarnation of an
obscure, treacly, fourteenth-century nun whose name we've not yet ascertained."
Within one day Laura knew she did not want to remain in the care of the Teagel family, but she tried to make it work
because at first she thought their company was preferable to returning to McIlroy.
Real life was just a misty backdrop to Flora Teagel, for whom only crossword puzzles were of interest. She spent
days and evenings at the table in her yellow kitchen, wrapped in a cardigan regardless of the weather, working
through books of crossword puzzles one after another with a dedication both astonishing and idiotic.
She usually spoke to Laura only to give her lists of chores and to seek help with knotty crossword clues. As Laura
stood at the sink, washing dishes, Flora might say, "What's a seven-letter word for cat?"
Laura's answer was always the same: "I don't know."
" 'I don't know, I don't know, I don't know,' " Mrs. Teagel mocked. "You don't seem to know anything, girl. Aren't you
paying attention in school? Don't you care about language, about words?"
Laura, of course, was fascinated with words. To her, words were things of beauty, each like a magical powder or
potion that could be combined with other words to create powerful spells. But to Flora Teagel, words were game
chips needed to fill blank puzzle squares, annoyingly elusive clusters of letters that frustrated her.
Flora's husband, Mike, was a squat, baby -faced truck driver. He spent evenings in an armchair, poring over the
National Enquirer and its clones, absorbing useless facts from dubious stories about alien contact and devil-


worshiping movie stars. His taste for what he called "exotic news" would have been harmless if he'd been as self-
absorbed as his wife, but he often popped in on Laura when she was doing chores or in those rare moments when
she was given time for homework, and he insisted on reading aloud the more bizarre articles.
She thought these stories were stupid, illogical, pointless, but she could not tell him so. She had learned that he
would not be offended if she said his newspapers were rubbish. Instead he'd regard her pityingly; then with
maddening patience, with an infuriating know-it-all manner found only in the overeducated and totally ignorant, he
would proceed to explain how the world worked. At length. Repeatedly. "Laura, you've got a lot to learn. The big
shots who run things in Washington, they know about the aliens and the secrets of Atlantis ..."
As different as Flora was from Mike, they shared one belief: that the purpose of sheltering a foster child was to
obtain a free servant. Laura was expected to clean, do laundry, iron clothes, and cook.
Their own daughter—Hazel, an only child—was two years older than Laura and thoroughly spoiled. Hazel never
cooked, washed dishes, did laundry, or cleaned house. Though she was just fourteen, she had perfectly
manicured, painted fingernails and toenails. If you had deducted from her age the number of hours she had spent
primping in front of a mirror, she would have been only five years old.
"On laundry day," she explained on Laura's first day in the Teagel house, "you must press my clothes first. And
always be sure that you hang them in my closet arranged according to color."
I've read this book and seen this movie, Laura thought. Gad, I've got the lead in Cinderella.
"I'm going to be a major movie star or a model," Hazel said. "So my face, hands, and body are my future. I've got to
protect them."
When Mrs. Ince—the wire-thin, whippet -faced child-welfare worker assigned to the case—paid a scheduled visit to
the Teagel house on Saturday morning, September 16, Laura intended to demand to be returned to McIlroy Home.
The threat posed by Willy Sheener had come to seem less of a problem than everyday life with the Teagels.
Mrs. Ince arrived on schedule to find Flora washing the first dishes she had washed in two weeks. Laura was sitting
at the kitchen table, apparently working a crossword puzzle that in fact had been shoved into her hands only when
the doorbell had rung.
In that portion of the visit devoted to a private intervi ew with Laura in her bedroom, Mrs. Ince refused to believe
what she was told about Laura's load of housework. "But dear, Mr. and Mrs. Teagel are exemplary foster parents.
You don't look to me as if you've been worked to the bone. You've even gained a few pounds."
"I didn't accuse them of starving me," Laura said. "But I never nave time for schoolwork. I go to bed every night
exhausted—"
"Besides," Mrs. Ince interrupted, "foster parents are expected not merely to house children but to raise them, which
means teaching manners and deportment, instilling good values and good work habits."
Mrs. Ince was hopeless.
Laura resorted to the Ackersons' plan for shedding an unwanted foster family. She began to clean haphazardly.
When she was done with the dishes, they were spotted and streaked. She ironed wrinkles into Hazel's clothes.
Because the destruction of most of her book collection had taught her a profound respect for property, Laura could
not break dishes or anything else that belonged to the Teagels, but for that part of the Ackerson Plan she
substituted scorn and disrespect. Working a puzzle, Flora asked for a six-letter word meaning "a species of ox,"
and Laura said, "Teagel." When Mike began to recount a flying-saucer story he had read in the Enquirer, she
interrupted to spin a tale about mutated mole men living secretly in the local supermarket. To Hazel, Laura
suggested that her big break in show business might best be achieved by applying to serve as Ernest Borgnine's
stand-in: "You're a dead-ringer for him, Hazel. They've got to hire you!"
Her scorn led swiftly to a spanking. With his big, callused hands Mike had no need of a paddle. He thumped her
across the bottom, but she bit her lip and refused to give him the satisfaction of her tears. Watching from the
kitchen doorway, Flora said, "Mike, that's enough. Don't mark her." He quit reluctantly only when his wife entered
the room and stayed his hand.
That night Laura had difficulty sleeping. For the first time she had employed her love of words, the power of
language, to achieve a desired effect, and the Teagels' reactions were proof that she could use words well. Even
more exciting was the half-formed thought, still too new to be fully understood, that she might possess the ability
not only to defend herself with words but to earn her way in the world with them, perhaps even as an author of the
kind of books she so much enjoyed. With her father she'd talked of being a doctor, ballerina, veterinarian, but that
had been just talk. None of those dreams had filled her with as much excitement as the prospect of being a writer.
The next morning, when she went down to the kitchen and found the three Teagels at breakfast, she said, "Hey,
Mike, I've just discovered there's an intelligent squid from Mars living in the toilet tank."
"What is this?" Mike demanded.
Laura smiled and said, "Exotic news." '
Two days later Laura was returned to McIlroy Home.
Willy Sheener's living room and den were furnished as if an ordinary man lived there. Stefan was not sure what he
had ex pected. Evidence of dementia, perhaps, but not this neat, orderly home.
One of the bedrooms was empty, and the other was decidedly odd. The only bed was a narrow mattress on the


floor. The pillowcases and sheets were for a child's room, emblazoned with the colorful, antic figures of cartoon
rabbits. The nightstand and dresser were scaled to a child's dimensions, pale blue, with stenciled animals on the
sides and drawers: giraffes, rabbits, squirrels. Sheener owned a collection of Little Golden Books, as well, and
other children's picture books, stuffed animals, and toys suitable for a six- or seven-year-old.
At first Stefan thought that room was designed for the seduction of neighborhood children, that Sheener was
unstable enough to seek out prey even on his home ground, where the risk was greatest. But there was no other
bed in the house, and the closet and dresser drawers were filled with a man's clothing. On the walls were a dozen
framed photos of the same red-headed boy, some as an infant, some when he was seven or eight, and the face
was identifiably that of a younger Sheener. Gradually Stefan realized the decor was for Willy Sheener's benefit
alone. The creep slept here. At bedtime Sheener evidently retreated into a fantasy of childhood, no doubt finding a
desperately needed peace in his eerie, nightly regression.
Standing in the middle of that strange room, Stefan felt both saddened and repelled. It seemed that Sheener
molested children not solely or even primarily for the sexual thrill of it but to absorb their youth, to become young
again like them; through perversion he seemed to be trying to descend not into moral squalor so much as into a lost
innocence. He was equally pathetic and despicable, inadequate to the challenges of adult life but nonetheles s
dangerous for his inadequacies.
Stefan shivered.
Her bed in the Ackerson twins' room was now occupied by another kid. Laura was assigned to a small, two-bed
room at the north end of the third floor near the stairs. Her bunkmate was nine-year-old Eloise Fischer, who had
pigtails, freckles, and a demeanor too serious for a child. "I'm going to be an accountant when I grow up," she told
Laura. "I like numbers a lot. You can add up a column of numbers and get the same answer every time. There're no
surprises with numbers; they're not at all like people." Eloise's parents had been convicted of drug dealing and sent
to prison, and she was in McIlroy while the court decided which relative would be given custody of her.
As soon as Laura had unpacked, she hurried to the Ackersons' room. Bursting in on them, she cried, "I is free, I is
free!"
Tammy and the new girl looked at her blankly, but Ruth and Thelma ran to her and hugged her, and it was like
coming home to real family.
"Your foster family didn't like you?" Ruth asked.
Thelma said, "Ah ha! You used the Ackerson Plan."
"No, I killed them all while they slept."
"That'll work," Thelma agreed.
The new girl, Rebecca Bogner, was about eleven. She and the Ackersons obviously were not sympatico. Listening
to Laura and the twins, Rebecca kept saying "you're weird" and "too weird" and "jeez, what weirdos," with such an
air of superiority and disdain that she poisoned the atmosphere as effectively as a nuclear detonation.
Laura and the twins went outside to a corner of the playground where they could share five weeks of news without
Rebecca's snotty commentary. It was early October, and the days were still warm, though at a quarter till five the air
was cooling. They wore jackets and sat on the lower branches of the jungle gym, which was abandoned now that
the younger children were washing up for the early dinner.
They had not been in the yard five minutes before Willy Sheener arrived with an electric shrub trimmer. He set to
work on a eugenia hedge about thirty feet from them, but his attention was on Laura.
At dinner the Eel. was at his serving station on the cafeteria line, passing out cartons of milk and pieces of cherry
pie. He had saved the largest slice for Laura.
On Monday she entered a new school where the other kids already had four weeks to make friends. Ruth and
Thelma were in a couple of her classes, which made it easier to adjust, but she was reminded that the primary
condition of an orphan's life was instability.
Tuesday afternoon, when Laura returned from school, Mrs. Bowmaine stopped her in the hall. "Laura, may I see
you in my office?"
Mrs. Bowmaine was wearing a purple floral-pattern dress that clashed with the rose and peach floral patterns of her
office drapes and wallpaper. Laura sat in a rose-patterned chair. Mrs. Bowmaine stood at her desk, intending to
deal with Laura quickly and move on to other tasks. Mrs. Bowmaine was a bustler, a busy-busy type.
"Eloise Fischer left our charge today," Mrs. Bowmaine said.
"Who got custody?" Laura asked. "She liked her grandmother. ''
"It was her grandmother," Mrs. Bowmaine confirmed.
Good for Eloise. Laura hoped the pigtailed, freckled, future accountant would find something to trust besides cold
numbers.
"Now you've no roommate," Mrs. Bowmaine said briskly, "and we've no vacant bed elsewhere, so you can't just
move in with—"
"May I make a suggestion?"
Mrs. Bowmaine frowned with impatience and consulted her watch.
Laura said quickly, "Ruth and Thelma are my best friends, and their roomies are Tammy Hinsen and Rebecca


Bogner. But I don't think Tammy and Rebecca get along well with Ruth and Thelma, so—"
"We want you children to learn how to live with people different from you. Bunking with girls you already like won't
build character. Anyway, the point is, I can't make new arrangements until tomorrow; I'm busy today. So I want to
know if I can trust you to spend the night alone in your current room."
"Trust me?" Laura asked in confusion.
"Tell me the truth, young lady. Can I trust you alone tonight?"
Laura could not figure what trouble the social worker anticipated from a child left alone for one night. Perhaps she
expected Laura to barricade herself in the room so effectively that police would have to blast the door, disable her
with tear gas, and drag her out in chains.
Laura was as insulted as she was confused. "Sure, I'll be okay. I'm not a baby. I'll be fine."
"Well ... all right. You'll sleep by yourself tonight, but we'll make other arrangements tomorrow."
After leaving Mrs. Bowmaine's colorful office for the drab hallways, climbing the stairs to the third floor, Laura
suddenly thought: the White Eel! Sheener would know she was going to be alone tonight. He knew everything that
went on at McIlroy , and he had keys, so he could return in the night. Her room was next to the north stairs, so he
could slip out of the stairwell into her room, overpower her in seconds. He'd club her or drug her, stuff her in a
burlap sack, take her away, lock her in a cellar, and no one would know what had happened to her.
She turned at the second-floor landing, descended the stairs two at a time, and rushed back toward Mrs.
Bowmaine's office, but when she turned the corner into the front hall, she nearly collided with the Eel. He had a
mop and a wringer-equipped bucket on wheels, which was filled with water reeking of pine-scented
cleanser.
He grinned at her. Maybe it was only her imagination, but she was certain that he already knew she would be alone
that night.
She should have stepped by him, gone to Mrs. Bowmaine, and begged for a change in the night's sleeping
arrangements. She could not make accusations about Sheener, or she would wind up like Denny Jenkins—
disbelieved by the staff, tormented relentlessly by her nemesis—but she could have found an acceptable excuse
for her change of mind.
She also considered rushing at him, shoving him into his bucket, knocking him on his butt, and telling him that she
was tougher than him, that he had better not mess with her. But he was different from the Teagels. Mike, Flora, and
Hazel were small-minded, obnoxious, ignorant, but comparatively sane. The Eel was insane, and there was no way
of knowing how he would react to being knocked flat.
As she hesitated, his crooked, yellow grin widened.
A flush touched his pale cheeks, and Laura realized it might be a flush of desire, which made her nauseous.
She walked away, dared not run until she had climbed the stairs and was out of his sight. Then she sprinted for the
Ackersons' room.
"You'll sleep here tonight," Ruth said.
"Of course," Thelma said, "you'll have to stay in your room until they finish the bed check, then sneak down here."
From her corner where she was sitting in bed doing math homework, Rebecca Bogner said, "We've only got four
beds."
"I'll sleep on the floor," Laura said.
"This is against the rules," Rebecca said.
Thelma made a fist and glowered at her.
"Okay, all right," Rebecca agreed. "I never said I didn't want her to stay. I just pointed out that it's against the rules."
Laura expected Tammy to object, but the girl lay on her back in bed, atop the covers, staring at the ceiling,
apparently lost in her own thoughts and uninterested in their plans.
In the oak-paneled dining room, over an inedible dinner of pork chops, gluey mashed potatoes, and leathery green
beans —and under the watchful eyes of the Eel—Thelma said, "As for why Bowmaine wanted to know if she could
trust you alone . . . she's afraid you'll try suicide."
Laura was incredulous.
"Kids have done it here," Ruth said sadly. "Which is why they stuff at least two of us into even very small rooms.
Being alone too much . . . that's one of the things that seems to trigger the impulse."
Thelma said, "They won't let Ruth and me share one of the small rooms because, since we're identical twins, they
think we're really like one person. They think they'd no sooner close the door on us than we'd hang ourselves."
"That's ridiculous," Laura said.
"Of course it's ridiculous," Thelma agreed. "Hanging isn't flamboyant enough. The amazing Ackerson sisters —Ruth
and moi—have a flair for the dramatic. We'd commit hara-kiri with stolen kitchen knives, or if we could get hold of a
chainsaw ..."
Throughout the room conversations were conducted in moderate voices, for adult monitors patrolled the dining hall.
The third-floor Resident Advisor, Miss Keist, passed behind the table where Laura sat with the Ackersons, and
Thelma whispered, "Gestapo."
When Miss Keist passed, Ruth said, "Mrs. Bowmaine means well, but she just isn't good at what she does. If she


took time to learn what kind of person you are, Laura, she'd never worry about you committing suicide. You're a
survivor."
As she pushed her inedible food around her plate, Thelma said, "Tammy Hinsen was once caught in the bathroom
with a packet of razor blades, trying to get up the nerve to slash her wrists."
Laura was suddenly impressed by the mix of humor and tragedy, absurdity and bleak realism, that formed the
peculiar pattern of their lives at McIlroy . One moment they were bantering amusingly with one another; a moment
later they were discussing the suicidal tendencies of girls they knew. She realized that such an insight was beyond
her years, and as soon as she returned to her room, she would write it down in the notebook of observations she
had recently begun to keep.
Ruth had managed to choke down the food on her plate. She said, "A month after the razor-blade incident, they
held a surprise search of our rooms, looking for dangerous objects. They found Tammy had a can of lighter fluid
and matches. She'd intended to go into the showers, cover herself with lighter fluid, and set herself on
fire."
"Oh, God." Laura thought of the thin, blond girl with the ashen complexion and the sooty rings around her eyes, and
it seemed that her plan to immolate herself was only a desire to speed up the slow fire that for a long time had been
consuming her from within.
"They sent her away two months for intense therapy," Ruth said.
"When she came back," Thelma said, "the adults talked about how much better she was, but she seemed the same
to Ruth and me."
Ten minutes after Miss Keist's nightly room check, Laura left her bed. The deserted, third-floor hall was lit only by
three safety lamps. Dressed in pajamas, carrying a pillow and blanket, she hurried barefoot to the Ackersons' room.
Only Ruth's bedside lamp was aglow. She whispered, "Laura, you sleep on my bed. I've made a place for myself on
the floor."
"Well, unmake it and get back in your bed," Laura said.
She folded her blanket several times to make a pad on the floor, near the foot of Ruth's bed, and she lay on it with
her pillow.
From her own bed Rebecca Bogner said, "We're all going to get in trouble over this."
"What're you afraid they'll do to us?" Thelma asked. "Stake us in the backyard, smear us with honey, and leave us
for the ants?"
Tammy was sleeping or pretending to sleep.
Ruth turned out her light, and they settled down in darkness.
The door flew open, and the overhead light snapped on. Dressed in a red robe, scowling fiercely, Miss Keist
entered the room. "So! Laura, what're you doing here?"
Rebecca Bogner groaned. "I told you we'd get in trouble."
"Come back to your room right this minute, young lady."
The swiftness with which Miss Keist appeared was suspicious, and Laura looked at Tammy Hinsen. The blonde
was no longer feigning sleep. She was leaning on one elbow, smiling thinly. Evidently she had decided to assist the
Eel in his quest for Laura, perhaps with the hope of regaining her status as his favorite.
Miss Keist escorted Laura to her room. Laura got into bed, and Miss Keist stared at her for a moment. "It 's warm. I'll
open the window." Returning to the bed, she studied Laura thoughtfully. "Is there anything you want to tell me? Is
anything wrong?"
Laura considered telling her about the Eel. But what if Miss Keist waited to catch the Eel as he crept into her room,
and what if he didn't show? Laura would never be able to accuse the Eel again because she'd have a history of
accusing him; no one would take her seriously. Then even if Sheener raped her, he'd get away with it.
"No, nothing's wrong," she said.
Miss Keist said, ' Thelma's too sure of herself for a girl her age, full of false sophistication. If you're foolish enough
to break the rules again just to have an all-night gabfest, develop some friends worth taking the risk for."
"Yes, ma'am," Laura said just to get rid of her, sorry that she had even considered responding to the woman's
moment of concern.
After Miss Keist left, Laura did not get out of bed and flee. She lay in darkness, certain there would be another bed
check in half an hour. Surely the Eel would not slither around until midnight, and it was only ten, so between Miss
Keist's next visit and the Eel's arrival, she'd have plenty of time to get to a safe place.
Far, far away in the night, thunder grumbled. She sat up in bed. Her guardian! She threw back the covers and ran
to the window. She saw no lightning. The distant rumble faded. Perhaps it had not been thunder after all. She
waited ten minutes or more, but nothing else happened. Disappointed, she returned to bed.
Shortly after ten-thirty the doorknob creaked. Laura closed her eyes, let her mouth fall open, and feigned sleep.
Someone stepped quietly across the room, stood beside the bed.
Laura breathed slowly, evenly, deeply, but her heart was racing.
It was Sheener. She knew it was him. Oh, God, she had forgotten he was insane, that he was unpredictable, and
now he was here earlier than she'd expected, and he was preparing the hypodermic. He'd jam her into a burlap


sack and carry her away as if he was a brain-damaged Santa Claus come to steal children rather than leave
gifts.
The clock ticked. The cool breeze rustled the curtains.
At last the person beside the bed retreated. The door closed.
It had been Miss Keist, after all.
Trembling violently, Laura got out of bed and pulled on her robe. She folded the blanket over her arm and left the
room without slippers because she would make less noise if she was barefoot.
She could not return to the Ackersons' room. Instead she went to the north stairs, cautiously opened the door, and
stepped onto the dimly lit landing. She listened for the sound of the Eel's footsteps below. She descended warily,
expecting to encounter Sheener, but she reached the ground floor safely.
Shivering as the cool tile floor imparted its chill to her bare feet, she took refuge in the game room. She didn't turn
on the lights but relied on the ghostly glow of the streetlamps that penetrated the windows and silvered the edges of
the furniture. She eased past chairs and game tables, bedding down on her folded blanket behind
the sofa.
She dozed fitfully, waking repeatedly from nightmares. The old mansion was filled with stealthy sounds in the night:
the creaking of floorboards overhead, the hollow popping of ancient plumbing.
Stefan turned out all the lights and waited in the bedroom that was furnished for a child. At three-thirty in the
morning, he heard Sheener returning. Stefan moved silently behind the bedroom door. A few minutes later Willy
Sheener entered, switched on the light, and started toward the mattress. He made a queer sound as he crossed
the room, partly a sigh and partly the whimper of an animal escaping from a hostile world into its burrow.
Stefan closed the door, and Sheener spun around at the sound of movement, shocked that his nest had been
invaded. "Who . . . who are you? What the hell are you doing here?"
From a Chevy parked in the shadows across the street, Kokoschka watched Stefan depart Willy Sheener's house.
He waited ten minutes, got out of the car, walked around to the back of the bungalow, found the door ajar, and
cautiously went inside.
He located Sheener in a child's bedroom, battered and bloody and still. The air reeked of urine, for the man had lost
control of his bladder.
Someday, Kokoschka thought with grim determination and a thrill of sadism, I'm going to hurt Stefan even worse
than this. Him and that damned girl. As soon as I understand what part she plays in his plans and why he's jumping
across decades to reshape her life, I'll put both of them through the kind of pain that no one knows this side of hell.
He left Sheener's house. In the backyard he stared up at the star-spattered sky for a moment, then returned to the
institute.
Shortly after dawn, before the first of the shelter's residents had arisen but when Laura felt the danger from
Sheener had passed, she left her bed in the game room and returned to the third floor. Everything in her room was
as she had left it. There was no sign that she'd had an intruder during the night.
Exhausted, bleary -eyed, she wondered if she had given the Eel too much credit for boldness and daring. She felt
somewhat foolish.
She made her bed—a housekeeping chore every McIlroy child was expected to perform—and when she lifted her
pillow she was paralyzed by the sight of what lay under it. A single Tootsie Roll.
That day the White Eel did not come to work. He had been awake all night preparing to abduct Laura and no doubt
needed his sleep.
"How does a man like that sleep at all?" Ruth wondered as they gathered in a corner of McIlroy's playground after
school. "I mean, doesn't his conscience keep him awake?"
"Ruthie," Thelma said, "he doesn't have a conscience."
"Everyone does, even the worst of us. That's how God made us."
"Shane," Thelma said, "prepare to assist me in an exorcism. Our Ruth is once again possessed by the moronic
spirit of Gidget."
In an uncharacteristic stroke of compassion, Mrs. Bowmaine moved Tammy and Rebecca to another room and
allowed Laura to bunk with Ruth and Thelma. For the time being the fourth bed was vacant.
"It'll be Paul McCartney's bed," Thelma said, as she and Ruth helped Laura settle in. "Anytime the Beatles are in
town, Paul can come use it. And I’ll use Paul!"
"Sometimes," Ruth said, "you're embarrassing."
"Hey, I'm only expressing healthy sexual desire."
"Thelma, you're only twelve!" Ruth said exasperatedly.
"Thirteen's next. Going to have my first period any day now. We'll wake up one morning, and there'll be so much
blood this place will look like there's been a massacre."
'Thelma!''
Sheener did not come to work on Thursday, either. His days off that week were Friday and Saturday, so by
Saturday evening, Laura and the twins speculated excitedly that the Eel would never show up again, that he had
been run down by a truck or had contracted beriberi.


But at Sunday morning breakfast, Sheener was at the buffet. He had two black eyes, a bandaged right ear, a
swollen upper lip, a six-inch scrape along his left jaw, and he was missing two front teeth.
"Maybe he was hit by a truck," Ruth whispered as they moved forward in the cafeteria line.
Other kids were commenting on Sheener's injuries, and some were giggling. But they either feared and despised
him or scorned him, so none cared to speak to him directly about his condition.
Laura, Ruth, and Thelma fell silent as they reached the buffet. The closer they drew to him, the more battered he
appeared. His black eyes were not new but a few days old, yet the flesh was still horribly discolored and puffy;
initially both eyes must have been nearly swollen shut. His split lip looked raw. Where his face was not bruised or
abraded, his usually milk-pale skin was gray. Under his mop of frizzy, copper-red hair, he was a ludicrous figure—a
circus clown who had taken a pratfall down a set of stairs without knowing how to land properly and avoid injury. He
did not look up at any of the kids as he served them but kept his ey es on the milk and breakfast pastries. He
seemed to tense when Laura came before him, but he did not raise his eyes.
At their table Laura and the twins arranged their chairs so they could watch the Eel, a turn of events they would not
have contemplated an hour ago. But he was now less fearful than intriguing. Instead of avoiding him, they spent
the day following him on his chores, trying to be casual about it, as if they just happened to wind up in the same
places he did, watching him surreptitiously. Gradually it became clear that he was aware of Laura but was avoiding
even glancing at her. He looked at other kids. paused in the game room to speak softly to Tammy Hinsen on one
occasion, but seemed as loath to meet Laura's eyes as he would have been to stick his fingers in an electric
socket. By late morning Ruth said, "Laura, he's afraid of you." "Damned if he isn't," Thelma said. "Was it you who
beat him up. Shane? Have you been hiding the fact that you're a karate expert?"
"It is strange, isn't it? Why's he afraid of me?"
But she knew. Her special guardian. Though she had thought she would have to deal with Sheener herself, her
guardian had come through again, warning Sheener to stay away from her.
She was not sure why she was reluctant to share the story of her mysterious protector with the Ackersons. They
were her best friends. She trusted them. Yet intuitively she felt that the secret of her guardian was meant to remain
a secret, that what little she knew of him was sacred knowledge, and that she had no right to prattle on about him to
other people, reducing sacred knowledge to mere gossip.
During the following two weeks the Eel's bruises faded, and the bandage came off his ear to reveal angry red
stitches where that flap of flesh nearly had been torn off. He continued to keep his distance from Laura. When he
served her in the dining hall, he no longer saved the best dessert for her, and he continued to refuse to meet her
eyes.
Occasionally, however, she caught him glaring at her from across a room. Each time he quickly turned away, but in
his fiery green eyes she now saw something worse than his previous twisted hunger: rage. Obviously he blamed
her for the beating he had suffered.
On Friday, October 27, she learned from Mrs. Bowmaine that she was going to be transferred to another foster
home the following day. A couple in Newport Beach, Mr. and Mrs. Dockweiler, were new to the foster-child program
and eager to have her.
"I'm sure this will be a more compatible arrangement," Mrs. Bowmaine said, standing at her desk in a blazing yellow
floral-print dress that made her look like a sun-porch sofa. "The trouble you caused at the Teagels' better not be
repeated with the Dockweilers."
That night in their room, Laura and the twins tried to put on brave faces and discuss the approaching separation in
the equanimous spirit with which they had faced her departure for the Teagels'. But they were closer now than a
month ago, so close that Ruth and Thelma had begun to speak of Laura as if she were their sister. Thelma even
once had said, "The amazing Ackerson sisters —Ruth, Laura, and moi," and Laura had felt more wanted, more
loved, more alive than at any time in the three months since her father died.
"I love you guys," Laura said.
Ruth said, "Oh, Laura," and burst into tears.
Thelma scowled. "You'll be back in no time. These Dockweilers will be horrid people. They'll make you sleep in the
garage."
"I hope so," Laura said.
"They'll beat you with rubber hoses —"
"That would be good."
This time the lightning that struck her life was good lightning, or at least that was how it seemed at first.
The Dockweilers lived in a huge house in an expensive section of Newport Beach. Laura had her own bedroom
with an ocean view. It was decorated in earth tones, mostly beige.
Showing her the room for the first time, Carl Dockweiler said, "We didn't know what your favorite colors were, so we
left it like this, but we can repaint the whole thing, however you want it." He was fortyish, big as a bear, barrel-
chested, with a broad, rubbery face that reminded her of John Wayne if John Wayne had been a bit amusing
looking. "Maybe a girl your age wants a pink room."
"Oh, no, I like it just the way it is!" Laura said. Still in a state of shock over the sudden opulence into which she had


been plunged, she moved to the window and looked out at the splendid view of Newport Harbor, where yachts
bobbed on sun-spangled water.
Nina Dockweiler joined Laura and put one hand on her shoulder. She was lovely, with smoky coloring, dark hair,
and violet eyes, a china doll of a woman. "Laura, the child-welfare file said you loved books, but we didn't know
what kind of books, so we're going straight to the bookstore and buy whatever you'd like."
At Waldenbooks Laura chose five paperbacks, and the Dockweilers urged her to buy more, but she felt guilty about
spending their money. Carl and Nina scouted the shelves, plucking off volumes and reading cover copy to her,
adding them to her pile if she showed the slightest interest. At one point Carl was crawling on his hands and knees
in the young-adult section, scanning titles on the bottom shelf—"Hey, here's one about a dog. You like animal
stories? Here's a spy story!" —and he was such a comical sight that Laura giggled. By the time they left the store,
they'd bought one hundred books, bagsful of books.
Their first dinner together was at a pizza parlor, where Nina exhibited a surprising talent for magic by plucking a
pepperoni ring from behind Laura's ear, then making it vanish.
"That's amazing," Laura said. "Where'd you learn that?"
"I owned an interior design firm, but I had to give it up eight years ago. Health reasons. Too stressful. I wasn't used
to sitting at home like a lump, so I did all the things I'd dreamed of when I was a businesswoman with no spare
time. Like learning magic."
"Health reasons?" Laura said.
Security was a treacherous rug that people kept pulling out from under her, and now someone was getting ready to
jerk the rug again.
Her fear must have been evident, for Carl Dockweiler said, "Don't worry. Nina was born with a bum heart, a
structural defect, but she'll live as long as you or me if she avoids stress."
"Can't they operate?" Laura asked, putting down the slice of pizza she had just picked up, her appetite having
suddenly fled.
"Cardiovascular surgery's advancing rapidly," Nina said. "In a couple years maybe. But, honey, it's nothing to worry
about. I'll take care of myself, especially now I've got a daughter to spoil!"
"More than anything," Carl said, "we wanted kids, but couldn't have them. By the time we decided to adopt, we
discovered Nina's heart condition, so then the adoption agencies wouldn't approve us."
"But we qualify as foster parents," Nina said, "so if you like living with us, you can stay forever, just as if you were
adopted." That night in her big bedroom with its view of the sea—now an almost scary, vast expanse of darkness—
Laura told herself that she must not like the Dockweilers too much, that Nina's heart condition foreclosed any
possibility of real security.
The following day, Sunday, they took her shopping for clothes and would have spent fortunes if she had not finally
begged them to stop. With their Mercedes crammed full of her new clothes, they went to a Peter Sellers comedy ,
and after the movie they had dinner at a hamburger restaurant where the milkshakes were humongous.
Pouring catsup on her french fries, Laura said, "You guys are lucky that child-welfare sent me to you instead of
some other kid."
Carl raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Well, you're nice, too nice—and a lot more vulnerable than you realize. Any kid would see how vulnerable you
really are, and a lot would take advantage of you. Mercilessly. But you can relax with me. I'll never take advantage
of you or make you sorry you took me in."
They stared at her in amazement.
At last Carl looked at Nina. "They've tricked us. She's not twelve. They've palmed off a dwarf on us."
That night in bed, as she waited for sleep, Laura repeated her litany of self-protection: "Don't like them too much,
don't like them too much ..." But already she liked them enormously.
The Dockweilers sent her to a private academy where the teachers were more demanding than those in the public
schools she had attended, but she relished the challenge and performed well. Slowly she made new friends. She
missed Thelma and Ruth, but she took some comfort from knowing they would be pleased that she had found
happiness.
She even began to think that she could have faith in the future and could dare to be happy. After all, she had a
special guardian, didn't she? Perhaps even a guardian angel. Surely any girl blessed with a guardian angel was
destined for love, happiness, and security.
But would a guardian angel actually shoot a man in the head? Beat another man to a bloody pulp? Never mind.
She had a handsome guardian, angel or not, and foster parents who loved her, and she could not refuse happiness
when it showered on her by the bucketful.
On Tuesday, December 5, Nina had her monthly appointment with her cardiologist, so no one was at home when
Laura returned from school that afternoon. She let herself in with her key and put her textbooks on the Louis XIV
table in the foyer near the foot of the stairs.
The enormous living room was decorated in shades of cream, peach, and pale green, which made it cozy in spite
of its size. As she paused at the windows to enjoy the view, she thought of how much better it would be if Ruth and


Thelma could enjoy it with her—and suddenly it seemed the most natural thing that they should be there.
Why not? Carl and Nina loved kids. They had enough love for a houseful of kids, for a thousand kids.
"Shane," she said aloud, "you're a genius."
She went to the kitchen and prepared a snack to take to her room. She poured a glass of milk, heated a chocolate
croissant in the oven, and got an apple from the refrigerator, as she mulled over the ways in which she might
broach the subject of the twins with the Dockweilers. The plan was such a natural that by the time she carried her
snack to the swinging door that separated kitchen and dining room and pushed it open with her shoulder, she had
been unable to think of a single approach that would fail.
The Eel was waiting in the dining room, and he grabbed her and slammed her up against the wall so hard that he
knocked the wind out of her. The apple and chocolate croissant flew off the plate, the plate flew out of her hand, he
knocked the glass of milk out of her other hand, and it struck the dining-room table, shattering noisily. He pulled her
away from the wall but slammed her into it again, Pain flashed down her back, her vision clouded, she knew she
dared not black out, so she held on to consciousness, held on tenaciously though she was racked with pain,
breathless, and half concussed.
Where was her guardian? Where?
Sheener shoved his face close to hers, and terror seemed to sharpen her senses, for she was acutely aware of
every detail of his rage-wrenched countenance: the still-red suture marks where his torn ear had been reattached to
his head, the blackheads in the creases around his nose, the acne scars in his mealy skin. His green eyes were too
strange to be human, as alien and fierce as those of a cat.
Her guardian would pull the Eel off her at any second now, pull him off her and kill him. Any second now.
"I got you," he said, his voice shrill, manic, "now you're mine, honey, and you're gonna tell me who that son of a
bitch was, the one who beat on me, I'll blow his head off."
He was holding her by her upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. He lifted her off the floor, raised her to his
eye level, and pinned her against the wall. Her feet dangled in the air.
"Who is the bastard?" He was so strong for his size. He lifted her away from the wall, slammed her against it again,
keeping her at eye level. "Tell me, honey, or I'll tear your ear off." Any second now. Any second.
Pain still throbbed through her back, but she was able to draw breath, although what she drew in was his breath,
sour and nauseating.
"Answer me, honey."
She could die waiting for a guardian angel to intervene. She kicked him in the crotch. It was a perfect shot. His legs
were planted wide, and he was so unaccustomed to girls who fought back that he never saw it coming. His eyes
widened—they actually looked like human eyes for an instant —and he made a low, strangled sound. His hands
dropped away from her. Laura collapsed to the floor, and Sheener staggered backward, lost his balance, fell
against the dining-room table, folded to his side on the Chinese carpet.
Nearly immobilized by pain, shock, and fear, Laura could not get to her feet. Rag legs. Limp. So crawl. She could
crawl. Away from him. Frantically. Toward the dining-room archway. Hoping to be able to stand by the time she
reached the living room. He grabbed her left ankle. She tried to kick loose. No good. Rag legs. Sheener held on.
Cold fingers. Corpse-cold. He made a thin, shrieking sound. Weird. She put her hand in a milk-soaked patch of
carpet. Saw the broken glass. The top of the tumbler had shattered. The heavy base was intact, crowned with
sharp spears. Drops of milk clinging to it. Still winded, half paralyzed by pain, the Eel seized her other ankle.
Hitched-twitched-dragged himself toward her. He was still shrieking. Like a bird. Going to throw himself on top of
her. Pin her. She seized the broken glass. Cut her thumb. Didn't feel a thing. He let go of her ankles to grab at her
thighs. She flipped-writhed onto her back. As if she were an eel. Thrust the jagged end of the broken tumbler at
him, not intending to stab him, hoping only to ward him off. But he was heaving himself onto her, falling onto her,
and the three glass points speared into his throat. He tried to pull away. Twisted the tumbler. The points broke off in
his flesh. Choking, gagging, he nailed her to the floor with his body. Blood streamed from his nose. She squirmed.
He clawed at her. His knee bore down hard on her hip. His mouth was at her throat. He bit her. Just nipped her
skin. He'd get a bigger bite next time if she let him. She thrashed. Breath whistled and rattled in his ruined throat.
She slithered free. He grabbed. She kicked. Her legs worked better now. The kick landed solidly. She crawled
toward the living room. Gripped the frame of the dining-room archway. Pulled herself to her feet. Glanced back. The
Eel was on his feet as well, a dining-room chair raised like a club. He swung it. She dodged. The chair hit the frame
of the archway with a thunderous sound. She staggered into the living room, heading for the foyer, the door,
escape. He threw the chair. It struck her shoulder. She went down. Rolled. Looked up. He towered over her, seized
her left arm. Her strength faded. Darkness pulsed at the edges of her vision. He gripped her other arm. She was
finished. Would have been finished, anyway, if the glass in his throat had not finally worked through one more
artery. Blood suddenly gushed from his nose. He collapsed atop her, a great and terrible weight, dead.
She could not move, could barely breathe, and had to struggle to hold fast to consciousness. Above the eerie
sound of her own strangled sobs, she heard a door open. Footsteps.
"Laura? I'm home." It was Nina's voice, light and cheery at first, then shrill with horror: "Laura? Oh, my God, Laura!"
Laura strove to push the dead man off her, but she was able to squirm only half free of the corpse, just far enough


to see Nina standing in the foyer archway.
For a moment the woman was paralyzed by shock. She stared at her cream and peach and seafoam-green living
room, the tasteful decor now liberally accented with crimson smears. Then her violet eyes returned to Laura, and
she snapped out of her trance. "Laura, oh, dear God, Laura." She took three steps forward, halted abruptly, and
bent over, hugging herself as if she had been hit in the stomach. She made an odd sound: "Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh."
She tried to straighten up. Her face was contorted. She could not seem to stand erect, and finally she crumpled to
the floor and made no sound at all.
It could not happen like this. This wasn't fair, damn it.
New strength, born of panic and of love for Nina, filled Laura. She wriggled free of Sheener and crawled quickly to
her foster mother.
Nina was limp. Her beautiful eyes were open, sightless.
Laura put her bloody hand to Nina's neck, feeling for a pulse. She thought she found one. Weak, irregular, but a
pulse.
She pulled a cushion off a chair and put it under Nina's head, then ran into the kitchen where the numbers of the
police and fire departments were on the wall phone. Shakily, she reported Nina's heart attack and gave the fire
department their address.
When she hung up, she knew everything was going to be all right because she had already lost one parent to a
heart attack, her father, and it would be just too absurd to lose Nina the same way. Life had absurd moments, yes,
but life itself wasn't absurd. Life was strange, difficult, miraculous, precious, tenuous, mysterious, but not flat-out
absurd. So Nina would live because Nina dying made no sense.
Still scared and worried but feeling better, Laura hurried back to the living room and knelt beside her foster mother,
held her.
Newport Beach had first-rate emergency services. The ambulance arrived no more than three or four minutes after
Laura had called for it. The two paramedics were efficient and well equipped. Within just a few minutes, however,
they pronounced Nina dead, and no doubt she had been dead from the moment she collapsed.
One week after Laura returned to McIlroy and eight days before Christmas, Mrs. Bowmaine reassigned Tammy
Hinsen to the fourth bed in the Ackersons' room. In an unusual private session with Laura, Ruth, and Thelma, the
social worker explained the reasoning behind that reassignment: "I know you say Tammy isn't happy with you girls,
but she seems to get along better there than anywhere else. We've had her in several rooms, but the other children
can't tolerate her. I don't know what it is about the child that makes her an outcast, but her other roommates usually
end up using her as a punching bag."
Back in their room, before Tammy arrived, Thelma settled into a basic yoga position on the floor, legs folded in a
pretzel form, heels against hips. She had become interested in yoga when the Beatles endorsed Eastern
meditation, and she had said that when she finally met Paul McCartney (which was her indisputable destiny), "it
would be nice if we have something in common, which we will if I can talk with some authority about this yoga
crap."
Now, instead of meditating she said, "What would that cow have done if I'd said, 'Mrs. Bowmaine, the kids don't like
Tammy because she let herself be diddled by the Eel, and she helped him target other vulnerable girls, so as far as
they're concerned, she's the enemy.' What would Bovine Bowmaine have done when I laid that on her?"
"She'd have called you a lying scuz," Laura said, flopping down on her sway -backed bed.
"No doubt. Then she'd have eaten me for lunch. Do you believe the size of that woman? She gets bigger by the
week. Anyone that big is dangerous, a ravenous omnivore capable of eating the nearest child, bones and all, as
casually as she'd consume a pint of fudge ripple."
At the window, looking down at the playground behind the mansion, Ruth said, "It's not fair the way the other kids
treat Tammy."
"Life isn't fair," Laura said.
"Life isn't a weenie roast, either," Thelma said. "Jeez, Shane, don't wax philosophical if you're going to be trite. You
know we hate triteness here only slightly less than we hate turning on the radio and hearing Bobbie Gentry singing
Ode to Billy Joe."
When Tammy moved in an hour later, Laura was tense. She had killed Sheener, after all, and Tammy had been
dependent on him. She expected Tammy to be bitter and angry, but in fact the girl greeted her only with a sincere,
shy, and piercingly sad smile.
After Tammy had been with them two days, it became clear that she viewed the loss of the Eel's twisted affections
with perverse regret but also with relief. The fiery temper she had revealed when she tore apart Laura's books was
quenched. She was once again that drab, bony, was hed-out girl who, on Laura's first day at McIlroy, had seemed
more of an apparition than a real person, in danger of dissolving into smoky ectoplasm and, with the first good draft,
dissipating entirely.
After the deaths of the Eel and Nina Dockweiler, Laura attended half-hour sessions with Dr. Boone, a
psychotherapist, when he visited McIlroy every Tuesday and Saturday. Boone was unable to understand that Laura
could absorb the shock of Willy Sheener's attack and Nina's tragic death without psychological damage. He was


puzzled by her articulate discussions of her feelings and the adult vocabulary with which she expressed her
adjustment to events in Newport Beach. Having been motherless, having lost her father, having endured many
crises and much terror—but most of all, having benefited from her father's wondrous love—she was as resilient as
a sponge, absorbing what life presented. However, though she could speak of Sheener with dispassion and of Nina
with as much affection as sadness, the psychiatrist viewed her adjustment as merely apparent and not real.
"So you dream about Willy Sheener?" he asked as he sat beside her on the sofa in the small office reserved for him
at McIlroy .
"I've only dreamed of him twice. Nightmares, of course. But all kids have nightmares."
"You dream about Nina, too. Are those nightmares?"
"Oh, no! Those are lovely dreams."
He looked surprised. "When you think of Nina, you feel sad?"
"Yes. But also ... I remember the fun of shopping with her, trying on dresses and sweaters. I remember her smile
and her laugh."
"And guilt? Do you feel guilty about what happened to Nina?"
"No. Maybe Nina wouldn't have died if I hadn't moved in with them and drawn Sheener after me, but I can't feel
guilty about that. I tried hard to be a good foster daughter to them, and they were happy with me. What happened
was that life dropped a big custard pie on us, and that's not my fault; you can never see the custard pies coming.
It's not good slapstick if you see the pie coming."
"Custard pie?" he asked, perplexed. "You see life as slapstick comedy? Like the Three Stooges?"
"Partly."
"Life is just a joke then?"
"No. Life is serious and a joke at the same time."
"But how can that be?"
"If you don't know," she said, "maybe I should be the one asking the questions here."
She filled many pages of her current notebook with observations about Dr. Will Boone. Of her unknown guardian,
however, she wrote nothing. She tried not to think of him, either. He had failed her. Laura had come to depend on
him; his heroic efforts on her behalf had made her feel special, and feeling special had helped her cope since her
father's death. Now she felt foolish for ever looking beyond herself for survival. She still had the note he had left on
her desk after her father's funeral, but she no longer reread it. And day by day her guardian's previous efforts on
her behalf seemed more like fantasies akin to those of Santa Claus, which must be outgrown.
On Christmas afternoon they returned to their room with the gifts they received from charities and do-gooders. They
wound up in a sing-along of holiday songs, and both Laura and the twins were amazed when Tammy joined in. She
sang in a low, tentative voice.
Over the next couple of weeks she nearly ceased biting her nails altogether. She was only slightly more outgoing
than usual, but she seemed calmer, more content with herself than she had ever been.
"When there's no perv around to bother her," Thelma said, "maybe she gradually starts to feel clean again."
Friday, January 12, 1968, was Laura's thirteenth birthday, but she did not celebrate it. She could find no joy in the
occasion.
On Monday, she was transferred from McIlroy to Caswell Hall, a shelter for older children in Anaheim, five miles
away.
Ruth and Thelma helped her carry her belongings downstairs to the front foyer. Laura had never imagined that she
would so intensely regret leaving McIlroy .
"We'll be coming in May," Thelma assured her. "We turn thirteen on May second, and then we're out of here. We'll
be together again."
When the social worker from Caswell arrived, Laura was reluctant to go. But she went.
Caswell Hall was an old high school that had been converted to dormitories, recreational lounges, and offices for
social workers. As a result the atmosphere was more institutional than at McIlroy. Caswell was also more
dangerous than McIlroy because the kids were older and because many were borderline juvenile delinquents.
Marijuana and pills were available, and fights among the boys— and even among the girls—were not infrequent.
Cliques formed, as they had at McIlroy , but at Caswell some of the cliques were perilously close in structure and
function to street gangs. Thievery was common.
Within a few weeks Laura realized that there were two types of survivors in life: those, like her, who found the
requisite strength in having once been loved with great intensity; and those who, having not been loved, learned to
thrive on hatred, suspicion, and the meager rewards of revenge. They were at once scornful of the need for human
feeling and envious of the capacity for it.
She lived with great caution at Caswell but never allowed fear to diminish her. The thugs were frightening but also
pathetic and, in their posturing and rituals of violence, even funny. She found no one like the Ackersons with whom
to share the black humor, so she filled her notebooks with it. In those neatly written monologues, she turned inward
while she waited for the Ackersons to be thirteen; that was an intensely rich time of self-discovery and increasing
understanding of the slapstick, tragic world into which she had been born.


On Saturday, March 30, she was in her room at Caswell, reading, when she heard one of her roomies—a whiny girl
named Fran Wickert —talking to another girl in the hall, discussing a fire in which kids had been killed. Laura was
eavesdropping with only half an ear until she heard the word "McIlroy ."
A chill pierced her, freezing her heart, numbing her hands. She dropped the book and raced into the hallway,
startling the girls. "When? When was this fire?"
"Yesterday," Fran said.
"How many were k-killed?"
"Not many, two kids I think, maybe only one, but I heard if you was there you could smell burnin' meat. Is that the
grossest thing—"
Advancing on Fran, Laura said, "What were their names?"
"Hey, let me go."
"Te ll me their names!"
"I don't know any names. Christ, what's the matter with you?"
Laura did not remember letting go of Fran, and she did not recall leaving the grounds of the shelter, but suddenly
she found herself on Katella Avenue, blocks from Caswell Hall. Katella was a commercial street in that area, and in
some places there was no sidewalk, so she ran on the shoulder of the road, heading east, with traffic whizzing by
on her right side. Caswell was five miles from McIlroy , and she was not sure she knew the entire route, but trusting
to instinct she ran until she was exhausted, then walked until she could run again.
The rational course would have been to go straight to one of the Caswell counselors and ask for the names of
those kids killed in the fire at McIlroy. But Laura had the peculiar idea that the Ackerson twins' fate rested entirely
upon her willingness to make the difficult trip to McIlroy to inquire about them, that if she asked about them by
phone she would be told they were dead, that if instead she endured the physical punishment of the five-mile run,
she'd find the Ackersons were safe. That was superstition, but she succumbed to it anyway.
Twilight descended. The late-March sky was filled with muddy-red and purple light, and the edges of the scattered
clouds appeared to be aflame by the time Laura came within sight of the McIlroy Home. With relief she saw that the
front of the old mansion was unmarked by fire.
Although she was soaked with sweat and shaking with exhaus tion, though she had a throbbing headache, she did
not slow when he saw the unscorched mansion but maintained her pace for the final block. She passed six kids in
the ground-floor hallways and three more on the stairs, and two of them spoke to her by name. But she did not stop
to ask them about the blaze. She had to see.
On the last flight of stairs she caught the scent of a fire's aftermath: the acrid, tarry stench of burnt things; the
lingering, sour smell of smoke. When she went through the door at the top of she stairwell, she saw that the
windows were open at each end of the third-floor hall and that electric fans had been set up in the middle of the
corridor to blow the tainted air in both directions.
The Ackersons' room had a new, unpainted door frame and door, but the surrounding wall was scorched and
smeared with black soot. A hand-printed sign warned of danger. Like all the doors in McIlroy , this one had no lock,
so she ignored the sign and flung open the door and stepped across the threshold and saw what she had been so
afraid of seeing: destruction.
The hall lights behind her and the purple glow of twilight at the windows did not adequately illuminate the room, but
she saw that the remains of the furniture had been cleaned out; the place was empty but for the reeking ghost of
the fire. The floor was blackened by soot and charred, though it looked structurally sound. The walls were smoke-
damaged. The closet doors had been reduced to ashes but for a few burnt chunks of wood clinging to the hinges,
which had partially melted. Both windows had blown out or been broken by those fleeing the flames; now those
gaps were temporarily covered by sections of clear-plastic dropcloths stapled to the walls. Fortunately for the other
kids at McIlroy , the fire had burned upward rather than outward, eating through the ceiling. She looked overhead
into the mansion's attic where massive, blackened beams were dimly visible in the gloom. Apparently the flames
had been stopped before they'd broken through to the roof, for she could not see the sky.
She was breathing laboriously, noisily, not only because of the exhausting trip from Caswell but because a vise of
panic was squeezing her chest painfully, making it difficult to inhale. And every breath of the bitterly scented air
brought the nauseating taste of carbon.
From that moment in her room at Caswell when she had heard of the fire at McIlroy , she had known the cause,
though she had not wanted to admit to the knowledge. Tammy Hinsen once had been caught with a can of lighter
fluid and matches with which she planned to set herself afire. On hearing of that intended self-immolation, Laura
had known that Tammy had been serious about it because immolation seemed such a right form of suicide for her,
an externalization of the inner fire that had been consuming her for years.
Please, God, she was alone in the room when she did it, please.
Gagging on the stink and taste of destruction, Laura turned away from the fire-blasted room and stepped into the
third-floor corridor.
"Laura?"
She looked up and saw Rebecca Bogner. Laura's breath came and went in wrenching inhalations, shuddering


exhalations, but somehow she croaked their names: "Ruth . . . Thelma?"
Rebecca's bleak expression denied the possibility that the twins had escaped unharmed, but Laura repeated the
precious names, and in her ragged voice she heard a pathetic, beseeching note.
"Down there," Rebecca said, pointing toward the north end of the hall. "The next to the last room on the left."
With a sudden rush of hope, Laura ran to the indicated room. Three beds were empty, but in the fourth, revealed by
the light of a reading lamp, was a girl lying on her side, facing the wall.
"Ruth? Thelma?"
The girl on the bed slowly rose—one of the Ackersons, unharmed. She wore a drab, badly wrinkled, gray dress; her
hair was in disarray; her face was puffy, her eyes moist with tears. She took a step toward Laura but stopped as if
the effort of walking was too great.
Laura rushed to her, hugged her.
With her head on Laura's shoulder, face against Laura's neck, she spoke at last in a tortured voice. "Oh, I wish it'd
been me, Shane. If it had to be one of us, why couldn't it have been me?"
Until the girl spoke, Laura had assumed that she was Ruth.
Refusing to accept that horror, Laura said, "Where's Ruthie?"
"Gone. Ruthie's gone. I thought you knew, my Ruthie's dead."
Laura felt as if something deep within her had torn. Her grief was so powerful that it precluded tears; she was
stunned, numb.
For the longest time they just held each other. Twilight faded coward night. They moved to the bed and sat on the
edge.
A couple of kids appeared at the door. They evidently shared the room with Thelma, but Laura waved them away.
Looking at the floor, Thelma said, "I woke up to this shrieking, such a horrible shrieking . . . and all this light so
bright it hurt my eves. And then I realized the room was on fire. Tammy was on fire. Blazing like a torch. Thrashing
in her bed, blazing and shrieking ..."
Laura put an arm around her and waited.
"... The fire leaped off Tammy—whoosh up the wall, her bed was on fire, and fire was spreading across the floor,
the rug was burning ..."
Laura remembered how Tammy had sung with them on Christmas and had thereafter been calmer day by day, as if
gradually finding inner peace. Now it was obvious that the peace she'd found had been based on the determination
to end her torment.
"Tammy's bed was nearest the door, the door was on fire, so I broke the window over my bed. I called to Ruth, she
... s-she said she was coming, there was smoke, I couldn't see, then Heather Doming, who was bunking in your old
bed, she came to the window, so I helped her get out, and the smoke was sucked out of the window, so the room
cleared a little, which was when I saw Ruth was trying to throw her own blanket over Tammy to s-smother the
flames, but that blanket had caught f-fire, too, and I saw Ruth . . . Ruth . . . Ruth on fire . . ."
Outside, the last purple light melted into darkness.
The shadows in the corners of the room deepened.
The lingering burnt odor seemed to grow stronger.
"... and I would've gone to her, I would've gone, but just then the f-fire exploded, it was everywhere in the room, and
the smoke was black and so thick, and I couldn't see Ruth any more or anything . . . then I heard sirens, loud and
close, sirens, so I tried to tell myself they'd get there in time to help Ruth, which was a l-l-lie, a lie I told myself and
wanted to believe, and ... I left her there, Shane. Oh, God, I went out the window and left Ruthie on f-f-fire, burning
..."
"You couldn't do anything else," Laura assured her.
"I left Ruthie burning."
"There was nothing you could do."
"I left Ruthie."
"There was no point in you dying too."
"I left Ruthie burning."
In May, after her thirteenth birthday, Thelma was transferred to Caswell and assigned to a room with Laura. The
social workers agreed to that arrangement because Thelma was suffering from depression and was not responding
to therapy. Maybe she would find the succor she needed in her friendship with Laura.
For months Laura despaired of reversing Thelma's decline. At night Thelma was plagued by dreams, and by day
she stewed in self-recrimination. Eventually, time healed her, though her wounds never entirely closed. Her sense
of humor gradually returned, and her wit became as sharp as ever, but there was a new melancholy in her.
They shared a room at Caswell Hall for five years, until they left the custody of the state and embarked on lives
under no one's control but their own. They shared many laughs during those years. Life was good again but never
the same as it had been before the fire.
In the main lab of the institute, the dominant object was the gate through which one could step into other ages. It
was a huge, barrel-shaped device, twelve feet long and eight feet in diameter, of highly polished steel on the


outside, lined with polished copper on the inside. It rested on copper blocks that held it eighteen inches off the floor.
Thick electrical cables trailed from it, and within the barrel strange currents made the air shimmer as if it were
water.
Kokoschka returned through time to the gate, materializing inside that enormous cylinder. He had made several
trips that day, shadowing Stefan in far times and places, and at last he had learned why the traitor was obsessed
with reshaping the life of Laura Shane. He hurried to the mouth of the gate and stepped down onto the lab floor,
where two scientists and three of his own men were waiting for him.
"The girl has nothing to do with the bastard's plots against the government, nothing to do with his attempts to
destroy the time-travel project," Kokoschka said. "She's an entirely separate matter, just a personal crusade of his."
"So now we know everything he's done and why," said one of the scientists, "and you can eliminate him."
"Yes," Kokoschka said, crossing the room to the main programming board. "Now that we've uncovered all the
traitor's secrets, we can kill him."
As he sat down at the programming board, intending to reset the gate to deliver him to yet another time, where he
could surprise the traitor, Kokoschka decided to kill Laura, too. It would be an easy job, something he could handle
by himself, for he would have the element of surprise on his side; he preferred to work alone, anyway, whenever
possible; he disliked sharing the pleasure. Laura Shane was no danger to the government or to its plans to reshape
the future of the world, but he would kill her first and in front of Stefan, merely to break the traitor's heart before
putting a bullet in it. Besides, Kokoschka liked to kill.

Three

A LIGHT IN THE DARK

On Laura Shane's twenty-second birthday, January 12, 1977, she received a toad in the mail. The box in which it
came bore no return address, and no note was enclosed. She opened it at the desk by the window in the living
room of her apartment, and the clear sunlight of the unusually warm winter day glimmered pleasingly on the
charming little figurine. The toad was ceramic, two inches tall, standing on a ceramic lily pad, wearing a top hat and
holding a cane.
Two weeks earlier the campus literary magazine had published "Amphibian Epics," a short story of hers about a girl
whose father spun fanciful tales of an imaginary toad, Sir Tommy of England. Only she knew that the piece was as
much fact as fiction, though someone apparently intuited at least something of the true importance that the story
had for her, because the grinning toad in the top hat was packed with extraordinary care. It was carefully wrapped
in a swatch of soft cotton cloth tied with red ribbon, then further wrapped in tissue paper, nestled in a plain white
box in a bed of cotton balls, and that box was packed in a nest of shredded newspaper inside a still larger box. No
one would go to such trouble to protect a five-dollar, novelty figurine unless the packing was meant to signify the
sender's perception of the depth of her emotional involvement with the events of "Amphibian Epics."
To afford the rent, she shared her off-campus apartment in Irvine with two juniors at the university, Meg Falcone
and Julie Ishimina, and at first she thought perhaps one of them had sent the toad. They seemed unlikely
candidates, for Laura was not close to either of them. They were busy with studies and interests of their own; and
they had lived with her only since the previous September. They claimed to have no knowledge of the toad, and
their denials seemed sincere.
She wondered if Dr. Matlin, the faculty adviser to the literary magazine at UCI, might have sent the figurine. Since
her sophomore year, when she had taken Matlin's course in creative writing, he had encouraged her to pursue her
talent and polish her craftsmanship. He had been particularly fond of "Amphibian Epics," so maybe he had sent the
toad to say "well done." But why no return address, no card? Why the secrecy? No, that was out of character for
Harry Matlin.
She had a few casual friends at the university, but she was not truly close to anyone because she had little time to
make and sustain deep friendships. Between her studies, her job, and her writing, she used up all the hours of the
day not devoted to sleeping or eating. She could think of no one who would have gone out of his way to buy the
toad, package it, and mail it anonymously. A mystery.
The following day her first class was at eight o'clock and her last at two. She returned to her nine-year-old Chevy in
the campus parking lot at a quarter till four, unlocked the door, got behind the wheel—and was startled to see
another toad on the dashboard.
It was two inches high and four inches long. This one was also ceramic, emerald green, reclining with one arm bent
and its head propped on its hand. It was smiling dreamily.
She was sure she had left the car locked, and in fact it had been locked when she returned from class. The
enigmatic giver of toads had evidently gone to cons iderable trouble to open the Chevy without a key —a loid of
some kind or a coathanger worked through the top of the window to the lock button—and leave the toad in a
dramatic fashion.
Later she put the reclining toad on her nightstand where the top hat-and-cane fellow already stood. She spent the


evening in bed, reading. From time to time her attention drifted away from the page to the ceramic figures.
The next morning when she left the apartment, she found a small box on her doorstep. Inside was another
met iculously wrapped toad. It was cast in pewter, sitting upon a log, holding a banjo. The mystery deepened.
In the summer she put in a full shift as a waitress at Hamburger Hamlet in Costa Mesa, but during the school year
her course load was so heavy that she could work only three evenings a week. The
Hamlet was an upscale hamburger restaurant providing good food for reasonable prices in a moderately plush
ambience—crossbeam ceiling, lots of wood paneling, hugely comfortable armchairs —so the customers were
us ually happier than those in other places where she had waited tables.
Even if the atmosphere had been seedy and the customers surly, she would have kept the job; she needed the
money. On her eighteenth birthday, four years ago, she learned that her father had established a trust fund,
consisting of the assets liquidated upon his death, and that the trust could not be touched by the state to pay for her
care at McIlroy Home and Caswell Hall. At that time the funds had become hers to spend, and she had applied
them toward living and college expenses. Her father hadn't been rich; there was only twelve thousand dollars even
after six years of accrued interest, not nearly enough for four years of rent, food, clothing, and tuition, so she
depended upon her income as a waitress to make up the difference.
On Sunday evening, January 16, she was halfway through her shift at the Hamlet when the host escorted an older
couple, about sixty, to one of the booths in Laura's station. They asked for two Michelobs while they studied the
menu. A few minutes later, when she returned from the bar with the beers and two frosted mugs on a tray, she saw
a ceramic toad on their table. She nearly dropped the tray in surprise. She looked at the man, at the woman, and
they were grinning at her, but they weren't saying anything, so she said, "You've been giving me toads? But I don't
even know you—do I?"
The man said, "Oh, you've gotten more of these, have you?"
"This is the fourth. You didn't bring this for me, did you? But it wasn't here a few minutes ago. Who put it on the
table?"
He winked at his wife, and she said to Laura, "You've got a secret admirer, dear."
"Who?"
"Young fella was sitting at that table over there," the man said, pointing across the room to a station served by a
waitress named Amy Heppleman. The table was now empty; the busboy had just finished clearing away the dirty
dishes. "Soon as you left to get our beers, he comes over and asks if he can leave this here for you."
It was a Christmas toad in a Santa suit, without a beard, a sack of toys over its shoulder.
The woman said, "You don't really know who he is?"
"No. What'd he look like?"
"Tall," the man said. "Quite tall and husky. Brown hair." "Brown eyes too," his wife said. "Soft -spoken." Holding the
toad, staring at it, Laura said, "There's something about this . . . something that makes me uneasy." "Uneasy?" the
woman said. "But it's just a young man who's smitten with you, dear." "Is it?" she wondered. Laura found Amy
Heppleman at the salad preparation counter and sought a better description of the toad-giver.
"He had a mushroom omelet, whole-wheat toast, and a Coke." Amy said, using a pair of stainless-steel tongs to fill
two bowls with j salad greens. "Didn't you see him sitting there?" ' "I didn't notice him, no." "Biggish guy. Jeans. A
blue-checkered shirt. His hair was cut too short, but he was kinda cute if you like the moose type. Didn't talk much.
Seemed kinda shy." "Did he pay with a credit card?" "No. Cash." "Damn," Laura said.
She took the Santa toad home and put it with the other figurines. The following morning, Monday, as she left the
apartment, she found yet another plain white box on the doorstep. She opened it reluctantly. It contained a clear
glass toad.
When Laura returned from the UCI campus that same afternoon Julie Ishimina was sitting at the dinette table,
reading the daily paper and drinking a cup of coffee. "You got another one," she said, pointing to a box on the
kitchen counter. ' 'Came in the mail." Laura tore open the elaborately wrapped package. The sixth toad was actually
a pair of toads —salt and pepper shakers.
She put the shakers with the other figurines on her nightstand and for a long while she sat on the edge of her bed,
frowning at that growing collection.
At five o'clock that afternoon she called Thelma Ackerson in Los Angeles and told her about the toads.
Lacking a trust fund of any size, Thelma had not even considered college, but as she said, that was no tragedy
because she was not interested in academics. Upon completing high school, she had gone straight from Caswell
Hall to Los Angeles, intent upon breaking into show business as a stand-up comic.
Nearly every night, from about six o'clock until two in the morning, she hung around the comedy clubs —the Improv,
the Comedy Store, and all their imitators —angling for a six-minute, unpaid shot on the stage, making contacts (or
hoping to make them), competing with a horde of young comics for the coveted exposure.
She worked days to pay the rent, moving from job to job, some of them decidedly peculiar. Among other things she
had worn a chicken suit and sung songs and waited tables in a weird "theme" pizza parlor, and she'd been a picket -
line stand-in for a few Writers Guild West members who were required by their union to participate in a strike action
but who preferred to pay someone a hundred bucks a day to carry a placard for them and sign their names on the


duty roster.
Though they lived just ninety minutes apart, Laura and Thelma got together only two or three times a year, usually
just for a long lunch or dinner, because they led busy lives. But regardless of the time between visits, they were
instantly comfortable with each other and quick to share their most intimate thoughts and experiences. "The
McIlroy -Caswell bond," Thelma once said, "is stronger than being blood brothers, stronger than the Mafia
covenant , stronger than the bond between Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble, and those two are close."
Now, after she listened to Laura's story, Thelma said, "So what’s your problem, Shane? Sounds to me like some
big, shy of a guy has a crush on you. Lots of women would swoon over this.”
“Is that what it is, though? An innocent crush?"
“W hat else?"
“I don't know. But it ... makes me uneasy."
“Uneasy? These toads are all cute little things, aren't they? None of them is a snarling toad? None of them is
holding a bloody butcher knife? Or a little ceramic chainsaw?"
“No."
“He hasn't sent you any beheaded toads, has he?"
“No. but —"
“Shane, the last few years have been calm, though of course you've had a pretty eventful life. It's understandable
that you'd expect this guy to be Charles Manson's brother. But it's almost a sure bet he's just what he appears to
be—a guy who admires you from afar, is maybe a little shy, and has a streak of romance in him about eighteen
inches wide. How's your sex life?"
"I don't have any," Laura said.
"Why not? You're not a virgin. There was that guy last year—"
"Well, you know that didn't work out."
"Nobody since?"
"No. What do you think —I'm promiscuous?"
"Sheesh! Kiddo, two lovers in twenty-two years would not make you promiscuous even by the pope's definition.
Unbend a little. Relax. Stop being a worrier. Flow with this, see where it goes. He might just turn out to be Prince
Charming."
"Well . . . maybe I will. I guess you're right."
"But, Shane?"
"Yeah?"
"Just for luck, from now on you better carry a .357 Magnum."
"Very funny."
"Funny is my business."
During the following three days Laura received two more toads, and by Saturday morning, the twenty-second, she
was equally confused, angry, and afraid. Surely no secret admirer would string the game out so long. Each new
toad seemed to be mocking rather than honoring her. There was a quality of obsession in the giver's
relentlessness.
She spent much of Friday night in a chair by the big living-room window, sitting in the dark. Through the half-open
drapes, she had a view of the apartment building's covered veranda and the area in front of her own door. If he
came during the night, she intended to confront him in the act. By three-thirty in the morning he had not arrived, and
she dozed off. When she woke in the morning, no package was on the doorstep.
After she showered and ate a quick breakfast, she went down the outside stairs and around to the back of the
building where she kept her car in the covered stall assigned to her. She intended to go to the library to do some
research work, and it looked like a good day for being indoors. The winter sky was gray and low, and the air had a
prestorm heaviness that filled her with foreboding—a feeling that intensified when she found another box on the
dashboard of her locked Chevy. She wanted to scream in frustration.
Instead she sat behind the wheel and opened the package. The other figurines had been inexpensive, no more
than ten or fifteen dollars each, some probably as cheap as three bucks, but the newest was an exquisite miniature
porcelain that surely cost at least fifty dollars. However she was less interested in the toad than in the box in which
it had come. It was not plain, as before, but imprinted with the name of a gift shop—Collectibles —in the South
Coast Plaza shopping mall.
Laura drove directly to the mall, arrived fifteen minutes before Collectibles opened, waited on a bench in the
promenade, and was first through the shop's door when it was unlocked. The store's owner and manager was a
petite, gray -haired woman named Eugenia Farvor. "Yes, we handle this line," she said after listening to Laura's
succinct explanation and examining the porcelain toad, "and in fact I sold it myself just yesterday to the young
man." "Do you know his name?" "I'm sorry, no." "What did he look like?"
"I remember him well because of his size. Very tall. Six five, I'd say. And very broad in the shoulders. He was quite
well dressed. A gray pinstripe suit, blue and gray striped tie. I admired the suit, in fact, and he said it wasn't easy
finding clothes to fit him." "Did he pay cash?"


"Mmmmm . . . no, I believe he used a credit card." "Would you still have the charge slip?" "Oh, yes, we usually run
a day or two behind in organizing them and transferring them to the master ticket for deposit." Mrs. Farvor led Laura
past glass display cases filled with porcelains, Lalique and Waterford crystal, Wedgwood plates, Hummel figurines,
and other expensive items, to the cramped office at the back of the store. Then she suddenly had second thoughts
about sharing her customer's identity. "If his intentions are innocent, if he's just an admirer of yours —and I must say
there seemed no harm in him; he seemed quite nice—then I'll be spoiling everything for him. He'll want to be
revealing himself to you according to his own plan."
Laura tried hard to charm the woman and win her sympathy. She could not recall ever having spoken more
eloquently or with such feeling; usually she was not as good at vocalizing her feelings as she was at putting them
down in print. Genuine tears sprang to her assistance, surprising her even more than they did Eugenia
Farvor.
From the MasterCard charge slip, she obtained his name— Daniel Packard—and his telephone number. She went
directly from the gift shop to a public telephone in the mall and looked him up. There were two Daniel Packards in
the book, but the one with that number lived on Newport Avenue in Tustin.
When she returned to the mall parking lot, a cold drizzle was falling. She turned up her coat collar, but she had
neither a hat nor an umbrella. By the time she got to her car, her hair was wet, and she was chilled. She shivered
all the way from Costa Mesa to North Tustin.
She figured there was a good chance he would be at home. If he was a student, he would not be in class on
Saturday. If he worked an ordinary nine-to-five job, he would probably not be at the office, either. And the weather
ruled out many of the usual weekend pastimes for outdoor-oriented southern Californians.
His address was an apartment complex of two-story, Spanish-style buildings, eight of them, in a garden setting. For
a few minutes she hurried from building to building on winding walkways under dripping palms and coral trees,
looking for his apartment. By the time she found it—a first-floor, end unit in the building farthest from the street —her
hair was soaked. Her chill had deepened. Discomfort dulled her fear and sharpened her anger, so she rang his bell
without hesitation.
He evidently did not peek through the fisheye security lens, for when he opened the door and saw her, he looked
stunned. He was maybe five years older than she, and he was a big man indeed, fully six feet five, two hundred
and forty pounds, all muscle. He was wearing jeans and a pale-blue T-shirt smeared with grease and spotted with
another oily substance; his well-developed arms were formidable. His face was shadowed by beard stubble and
smudged with more grease, and his hands were black.
Carefully staying back from the door, beyond his reach, Laura simply said, "Why?"
"Because . . ." He shifted from one foot to the other, almost too big for the doorway in which he stood. "Because ..."
"I'm waiting."
He wiped one grease-covered hand through his close-cropped hair and seemed oblivious of the resultant mess. His
eyes shifted away from her; he looked out at the rain-lashed courtyard as he spoke. "How . . . how'd you find out it
was me?"
"That's not important. What's important is that I don't know you, I've never seen you before, and yet I've got a toad
menagerie that you've sent me, you come around in the middle of the night to leave them on my doorstep, you
break into my car to leave them on the dashboard, and it's been going on for weeks, so don't you think it's time I
knew what this is all about?"
Still not looking at her, he flushed and said, "Well, sure, but I didn't . . . wasn't ready . . . didn't think the time was
right."
"The time was right a week ago!"
"Ummmm."
"So tell me. Why?"
Looking down at his greasy hands, he said quietly, "Well, see ..."
"Yes?"
"I love you."
She stared at him, incredulous. He finally looked at her. She said, "You love me? But you don't even know me. How
can you love a person you've never met?"
He looked away from her, rubbed his filthy hand through his hair again, and shrugged. "I don't know, but there it is,
and I ... uh ... well, ummmm, I have this feeling, see, this feeling that I've got to spend the rest of my life with you."
With cold rainwater trickling from her wet hair down the nape of her neck and along the curve of her spine, with her
day at the library shot —how could she concentrate on research after this insane scene?—and with more than a
little disappointment that her secret admirer had turned out to be this dirty, sweaty, inarticulate lummox, Laura said,
"Listen, Mr. Packard, I don't want you sending me any more toads."
"Well, see, I really want to send them."
"But I don't want to receive them. And tomorrow I'll mail back the ones you've sent me. No, today. I'll mail them
back today."
He met her eyes again, blinked in surprise, and said, "I thought you liked toads."


With growing anger, she said, "I do like toads. I love toads. I think toads are the cutest things in creation. Right now
I even wish I were a toad, but I don't want your toads. Understand?"
"Ummmm.
"Don't harass me, Packard. Maybe some women surrender to your weird mix of heavy -handed romance' and
sweaty macho charm, but I'm not one of them, and I can protect myself, don't think I can't. I'm a lot tougher than I
look, and I've dealt with worse than you."
She turned away from him, walked out from under the veranda into the rain, returned to her car, and drove back to
Irvine. She shook all the way home, not only because she was wet and chilled but because she was in the grip of
anger. The nerve of him!
At her apartment she undressed, bundled up in a quilted robe, and brewed a pot of coffee with which to ward off the
chills.
She had just taken her first sip of coffee when the phone rang. She answered it in the kitchen. It was Packard.
Speaking so rapidly that he ran his sentences together in long gushes, he said, "Please don't hang up on me,
you're right, I'm stupid about these things, an idiot, but give me just one minute to explain myself, I was fixing the
dishwasher when you came, that's why I was such a mess, greasy and sweaty, had to pull it from under the counter
myself, the landlord would have fixed it, but going through management takes a week, and I'm good with my hands,
I can fix anything, it was a rainy day, nothing else to do, so why not fix it myself, I never figured you to show up. My
name's Daniel Packard, but you know that already, I'm twenty-eight, I was in the army until "73, graduated from the
University of California at Irvine with a degree in business just three years ago, work as a stockbroker now, but I
take a couple night courses at the university, which is how I came across your story about the toad in the campus
literary magazine, it was terrific, I loved it, a great story, really, so I went to the library and searched through back
issues to find everything else you'd written, and I read it all, and a lot of it was good, damned good, not all of it, but
a lot. I fell in love with you somewhere along the way, with the person I knew from her writing, because the writing
was so beautiful and so real. One evening I was sitting there in the library reading one of your stories —they won't
let anyone check out back issues of the literary magazine, they have them in binders, and you have to read them in
the library —and this librarian was passing behind my chair, and she leaned over and asked if I liked the story, I said
I did, and she said, 'Well, the author's right over there, if you want to tell her it's good,' and there you were just three
tables away with a stack of books, doing research, scowling, making notes, and you were gorgeous. See, I knew
you would be beautiful inside because your stories are beautiful, the sentiment in them is beautiful, but it never
occurred to me that you'd be beautiful outside, too, and there was no way I could approach you because I've
always been tongue-tied and stumble-footed around beautiful women, maybe because my mother was beautiful but
cold and forbidding, so now maybe I think all beautiful women will reject me the way my mother did—a little half-
baked analysis there—but it sure would've been a lot easier for me if you'd been ugly or at least plain looking.
Because of your story I thought I'd use the toads, that whole secret admirer bit with the gifts, as a way to soften you
up, and I planned to reveal myself after the third or fourth toad, I really did, but I kept delaying because I didn't want
to be rejected, I guess, and I knew it was getting crazy, toad after toad after toad, but I just couldn't stop it and
forget you, yet I wasn't able to face you, either, and that's it. I never meant you any harm, I sure didn't mean to
upset you, can you forgive me, I hope you can." He stopped at last, exhausted. She said, "Well."
He said, "So will you go out with me?" Surprised by her own response, she said, "Yes." "Dinner and a movie?" "All
right."
"Tonight? Pick you up at six?" "Okay."
After she hung up she stood for a while, staring at the phone. Finally she said aloud, "Shane, are you nuts?" Then
she said, "But he told me my writing* was 'so beautiful and so real.' "
She went into her bedroom and looked at the collection of toads on the nightstand. She said, "He's inarticulate and
silent one time, a babbler the next. He could be a psycho killer, Shane." Then she said, "Yeah, he could be, but
he's also a great literary critic."
Because he had suggested dinner and a movie, Laura dressed in a gray skirt, white blouse, and maroon sweater,
but he showed up in a dark blue suit, white shirt with French cuffs, blue silk tie with tie chain, silk display
handkerchief, and highly polished black wingtips, as if he were going to the season opener at the opera. He carried
an umbrella and escorted her from her apartment to his car with one hand under her right arm, with such solemn
concern that he seemed convinced that she would dissolve if touched by one drop of rain or shatter into a million
pieces if she slipped and fell. Considering the difference in their dress and the considerable difference in their
size—at five-five, she was one foot shorter than he was; at a hundred fifteen pounds, she was less than half his
weight—she felt almost as if she were going on a date with her father or an older brother. She was not a petite
woman, but on his arm and under his umbrella she felt positively tiny.
He was uncommunicative again in the car, but he blamed it on the need to drive with special care in such rotten
weather. They went to a small Italian restaurant in Costa Mesa, a place in which Laura had eaten a few good meals
in the pas t. They sat down at their table and were given menus, but even before the waitress could ask if they
would like a drink, Daniel said, "This is no good, this is all wrong, let's find another place."
Surprised, she said, "But why? This is fine. Their food's very good here."


"No, really, this is all wrong. No atmosphere, no style, I don't want you to think, ummmm," and now he was babbling
as he'd done on the phone, blushing, "ummmm, well, anyway, this is no good, not right for our first date, I want this
to be special," and he got up, "ummmm, I think I know just the place, I'm sorry, Miss"—this to the startled young
waitress—"I hope we haven't inconvenienced you," and he was pulling back Laura's chair, helping her up, "I know
just the place, you'll like it, I've never eaten there but I've heard it's really good, excellent." Other customers were
staring, so Laura stopped protesting. "It's close, too, just a couple of blocks from here."
They returned to his car, drove two blocks, and parked in front of an unpretentious -looking restaurant in a strip
shopping center.
By now Laura knew him well enough to realize that his sense of courtliness required her to wait for him to come
around and open her car door, but when he opened it she saw he was standing in a ten-inch-deep puddle. "Oh,
your shoes!" she said.
"They'll dry out. Here, you hold the umbrella over yourself, and I'll lift you across the puddle."
Nonplussed, she allowed herself to be plucked from the car and carried over the puddle as if she weighed no more
than a feather pillow. He put her down on higher pavement and, without the umbrella, he sloshed back to the car to
close the door.
The French restaurant had less atmosphere than the Italian place. They were shown to a corner table too near the
kitchen, and Daniel's saturated shoes squished and squeaked all the way across the room.
"You'll catch pneumonia," she worried when they were seated and had ordered two Dry Sacks on the rocks.
"Not me. I've got a good immune system. Never get sick. One time in Nam, during an action, I was cut off from my
unit, spent a week on my own in the jungle, rained every minute, I was shriveled by the time I found my way back to
friendly territory, but I never even got the sniffles."
As they sipped their drinks and studied the menu and ordered, he was more relaxed than Laura had yet seen him,
and he actually proved to be a coherent, pleasant, even amusing conversationalist. But when the appetizers were
served—salmon in dill sauce for her, scallops in pastry for him—it swiftly became clear that the food was terrible,
even though the prices were twice those at the Italian place that they had left, and course by course, as his
embarrassment grew, his ability to sustain his end of the conversation declined drastically. Laura proclaimed
eve rything delicious and choked down every bite, but it was no use; he was not fooled.
The kitchen staff and the waiter were also slow. By the time Daniel had paid the check and escorted her back to the
car—lifting her across the puddle again as if she were a little girl—they were half an hour late for the movie they
had intended to see.
"That's all right," she said, "we can go in late and stay to see the first half hour of the next showing."
"No, no," he said. "That's a terrible way to see a movie. It'll ruin it for you. I wanted this night to be perfect."
"Relax," she said. "I'm having fun."
He looked at her with disbelief, and she smiled, and he smiled, too, but his smile was sick.
"If you don't want to go to the movie now," she said, "that's all right, too. Wherever you want to go, I'm game."
He nodded, started the car, and drove out to the street. They had gone a few miles before she realized that he was
taking her home.
All the way from his car to her door, he apologized for what a lousy evening it had been, and she repeatedly
assured him that she was not in the least disappointed with a moment of it. At her apartment, the instant she
inserted her key in the door, he turned and fled down the stairs from the second-floor veranda, neither asking for a
goodnight kiss nor giving her a chance to invite him in.
She stepped to the head of the stairs and watched him descend and he was half way down when a gust of wind
turned his umbrella inside out. He fought with it the rest of the way, twice almost losing his balance. When he
reached the walk below, he finally got the umbrella corrected—and the wind immediately turned it inside out again.
In frustration he threw it into some nearby shrubbery, then looked up at Laura. He was soaked from head to toe by
then, and in the pale light from a lamppost she could see that his suit hung on him shapelessly. He was a huge
man, strong as two bulls, but he had been done in by little things —puddles, a gust of wind—and there was
something quite funny about that. She knew she should not laugh, dared not laugh, but a laugh burst from her
anyway.
"You're too damned beautiful, Laura Shane!" he shouted from the walk below. "God help me, you're just too
beautiful." Then he hurried away through the night.
Feeling bad about laughing but unable to stop, she went into the apartment and changed into pajamas. It was only
twenty till nine.
He was either a hopeless basket case or the sweetest man she had known since her father died.
At nine-thirty the phone rang. He said, "Will you ever go out with me again?"
"I thought you'd never call."
"You will?"
"Sure."
"Dinner and a movie?" he asked.
"Sounds good."


"We won't go back to that horrible French place. I'm sorry about that, I really am."
"I don't care where we go," she said, "but once we sit down in the restaurant, promise me we'll stay there."
"I'm a bonehead about some things. And like I said ... I never have been able to cope around beautiful women."
"Your mother."
"That's right. Rejected me. Rejected my father. Never felt any warmth from that woman. Walked out on us when I
was eleven."
"Must've hurt."
"You're more beautiful than she was, and you scare me to death."
"How flattering."
"Well, sorry, but I meant it to be. The thing is, beautiful as you are, you're not half as beautiful as your writing, and
that scares me even more. Because what could a genius like you ever see in a guy like me—except maybe comic
relief?"
"Just one question, Daniel."
"Danny."
"Just one question, Danny. What the hell kind of stockbroker are you? Any good at all?"
"I'm first-rate," he said with such genuine pride that she knew he was telling the truth. "My clients swear by me, and
I've got a nice little portfolio of my own that's outperformed the market three years running. As a stock analyst,
broker, and investment adviser, I never give the wind a chance to turn my umbrella inside out."
The afternoon following the placement of the explosives in the basement of the institute, Stefan took what he
expected to be his next to last trip on the Lightning Road. It was an illicit jaunt to January 10, 1988, not on the
official schedule and conducted without the knowledge of his colleagues.
Light snow was falling in the San Bernardino Mountains when he arrived, but he was dressed for the weather in
rubber boots, leather gloves, and navy peacoat. He took cover under a dense copse of pines, intending to wait until
the fierce lightning stopped flaring.
He checked his wristwatch in the flickering celestial light and was startled to see how late he had arrived. He had
less than forty minut es to reach Laura before she was killed. If he screwed up and arrived too late, there would be
no second chance.
Even while the last white flashes seared the overcast sky, while hard crashes of thunder still echoed back to him
from distant peaks and ridges, he hurried away from the trees and down a sloping field where the snow was knee-
deep from previous winter storms. There was a crust on the snow, through which he kept breaking with each step,
and progress was as difficult as if he had been wading through deep water. He fell twice, and snow got down the
tops of his boots, and the savage wind tore at him as if it possessed consciousness and the desire to destroy him.
By the time he reached the end of the field and climbed over a snowbank onto the two-lane state highway that led
to Arrowhead in one direction and Big Bear in the other, his pants and coat were crusted with frozen snow, his feet
were freezing, and he had lost more than five minutes.
The recently plowed highway was clean except for the wispy snow snakes that slithered across the pavement on
shifting currents of air. But already the tempo of the storm had increased. The flakes were much smaller than when
he had arrived and were falling twice as fast as they had been minutes ago. Soon the road would be treacherous.
He noticed a sign by the side of the pavement—LAKE ARROWHEAD 1 MILE—and was shocked to discover how
much farther he was from Laura than he had expected to be.
Squinting into the wind, looking north, he saw a warm glimmer of electric lightning in the dreary, iron-gray
afternoon: a single-story building and parked cars about three hundred yards away, on the right. He headed
immediately in that direction, keeping his head tucked down to protect his face from the icy teeth of the wind.
He had to find a car. Laura had less than half an hour to live, and she was ten miles away.
Five months after that first date, on Saturday, July 16, 1977, six weeks after graduating from UCI, Laura married
Danny Packard in a civil ceremony before a judge in his chambers. The only guests in attendance, both of whom
served as witnesses, were Danny's father, Sam Packard, and Thelma Ackerson.
Sam was a handsome, silver-haired man of about five ten, dwarfed by his son. Throughout the brief ceremony, he
wept, and Danny kept turning around and saying, "You all right, Dad?" Sam nodded and blew his nose and told
them to go on with it, but a moment later he was crying again, and Danny was asking him if he was all right, and
Sam blew his nose as if imitating the mating calls of geese. The judge said, "Son, your father's tears are tears of
joy, so if we could get on with this—I have three more ceremonies to perform."
Even if the groom's father had not been an emotional wreck, and even if the groom had not been a giant with the
heart of a fawn, their wedding party would have been memorable because of Thelma. Her hair was cut in a strange,
shaggy, style, with a pompom-like spray in front that was tinted purple. In the middle of summer—and at a wedding,
yet —she was wearing red high heels, tight black slacks, and tattered black blouse—carefully, purposefully
tattered—gathered at the waist with a length of ordinary steel chain used as a belt. She was wearing exaggerated
purple eye makeup, blood-red lipstick, and one earring that looked like a fishhook.
After the ceremony, as Danny was having a private word with his father, Thelma huddled with Laura in a corner of
the courthouse lobby and explained her appearance. "It's called the punk look, the latest thing in Britain. No one's


wearing it over here yet. In fact hardly anyone's wearing it in Britain, either, but in a few years everyone will dress
like this. It's great for my act. I look freaky, so people want to laugh as soon as I step on the stage. It's also good for
me. I mean, face it, Shane, I'm not exactly blossoming with age. Hell, if homely was a disease and had an
organized charity. I'd be their poster child. But the two great things about punk style is you get to hide behind
flamboyant makeup and hair, so no one can tell just how homely you are—and you're supposed to look weird,
anyway. Jesus, Shane, Danny's a big guy. You've told me so much about him on the phone, but you never once
said he was so huge Put him in a Godzilla suit, turn him loose in New York, film the results, and you could make
one of those movies without having to build expensive miniature sets. So you love him, huh?"
"I adore him," Laura said. "He's as gentle as he is big. maybe because of all the violence he saw and was a part of
in Vietnam, or maybe because he's always been gentle at heart. He's sweet. Thelma, and he's thoughtful, and he
thinks I'm one of the best writers he's ever read."
"And when he first started giving you toads, you thought he a psychopath."
"A minor misjudgment."
Two uniformed police officers passed through the courthouse lobby, flanking a bearded young man in handcuffs,
taking him to one of the courtrooms. The prisoner gave Thelma a looking over as he passed and said, "Hey, mama,
let's get it on!"
"Ah, the Ackerson charm," Thelma said to Laura. "You get a guy who's a combination of a Greek god, a teddy bear,
and Bennett Cerf, and I get crude propositions from the dregs of society. But come to think of it, I never even used
to get that, so maybe my time is coming yet."
"You underrate yourself, Thelma. You always have. Some very special guy's going to see what a treasure you
are—"
"Charles Manson when he's paroled."
"No. Someday you're going to be every bit as happy as I am. I know it. Destiny, Thelma."
"Good heavens, Shane, you've become a raging optimist! What about the lightning? All those deep conversations
we had on the floor of our room at Caswell—you remember? We decided that life is just an absurdist comedy, and
every once in a while it's suddenly interrupted with thunderbolts of tragedy to give the story balance, to make the
slapstick seem funnier by comparison."
"Maybe it's struck for the last time in my life," Laura said.
Thelma stared hard at her. "Wow. I know you, Shane, and I know you realize what emotional risk you're putting
yourself at by even just wanting to be this happy. I hope you're right, kid, and I bet you are. I bet there'll be no more
lightning for you."
"Thank you, Thelma."
"And I think your Danny is a sweetheart, a jewel. But I'll tell you something that ought to mean a lot more than my
opinion: Ruthie would have loved him too; Ruthie would have thought he was perfect."
They held each other tightly, and for a moment they were young girls again, defiant yet vulnerable, filled with both
the cockeyed confidence and the terror of blind fate that had shaped their shared adolescence.
Sunday, July 24, when they returned from a week -long honeymoon in Santa Barbara, they went grocery shopping,
then cooked dinner together—tossed salad, sourdough bread, microwave meatballs, and spaghetti—at the
apartment in Tustin. She'd given up her own place and moved in with him a few days before the wedding.
According to the plan that they had worked out, they would stay at the apartment for two years, maybe three. (They
had talked about their future so often and in such detail that they now capitalized those two words in their minds —
The Plan—as if they were referring to some cosmic owner's manual that had come with their marriage and that
could be relied upon for an accurate picture of their destiny as husband and wife.) So after two years, maybe three,
they would be able to afford the down payment on the right house without dipping into the tidy stock portfolio that
Danny was building, and only then would they move.
They dined at the small table in the alcove off the kitchen, where they had a view of the king palms in the courtyard
in the golden late-afternoon sun, and they discussed the key part of The Plan, which was for Danny to support them
while Laura stayed home and wrote her first novel. "When you're wildly rich and famous," he said, twirling spaghetti
on his fork, "then I'll leave the brokerage and spend my time managing our money."
"What if I'm never rich and famous?"
"You will be."
"What if I can't even get published?"
"Then I'll divorce you."
She threw a crust of bread at him. "Beast."
"Shrew."
"You want another meatball?"
"Not if you're going to throw it."
"My rage has passed. I make good meatballs, don't I?"
"Excellent," he agreed.
"That's worth celebrating, don't you think —that you have a wife who makes good meatballs?"


"Definitely worth celebrating."
"So let's make love."
Danny said, "In the middle of dinner?"
"No, in bed." She pushed back her chair and got up. "Come on. Dinner can always be reheated."
During that first year they made love frequently, and in their intimacies Laura found more than sexual release,
something far more than she had expected. Being with Danny, holding him within her, she felt so close to him that
at times it almost seemed as if they were one person—one body and one mind, one spirit, one dream. She loved
him wholeheartedly, yes, but that feeling of oneness was more than love, or at least different from love. By their first
Christmas together, she understood that what she felt was a sense of belonging not experienced in a long time, a
sense of family; for this was her husband and she was his wife, and one day from their union would come
children—after two or three years, according to The Plan—and within the shelter of the family was a peace not to
be found elsewhere.
She would have thought that working and living in continuous happiness, harmony, and security day after day
would lead to mental lethargy, that her writing would suffer from too much happiness, that she needed a balanced
life with down days and miseries to keep the sharp edge on her work. But the idea that an artist needed to suffer to
do her best work was a conceit of the young and inexperienced. The happier she grew, the better she wrote.
Six weeks before their first wedding anniversary, Laura finished a novel, Jericho Nights, and sent a copy to a New
York literary agent, Spencer Keene, who had responded favorably to a query letter a month earlier. Two weeks
later Keene called to say he would represent the book, expected a quick sale, and thought she had a splendid
future as a novelist. With a swiftness that startled even the agent, he sold it to the first house to which it was
submitted, Viking, for a modest but perfectly respectable advance of fifteen thousand dollars, and the deal was
concluded on Friday, July 14, 1978, two days before Laura and Danny's anniversary.
The place he had seen from farther up the road was a restaurant and tavern in the shadows of enormous
Ponderosa pines. The trees stood over two hundred feet tall, bedecked with clusters of six-inch cones, with
beautifully fissured bark, some boughs bent low under the weight of snow from previous storms. The single-story
building was made of logs; it was so sheltered by trees on three sides that its slate roof was covered with more pine
needles than snow. The windows were either steamed over or frosted, and the light from within was pleasingly
diffused by that translucent film on the glass. In the parking lot in front of the building were two Jeep wagons, two
pickup trucks, and a Thunderbird. Relieved that no one would be able to see him through the tavern windows,
Stefan went directly to one of the Jeeps, tried the door, found it unlocked, and got in behind the steering wheel,
closing the door after him.
He drew the Walther PPK/S .380 from the shoulder holster he was wearing inside his peacoat. He put it on the seat
at his side. His feet were painfully cold, and he wanted to pause and empty de snow out of his boots. But he had
arrived late, and his original schedule was shot, so he dared not waste a minute. Besides, if his feet hurt, they
weren't frozen; he wasn't in danger of frostbite yet. The keys were not in the ignition. He slid the seat back, bent
down, groped under the dashboard, located the ignition wires, and had the engine running in a minute.
Stefan sat up just as the owner of the Jeep, breath reeking of beer, pulled open the door. "Hey, what the hell you
doing, pal?" The rest of the snowswept parking lot was still deserted. They were alone.
Laura would be dead in twenty-five minutes. The Jeep's owner reached for him, and he allowed himself to be
dragged from behind the steering wheel, plucking his pistol off the seat as he went, and in fact he threw himself into
the other man's grasp, using the momentum to send his adversary staggering backward on the slippery parking lot.
They fell. As they hit the ground, he was on top, and he jammed the muzzle under the guy's chin.
"Jesus, mister! Don't kill me."
"We're getting up now. Easy, damn you, no sudden moves." When they were on their feet Stefan moved behind the
guy, quickly reversed his grip on the Walther, used it as a club, struck once, hard enough to knock the man
unconscious without doing permanent damage. The owner of the Jeep went down again, stayed down, limp.
Stefan glanced at the tavern. No one else had come out. He could hear no traffic approaching on the road, but then
again the howling wind might mask the sound of an engine.
As the snow began to fall harder, he put the pistol in the deep pocket of his peacoat and dragged the unconscious
man to the nearest other vehicle, the Thunderbird. It was unlocked, and he heaved the guy into the rear seat,
closed the door, and hurried back to the Jeep. The engine had died. He hot-wired it again.
As he put the Jeep in gear and swung it around toward the road, the wind shrieked at the window beside him. The
falling snow grew denser, blizzard-thick, and clouds of yesterday's snow were whipped up from the ground and
spun in sparkling columns. The giant, shadow-swaddled pines swayed and shuddered under winter's assault.
Laura had little more than twenty minutes to live.
They celebrated the publishing contract for Jericho Nights and the otherworldly harmony of their first year of
marriage by spending their anniversary at a favorite place—Disneyland. The sky was blue, cloudless; the air was
dry and hot. Virtually oblivious of the summer crowds, they rode the Pirates of the Caribbean, had their pictures
taken with Mickey Mouse, got dizzy spinning in the Mad Hatter's teacups, had their portraits drawn by a caricaturist,
ate hot dogs and ice cream and chocolate-covered frozen bananas on sticks, and danced that evening to a


Dixieland band in New Orleans Square.
The park became even more magical after nightfall, and they rode the Mark Twain paddlewheel steamboat around
Tom Sawyer's Island for the third time, standing at the railing on the top level, near the bow, with their arms around
each other. Danny said, "You know why we like this place so much? 'Cause it's of the world yet untainted by the
world. And that's our marriage."
Later, over strawberry sundaes at the Carnation Pavilion, at a table beneath trees strung with white Christmas
lights, Laura said, "Fifteen thousand bucks for a year's work . . . not exactly a fortune."
"It isn't slave wages either." He pushed his sundae aside, leaned forward, slid her sundae aside, too, and took her
hands across the table. "The money will come eventually because you're brilliant, but money isn't what I care about.
What I care about is that you've got something special to share. No. That's not exactly what I mean. You don't just
have something special, you are something special. In some way I understand but can't explain, I know that what
you are, when shared, will bring as much hope and joy to people in far places as it brings to me here at your side."
Blinking away sudden tears, she said, "I love you."
Jericho Nights was published ten months later, in May of 1979. Danny insisted she use her maiden name because
he knew that through all the bad years in McIlroy Home and Caswell Hall, she had endured in part because she
wanted to grow up and make something of herself as a testament to her father and perhaps, as well, to the mother
she had never known. The book sold few copies, was not chosen by any book clubs, and was licensed by Viking to
a paperback publisher for a small advance.
"Doesn't matter," Danny told her. "It'll come in time. It'll all come in time. Because of what you are."
By then she was deep into her second novel, Shadrach. Working ten hours a day, six days a week, she finished it
that July.
On a Friday she sent one copy to Spencer Keene in New York and gave the original script to Danny. He was the
first to read it. He left work early and began reading at one o'clock Friday afternoon in his living-room armchair, then
shifted to the bedroom, slept only four hours, and by ten o'clock Saturday morning he was back in the armchair and
two-thirds of the way through the script. He would not talk about it, not a word. "Not until I'm done. It wouldn't be fair
to you to start analyzing and reacting until I've finished, until I've grasped your entire pattern, and it wouldn't be fair
to me, either, because in discussing it you're sure to give away some plot turn or other.''
She kept peeking at him to see if he was frowning, smiling, or responding to the story in any way, and even when
he was reacting she worried that it was the wrong reaction to whatever scene he might be reading. By ten-thirty
Saturday, she couldn't bear to stay around the apartment any longer, so she drove to South Coast Plaza, browsed
in bookstores, ate an early lunch though she was not hungry, drove to the Westminster Mall, window-shopped, ate
a cone of frozen yogurt, drove to the Orange Mall, looked in a few shops, bought a square of fudge and ate half of
it. "Shane," she told herself, "go home, or you'll be a double for Orson Welles by dinnertime."
As she parked in the carport at the apartment complex, she saw that Danny's car was gone. When she let herself
into the apartment, she called his name but got no answer.
The script of Shadrach was piled on the dinette table.
She looked for a note. There was none.
"Oh, God," she said.
The book was bad. It stank. It reeked. It was mule puke. Poor Danny had gone out somewhere to have a beer and
find the courage to tell her that she should study plumbing while she was still young enough to get launched on a
new career.
She was going to throw up. She hurried to the bathroom, but the nausea passed. She washed her face with cold
water.
The book was mule puke.
Okay, she would just have to live with that. She'd thought Shadrach was pretty good, better than Jericho Nights by
a mile, but evidently she had been wrong. So she would write another book.
She went to the kitchen and opened a Coors. She had taken only two swallows when Danny came home with a
gift-wrapped box about the right size to hold a basketball. He put it on the dinette table beside the manuscript,
looked at her solemnly. "It's for you."
Ignoring the box, she said, "Tell me."
"Open your gift first."
' 'Oh, God, is it that bad? Is it so bad you have to soften the blow with a gift? Tell me. I can take it. Wait! Let me sit
down." She pulled out a chair from the table and dropped into it. "Hit me with your best, big guy. I'm a survivor."
"You've got too strong a sens e of drama, Laura."
"What're you saying? The book's melodramatic?"
"Not the book. You. Right now, anyway. Will you for God's sake stop being the shattered young artiste and open
your gift?"
"All right, all right, if I've got to open the gift before you'll talk, then I'll open the bloody gift."
She put the box in her lap—it was heavy —and tore at the ribbon while Danny pulled up a chair and sat in front of
her, watching.


The box was from an expensive shop, but she was not prepared for the contents: a large, gorgeous Lalique bowl; it
was clear except for two handles that were partly clear green and partly frosted crystal; each handle was formed by
two leaping toads, four toads altogether.
She looked up, wide-eyed. "Danny, I've never seen anything like this. It's the most beautiful piece ever."
"Like it, then?"
"Good God, how much was it?"
"Three thousand."
"Danny, we can't afford this!"
"Oh. yes, we can."
"No, we can't, really we can't. Just because I wrote a lousy book and you want to make me feel better—"
"You didn't write a lousy book. You wrote a toad-worthy book. A. four-load book on a scale of one to four, four being
the best. We can afford that bowl precisely because you wrote Shadrach. This book is beautiful, Laura, infinitely
better than the last one, and it's beautiful because it's you. This book is what you are, and it shines."
In her excitement and in her eagerness to hug him, she nearly dropped the three-thousand-dollar bowl.
A skin of new snow covered the highway now. The Jeep wagon had four-wheel drive and was equipped with tire
chains, so Stefan was able to make reasonably good time in spite of the road conditions.
But not good enough.
He estimated that the tavern, where he had stolen the Jeep, was about eleven miles from the Packard house,
which was just off state route 330 a few miles south of Big Bear. The mountain roads were narrow, twisty, full of
dramatic rises and falls, and blowing snow ensured poor visibility, so his average speed was about forty miles an
hour. He could not risk driving faster or more recklessly, for he would be of no use at all to Laura, Danny, and Chris
if he lost control of the Jeep and plunged over an embankment to his death. At his current speed, however, he
would arrive at their place at least ten minutes after they had left.
His intention had been to delay them at their house until the danger had passed. That plan was no longer viable.
The January sky seemed to have sunk so low under the weight of the storm that it was no higher than the tops of
the serried ranks of massive evergreens that flanked both sides of the roadway. Wind shook the trees and
hammered the Jeep. Snow stuck to the windshield wipers and became ice, so he turned up the defroster and
hunched over the wheel, squinting through the inadequately cleaned glass.
When he next glanced at his watch, he saw that he had less than fifteen minutes. Laura, Danny, and Chris would
be getting into their Chevy Blazer. They might even be pulling out of their driveway already.
He would have to intercept them on the highway, scant seconds ahead of Death.
He tried to squeeze slightly more speed out of the Jeep without shooting wide of a turn and into an abyss.
Five weeks after the day that Danny bought her the Lalique bowl, on August 15, 1979, a few minutes after noon,
Laura was in the kitchen, heating a can of chicken soup for lunch, when she got a call from Spencer Keene, her
literary agent in New York. Viking loved Shadrach and were offering a hundred thousand.
"Dollars?" she asked.
"Of course, dollars," Spencer said. "What do you think, Russian rubles? What would that buy you—a hat maybe?"
"Oh, God." She had to lean against the kitchen counter because suddenly her legs were weak.
Spencer said, "Laura, honey, only you can know what's best for you, but unless they're willing to let the hundred
grand stand for a floor bid in an auction, I want you to consider turning this down."
"Turn down a hundred thousand dollars?" she asked in disbelief.
"I want to send this out to maybe six or eight houses, set an auction date, see what happens. I think I know what
will happen, Laura, I think they'll all love this book as much as I do. On the other hand . . . maybe not. It's a hard
decision, and you've got to go away and think about it before you answer me."
The moment Spencer said goodbye and hung up, Laura dialed Danny at work and told him about the offer.
He said, "If they won't make it a floor bid, turn it down."
"But, Danny, can we afford to? I mean, my car is eleven years old and falling apart. Yours is almost four years old—
"
"Listen, what did I tell you about this book? Didn't I tell you that it was you, a reflection of what you are?"
"You're sweet, but—"
"Turn it down. Listen, Laura. You're thinking that scorning a hundred K is like spitting in the faces of all the gods of
good fortune; it's like inviting that lightning you've spoken about. But you earned this payoff, and fate isn't going to
cheat you out of it."
She called Spencer Keene and told him her decision.
Excited, nervous, already missing the hundred thousand dollars, she returned to the den and sat at her typewriter
and stared at the unfinished short story for a while until she became aware of the odor of chicken soup and
remembered she had left it on the stove. She hurried into the kitchen and found that all but half an inch of soup had
boiled away; burnt noodles were stuck to the bottom of the pot.
At two-ten, which was five-ten New York time, Spencer called again to say that Viking had agreed to let the
hundred thousand stand as a floor bid. "Now, that's the very least you make from Shadrach — a hundred grand. I


think I'll set September twenty-sixth as the auction date. It's going to be a big one, Laura. I feel it."
She spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to be elated but unable to shake off her anxiety. Shadrach was
already a big success, no matter what happened in the auction. She had no reason for her anxiety, but it held her in
a tight grip.
Danny came home from work that day with a bottle of champagne, a bouquet of roses, and a box of Godiva
chocolates. They sat on the sofa, nibbling chocolates, sipping champagne, and talking about the future, which
seemed entirely bright; yet her anxiety lingered.
Finally she said, "I don't want chocolates or champagne or roses or a hundred thousand dollars. I want you. Take
me to bed."
They made love for a long time. The late summer sun ebbed from the windows and the tide of night rolled in before
they parted with a sweet, aching reluctance. Lying at her side in the darkness, Danny tenderly kissed her breasts,
her throat, her eyes, and finally her lips. She realized that her anxiety had at last faded. It was not sexual release
that expelled her fear. Intimacy, total surrender of self, and the sense of snared hopes and dreams and destinies
had been the true medicines; the great, good feeling of family that she had with was a talisman that effectively
warded off cold fate.
On Wednesday, September 26, Danny took the day off from work to be at Laura's side as the news came in from the auction.
At seven-thirty in the morning, ten-thirty New York time, Spencer Keene called to report that Random House
had made the first offer above the auction floor. "One hundred and twenty-five thousand, and we're on our way."
Two hours later Spencer called again. "Everyone's off to lunch, * so there'll be a lull. Right now, we're up to three
hundred and fifty thousand and six houses are still in the bidding."
"Three hundred and fifty thousand?" Laura repeated.
At the kitchen sink where he was rinsing the breakfast dishes, Danny dropped a plate.
When she hung up and looked at Danny, he grinned and said, "Am I mistaken, or is this the book you were afraid
might be mule puke?"
Four and a half hours later, as they were sitting at the dinette table pretending to be concentrating on a game of
five -hundred rummy, their inattention betrayed by their mutual inability to keep score with any degree of
mathematical accuracy whatsoever, Spencer Keene called again. Danny followed her into the kitchen to listen to
her side of the conversation.
Spencer said, "You sitting down, honey?"
"I'm ready, Spencer. I don't need a chair. Tell me."
"It's over. Simon & Schuster. One million, two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars."
Weak with shock, shaky, she spoke with Spencer for another ten minutes, and when she hung up, she wasn't sure
of a thing that had been said after he had told her the price. Danny was staring at her expectantly, and she realized
that he didn't know what had happened. She told him the name of the buyer and the figure.
For a moment they stared at each other in silence.
Then she said, "I think maybe now we can afford to have a baby."
Stefan topped a hill and peered ahead at the half-mile stretch of snowswept road on which it would happen. On his
left, beyond the southbound lane, the tree-covered mountainside sloped steeply down to the highway. On his right
the northbound lane was edged by a soft shoulder only about four feet wide, beyond which the mountainside fell
away again into a deep gorge. No guardrails protected travelers from that deadly drop-off.
At the bottom of the slope, the road turned left, out of sight. Between that turn below and the crest of the hill, which
he had just topped, the two-lane blacktop was deserted.
According to his watch, Laura would be dead in a minute. Two minutes at most.
He suddenly realized that he should never have tried to drive toward the Packards, not after he had arrived so late.
Instead he should have given up the idea of stopping the Packards and should have tried instead to identify and
stop the Robertsons' vehicle farther back on the road to Arrowhead. That would have worked just as well.
Too late now.
Stefan had no time to go back, nor could he risk driving farther north toward the Packards. He did not know the
exact moment of their deaths, not to the second, but that catastrophe was now approaching swiftly. If he tried to go
even another half mile and stop them before they arrived at this fateful incline, he might reach the bottom of the
slope and, in taking the turn, pass them going the other way, at which point he would not be able to swing around
and catch up with them and stop them before the Robertsons' truck hit them head-on.
He braked gently and angled across the ascending southbound lane, stopping the Jeep on a wide portion of that
shoulder of the road about halfway down the slope, so close to the embankment that he could not get out of the
driver's door. His heart was thudding almost painfully as he shifted the Jeep into park, put on the emergency brake,
cut the engine, slid across the seat, and got out the passenger-side door.
The blowing snow and icy air stung his face, and all along the mountainside the wind shrieked and howled like
many voices, perhaps the voices of the three sisters of Greek myth, the Fates, mocking him for his desperate
attempt to prevent what they had ordained.
After receiving editorial suggestions, Laura undertook an easy revision of Shadrach, delivering the final version of


the script in mid-December 1979, and Simon & Schuster scheduled the book for publication in September 1980.
It was suc h a busy year for Laura and Danny that she was only peripherally aware of the Iranian hostage crisis and
presidential campaign, and even more vaguely cognizant of the countless fires, plane crashes, toxic spills, mass
murders, floods, earthquakes, and other tragedies that constituted the news. That was the year the rabbit died.
That was the year she and Danny bought their first house—a four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath, Spanish model in
Orange Park Acres —and moved out of the apartment in Tustin. She started her third novel, The Golden Eagle, and
one day when Danny asked her how it was going, she said, "Mule puke," and he said, "That's great!" The first of
September, upon receipt of a substantial check for the film rights to Shadrach, which had sold to MGM, Danny quit
his job at the brokerage house and became her full-time financial manager. On Sunday, September 21, three
weeks after it arrived in the stores, Shadrach appeared on the New York Times bestseller list at number twelve. On
October 5, 1980, when Laura gave birth to Christopher Robert Packard, Shadrach was in a third printing, sitting
comfortably at number eight on the Times, and received what Spencer Keene called a "thunderously good" review
on page five of that same book section.
The boy entered the world at 2:23 P.M. in a greater rush of blood than that which usually carried babies out of their
prenatal darkness. Pain-racked and hemorrhaging, Laura required three pints during the afternoon and evening.
She spent a better night than expected, however, and by morning she was sore, weary, but well out of danger.
The following day during visiting hours, Thelma Ackerson came to see the baby and the new mother. Still dressed
punkish and ahead of her time—hair long on the left side of her head, with a white streak like the bride of
Frankenstein, and short on the right side, with no streak —she breezed into Laura's private room, went straight to
Danny, threw her arms around him, hugged him hard, and said, "God, you're big. You're a mutant. Admit it,
Packard, your mother might have been human, but your father was a grisly bear." She came to the bed where
Laura was propped up against three pillows, kissed her on the forehead and then on the cheek. "I went to the
nursery before I came here, had a peek at Christopher Robert through the glass, and he's adorable. But I think
you're going to need all the millions you can make from your books, kiddo, because that boy is going to take after
his father, and your food bill's going to run thirty thousand a month. Until you get him housebroken, he'll be eating
your furniture." Laura said, "I'm glad you came, Thelma." "Would I miss it? Maybe if I was playing a Mafia-owned
club in Bayonne, New Jersey, and had to cancel out part of a date to fly back, maybe then I'd miss it because if you
break a contract with those guys they cut off your thumbs and make you use them as suppositories. But I was west
of the Mississippi when I got the news last night, and only nuclear war or a date with Paul McCartney could keep
me away."
Almost two years ago Thelma had finally gotten time on the stage at the Improv, and she'd been a hit. She landed
an agent and began to get paid bookings in sleazy, third-rate—and eventually second-rate—clubs across the
country. Laura and Danny had driven into Los Angeles twice to see her perform, and she had been hilarious; she
wrote her own material and delivered it with the comic timing she had possessed since childhood but had honed in
the intervening years. Her act had one unusual aspect that would either make her a national phenomenon or
ensure her obscurity: Woven through the jokes was a strong thread of melancholy, a sense of the tragedy of life
that existed simultaneously with the wonder and humor of it. In fact it was similar to the tone of Laura's novels, but
what appealed to book readers was less likely to appeal to audiences who had paid for belly laughs.
Now Thelma leaned across the bed railing, peered closely at Laura and said, "Hey, you look pale. And those rings
around your eyes ..."
"Thelma, dear, I hate to shatter your illusions, but a baby isn't really brought by the stork. The mother has to expel it
from her own womb, and it's a tight fit."
Thelma stared hard at her, then directed an equally hard stare at Danny, who had come around the other side of
the bed to hold Laura's hand. "What's wrong here?"
Laura sighed and, wincing with discomfort, shifted her position slightly. To Danny, she said, "See? I told you she's a
bloodhound."
"It wasn't an easy pregnancy, was it?" Thelma demanded. "The pregnancy was easy enough," Laura said. "It was
the delivery that was the problem."
"You didn't . . . almost die or anything, Shane?" "No, no, no," Laura said, and Danny's hand tightened on hers.
"Nothing that dramatic. We knew from the start there were going to be some difficulties along the way, but we found
the best doctor, and he kept a close watch. It's just ... I won't be able to have any more. Christopher will be our
last."
Thelma looked at Danny, at Laura, and said quietly, "I'm sorry."
"It's all right," Laura said, forcing a smile. "We have little Chris, and he's beautiful."
They endured an awkward silence, and then Danny said, "I haven't had lunch yet, and I'm starved. I'm going to slip
down to the coffee shop for a half hour or so."
When Danny left, Thelma said, "He's not really hungry, is he? He just knew we wanted a girl-to-girl talk." Laura
smiled. "He's a lovely man."
Thelma put down the railing on one side of the bed and said, "If I hop up here and sit beside you, I won't shake up
your insides, will I? You won't suddenly bleed all over me, will you, Shane?" "I'll try not to."


Thelma eased up onto the high hospital bed. She took one of Laura's hands in both of hers. "Listen, I read
Shadrach, and it's damned good. It's what all writers try to do and seldom achieve." "You're sweet."
"I'm a tough, cynical, hard-nosed broad. Listen, I'm serious about the book. It's brilliant. And I saw Bovine
Bowmaine in there, and Tammy. And Boone, the child-welfare psychologist. Different names but I saw them.
You've captured them perfectly, Shane. God, there were times you brought it all back, times when chills ran up and
down my back so bad I had to put down the book and go for a walk in the sun. And there were times when I
laughed like a loon."
Laura ached in every muscle, in every joint. She did not have the strength to lean away from the pillows and put her
arms around her friend. She just said, "I love you, Thelma."
"The Eel wasn't there, of course."
"I'm saving him for another book."
"And me, damn it. I'm not in the book, though I'm the most colorful character you've ever known!"
"I'm saving you for a book all your own," Laura said.
"You mean it, don't you?"
"Yes. Not the one I'm working on now but the one after it."
"Listen, Shane, you better make me gorgeous, or I'll sue your ass off. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
Thelma chewed her lip, then said, "Will you—"
"Yes. I'm going to put Ruthie in it too."
They were silent a while, just holding hands.
Unshed tears clouded Laura's vision, but she saw that Thelma was blinking bac k tears too. "Don't. It'll streak all that
elaborate punk eye makeup."
Thelma raised one of her feet. "Are these boots freaky or what? Black leather, pointy toes, stud-ringed heels.
Makes me look like a damned dominatrix, doesn't it?"
"When you walked in, the first thing I wondered was how many men you've whipped lately."
Thelma sighed and sniffed hard to clear her nose. "Shane, listen and listen good. This talent of yours is maybe
more precious than you think. You're able to capture people's lives on the page, and when the people are gone, the
page is still there, the life is still there. You can put feelings on the page, and anyone, anywhere, can pick up that
book and feel those same feelings, you can touch the heart, you can remind us what it means to be human in a
world that's increasingly bent on forgetting. That's a talent and a reason to live that's more than most people ever
have. So ... well, I know how much you want to have a family . . . three or four kids, you've said ... so I know how
bad you mus t be hurting right now. But you've got Danny and Christopher and this amazing talent, and that's so
very much to have."
Laura's voice was unsteady. "Sometimes . . . I'm just so afraid."
"Afraid of what, baby?"
"I wanted a big family because . . . then it's less likely they'll all be taken away from me."
"Nobody's going to be taken away from you."
"With just Danny and little Chris . . . just two of them . . . something might happen."
"Nothing will happen."
"Then I'd be alone."
"Nothing will happen," Thelma repeated.
"Something always seems to happen. That's life."
Thelma slid farther onto the bed, stretched out beside Laura, and put her head against Laura's shoulder. "When
you said it was a hard birth . . . and the way you look, so pale ... I was scared. I have friends in LA, sure, but all of
them are show-biz types. You're the only real person I'm close to, even though we don't see each other that much,
and the idea that you might have nearly ..."
"But I didn't."
"Might've, though." Thelma laughed sourly. "Hell, Shane, once an orphan, always an orphan, huh?"
Laura held her and stroked her hair.
Shortly after Chris's first birthday, Laura delivered The Golden Edge. It was published ten months later, and by the
boy's second birthday, the book was number one on the Times bestseller list, which was a first for her.
Danny managed Laura's book income with such diligence, caution, and brilliance that within a few years, in spite of
the savage bite of income taxes, they would be not just rich—they were already rich by most standards —but
seriously rich. She didn't know what she thought about that. She had never expected to be rich. When she
considered her enviable circumstances, she thought perhaps she should be thrilled or, given the want of much of
the world, appalled, but she felt nothing much one way or the other about the money. The security that money
provided was welcome; it inspired confidence. But they had no plans to move out of their quite pleasant four-
bedroom house, though they could have afforded an estate. The money was there, and that was the end of it; she
gave it little thought. Life was not money; life was Danny and Chris and, to a lesser extent, her books.
With a toddler in the house, she no longer had the ability or desire to work sixty hours a week at her word


processor. Chris was talking, walking, and he exhibited none of the moodiness or mindless rebellion that the child-
rearing books described as normal behavior for the year between two and three. Mostly he was a pleasure to be
with, a bright and inquisitive boy. She spent as much time with him as she could without risk of spoiling him.
The Amazing Appleby Twins, her fourth novel, was not published until October 1984, two years after The Golden
Edge, but there was none of the drop-off in audience that is sometimes the case when a writer does not publish a
book each year. The advance sales were her biggest yet.
On October first, she was sitting with Danny and Chris on the sofa in the family room, watching old Road Runner
cartoons on the VCR—"Vooom, vooom!" Christopher said each time Road Runner took off in a flash of speed—
eating popcorn, when Thelma called from Chicago, in tears. Laura took the call on the kitchen phone, but on the TV
in the adjoining room the beleaguered coyote was trying to blow up his nemesis and was blowing himself up
instead, so Laura said, "Danny, I better take this in the den."
In the four years since Chris was born, Thelma's career had gone straight up. She had been booked in a couple of
Vegas casino lounges. ("Hey, Shane, I must be pretty good because the cocktail waitresses are nearly naked, all
boobs and butts, and sometimes the guys in the audience actually look at me instead of them. On the other hand
maybe I only appeal to fags.") In the past year she had moved into the main showroom at the MGM Grand as an
opening act for Dean Martin, and she had made four appearances on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. There
was talk of a movie or even a television series to be built around her, and she seemed poised for stardom as a
comedienne. Now she was in Chicago, opening soon as the headliner at a major club.
Perhaps the long chain of positive developments in their lives was what panicked Laura when she heard Thelma
crying. For some time she had been waiting for the sky to fall with a horrid suddenness that would have caught
Chicken Little unaware. She dropped into the chair behind the desk in the den, snatched up the phone. "Thelma?
What is it, what's wrong?"
"I just read ... the new book."
Laura could not figure what in The Amazing Appleby Twins could have affected Thelma so profoundly, and then
she suddenly wondered if something in the characterization of Carrie and Sandra Appleby had offended. Though
none of the major events in the story mirrored those in the lives of Ruthie and Thelma, the Applebys were, of
course, based on the Ackersons. But both characters had been drawn with great love and good humor; surely there
was nothing about them that would offend Thelma, and in panic Laura tried to say as much.
"No, no, Shane, you hopeless fool," Thelma said between bouts of tears. "I'm not offended. The reason I can't stop
crying is because you did the most wonderful thing. Carrie Appleby is Ruthie as sure as I ever knew her, but in your
book you let Ruthie live a long time. You let Ruthie live, Shane, and that's a whole hell of a lot better job than God
did in real life."
They talked for an hour, mostly about Ruthie, reminiscing, not with a lot of tears, now, but mostly with affection.
Danny and Chris appeared in the open doorway of the den a couple of times, looking abandoned, and Laura blew
them kisses, but she stayed on the telephone with Thelma because it was one of those rare times when
remembering the dead was more important than tending to the needs of the living.
Two weeks before Christmas, 1985, when Chris was five and then some, the southern California rainy season
started with a downpour that made palm fronds rattle like bones, battered the last remaining blossoms off the
impatiens, and flooded streets. Chris could not play outside. His father was off inspecting a potential real estate
investment, and the boy was in no mood to entertain himself. He kept finding excuses to bother Laura in her office,
and by eleven o'clock she gave up trying to work on the current book. She sent him to the kitchen to get the baking
sheets out of the cupboard, promising to let him help her make chocolate-chip cookies.
Before joining him, she got Sir Tommy Toad's webbed-foot boots, tiny umbrella, and miniature scarf from the
dresser drawer in the bedroom, where she had been keeping them for just such a day as this. On her way to the
kitchen she arranged those items near the front door.
Later, as she was slipping a tray of cookies into the oven, she sent him to the front door to see if the United Parcel
deliveryman had left a package that she professed to be expecting, and Chris came back flushed with excitement.
"Mommy, come look, come see."
In the foyer he showed her the three miniature items, and she said, "I suppose they belong to Sir Tommy. Oh, did I
forget to tell you about the lodger we've taken in? A fine, upstanding toad from England here on the queen's
business."
She had been eight when her father had invented Sir Tommy, and she had accepted the fabulous toad as a fun
fantasy, but Chris was only five and took it more seriously. "Where's he going to sleep—the spare bedroom? Then
what do we do when Grandpa comes to visit?"
"We've rented Sir Tommy a room in the attic," Laura said, "and we must not disturb him or tell anyone about him
except Daddy because Sir Tommy is here on secret business for Her Majesty."
He looked at her wide-eyed, and she wanted to laugh but dared not. He had brown hair and eyes, like she and
Danny, but his features were delicate, more his mother's than his father's. In spite of his smallness there was
something about him that made her think he would eventually shoot up to be tall and solidly constructed like Danny.
He leaned close and whispered: "Is Sir Tommy a spy?"


Throughout the afternoon, as they baked cookies, cleaned up, and played a few games of Old Maid, Chris was full
of questions about Sir Tommy. Laura discovered that tale-telling for children was in some ways more demanding
than writing novels for adults.
When Danny came home at four-thirty, he shouted a greeting on his way along the hall from the connecting door to
the garage.
Chris jumped up from the breakfast-nook table, where he and Laura were playing cards, and urgently shushed his
father. "Sssshhh, Daddy, Sir Tommy might be sleeping now, he had a long trip, he's the Queen of England, and
he's spying in our attic!"
Danny frowned. "I go away from home for just a few hours, and while I'm gone we're invaded by scaly, transvestite,
British spies?"
That night in bed, after Laura made love with a special passion that surprised even her, Danny said, "What's gotten
into you today? All evening you were so ... buoyant, so up."
Snuggling against him under the covers, enjoying the feel of his nude body against hers, she said, "Oh, I don't
know, it's just that I'm alive, and Chris is alive, you're alive, we're all together. And it's this Tommy Toad thing."
"It tickles you?"
"Tickles me, yes. But it's more than that. It's . . . well, somehow it makes me feel that life goes on, that it always
goes on, the cycle is renewed—does this sound crazy?—and that life is going to go on for us, too, for all of us, for a
long time."
"Well, yeah, I think you're right," he said. "Unless you're that energetic every time you make love from now on, in
which case you'll kill me in about three months."
In October, 1986, when Chris turned six, Laura's fifth novel, Endless River, was published to critical acclaim and
bigger sales than any of her previous titles. Her editor had predicted the greater success: "It's got all the humor, all
the tension, all the tragedy, that whole weird mix of a Laura Shane novel, but it's somehow not as dark as the
others, and that makes it especially appealing."
For two years, Laura and Danny had been taking Chris up to the San Bernardino Mountains at least one weekend
a month, to Lake Arrowhead and Big Bear, both during the summer and winter, to make sure he learned that the
whole world was not like the pleasant but thoroughly urbanized and suburbanized realms of Orange County. With
the continued flowering of her career and the success of Danny's investment strategies, and considering her recent
willingness not only to entertain optimism but to live it, they decided it was time to indulge themselves, so they
bought a second home in the mountains.
It was an eleven-room stone and redwood place on thirty acres just off state route 330, a few miles south of Big
Bear. It was, in fact, a more expensive house than the one they lived in during the week in Orange Park Acres. The
property was mostly covered with western juniper, Ponderosa pine, and sugar pine, and their nearest neighbor was
far beyond sight. During their first weekend at the retreat, as they were making a snowman, three deer appeared at
the edge of the looming forest, twenty yards away, and watched curiously.
Chris was thrilled at the sight of the deer, and by the time he had been tucked in bed that night, he was sure that
they were Santa Claus's deer. This was where the jolly fat man went after Christmas, he insisted, and not, as
legend had it, to the North Pole.
Wind and Stars appeared in October of '87, and it was a still bigger hit than any of her previous books. The movie
of Endless River was released that Thanksgiving, enjoying the biggest opening-week box office of any film that
year.
On Friday, January 8, 1988, buoyed by the knowledge that Wind and Stars would hold the number one spot on the
Times list that Sunday for the fifth week in a row, they drove up to Big Bear in the afternoon, as soon as Chris came
home from school. The following Tuesday was Laura's thirty-third birthday, and they intended to have an early
celebration, just the three of them, high in the mountains, with the snow like icing on a cake and the wind to sing to
her.
Accustomed to them, the deer ventured within twenty feet of their house on Saturday morning. But Chris was seven
now, and in school he heard the rumor that Santa Claus was not real, and he was no longer so sure that these
were more than ordinary deer.
The weekend was perfect, perhaps the best they had spent in the mountains, but they had to cut it short. They had
intended to leave at six o'clock Monday morning, returning to Orange County in time to deliver Chris to school.
However a major storm moved into the area ahead of schedule late Sunday afternoon, and though they were little
more than ninety minutes from the balmy temperatures nearer the coast, the weather report called for two feet of
new snow by morning. Not wanting to risk being snowbound and causing Chris to miss a day of school—a
possibility even with their four-wheel-drive Blazer—they closed up the big stone and redwood house and headed
south on state route 330 at a few minutes past four o'clock.
Southern California was one of the few places in the world where you could drive from a winterscape to subtropical
heat in less than two hours, and Laura always enjoyed—and marveled at—the journey. The three of them were
dressed for snow—wool socks, boots, thermal underwear, heavy slacks, warm sweaters, ski jackets—but in an
hour and a quarter they would be in milder climes where no one was bundled up, and in two hours they would be in


shirtsleeve weather.
Laura drove while Danny, sitting in front, and Chris, sitting behind him, played a word-association game that they
had devised on previous trips to amuse themselves. Rapidly falling snow found even those sections of the highway
that were largely protected by trees on both sides, and in unsheltered areas the hard-driven flakes sheeted and
whirled by the millions in the capricious currents of the high-mountain winds, sometimes half obscuring the way
ahead. She drove with caution, not caring if the two-hour drive home required three hours or four; since they had
left early, they had plenty of time to spare, all the time in the world.
When she came out of the big curve a few miles south of their house and entered the half-mile incline, she saw a
red Jeep station wagon parked on the right shoulder and a man in a navy peacoat in the middle of the road. He was
coming down the hill, waving both arms to halt them.
Leaning forward and squinting between the thumping windshield wipers, Danny said, "Looks like he broke down,
needs help."
"Packard's Patrol to the rescue!" Chris said from the back seat.
As Laura slowed, the guy on the road began frantically gesturing for them to pull to the right shoulder.
Danny said uneasily, "Something odd about him. . . ."
Yes, odd indeed. He was her special guardian. The sight of him after all these years shocked and frightened Laura.
He had just gotten out of the stolen Jeep when the Blazer turned the bend at the bottom of the hill. As he rushed
toward it, he saw Laura slow the Blazer to a crawl a third of the way up the slope, but she was still in the middle of
the roadway, so he signaled her more frantically to get off onto the shoulder, as close to the embankment as
possible. At first she continued to creep forward, as if unsure whether he was only a motorist in trouble or
dangerous, but when they drew close enough to each other for her to see his face and perhaps recognize him, she
immediately obeyed.
As she accelerated past him and whipped the Blazer onto the wider portion of the shoulder, only twenty feet
downhill from Stefan's Jeep, he reversed direction and ran to her, yanked open her door. "I don't know if being off
the road's good enough. Get out, up the embankment, quickly, now!"
Danny said, "Hey, wait just—"
"Do what he says!" Laura shouted. "Chris, come on, get out!"
Stefan gripped Laura's hand and helped her out of the driver's seat. As Danny and Chris also scrambled from the
Blazer, Stefan heard a laboring engine above the skirling wind. He looked up the long hill and saw that a big pickup
truck had topped the crest and was starting down toward them. Pulling Laura after him, he ran around the front of
the Blazer.
Her guardian said, "Up the embankment, come on," and began to climb the hard-packed, ice-crusted snow that had
been shoved there by plows and that sloped steeply toward the nearby trees.
Laura looked up the highway and saw the truck, a quarter-mile from them and only a hundred feet below the crest,
beginning a long, sickening slide on the treacherous pavement until it was coming sideways down the road. If they
had not stopped, if her guardian had not delayed them, they would have been just below the crest when the truck
went out of control; already they would have been hit.
Beside her, with Chris riding him piggyback and holding on tight, Danny obviously had seen the danger. The truck
might come all the way down the hill without the driver in control, might slam into the Jeep and Blazer. Lugging
Chris, he scrambled up the snow-packed embankment, yelling for Laura to move.
She climbed, grabbing for handholds, kicking footholds as she went. The snow was not only ice-mantled but ice-
marbled and rotten in places, breaking away in chunks, and a couple of times she nearly fell backward to the
shoulder of the highway below. By the time she joined her guardian, Danny, and Chris fifteen feet above the
highway, on a narrow but snow-free shelf of rock near the trees, it seemed as if she had been climbing for minutes.
But in fact her sense of time must have been distorted by fear, for when she looked up the highway, she saw that
the truck was still sliding toward them, that it was two hundred feet away, had made one complete revolution, and
was turning sideways again.
On it came through the streaming snow, as if in slow motion, fate in the form of a few tons of steel. A snowmobile
stood in the big pickup's cargo bed, and it was apparently not secured by chains or in any way restrained; the driver
foolishly had relied on inertia to keep it in place. But now the snowmobile was slamming from side to side against
the walls of the cargo hold and forward into the back wall of the cab, and through the quarter-mile slide its violent
shifts contributed to the destabilization of the vehicle under it, until it seemed as if the truck, leaning radically, would
roll instead of spin through another complete turn.
Laura saw the driver fighting the wheel, and she saw a woman beside him, screaming, and she thought: Oh, my
god, those poor people!
As if sensing her thoughts, her guardian shouted above the wind, "They're drunk, both of them, and no snow
chains."
If you know that much about them, she thought, you must know who they are, so why didn't you stop them, why
didn't you save them too?
With a terrible crash the front end of the truck rammed into the side of the Jeep, and unrestrained by a seat belt, the


woman was thrown halfway through the windshield, where she hung partly in and partly out of the cab—
Laura yelled, "Chris!" But she saw that Danny had already taken the boy off his back and was holding him close,
turning his head away from the ongoing accident.
—the collision didn't stop the truck; it had too much momentum, and the pavement was too slippery for chainless
tread to grip. But the brutal impact did reverse the direction of the truck's slide: it abruptly whipped around to its
driver's right, heading backward down the hill, and the snowmobile exploded through the tailgate, flew free,
crashing onto the hood of the parked Blazer, smashing the windshield. An instant later the rear of the pickup
slammed into the front of the Blazer with enough force to shove that vehicle ten feet backward in spite of its firmly
engaged emergency brakes—
Though viewing the destruction from the safety of the embank ment, Laura gripped Danny's arm, horrified by the
thought that they surely would have been injured and perhaps killed if they had taken refuge either in front of or
behind the Blazer.
—now the pickup bounced off the Blazer; the bloodied woman fell back into the cab; and, sliding more slowly but
still out of control, the battered truck turned three hundred and sixty degrees in an eerily graceful ballet of death,
angling down the slope and across the snowy pavement and over the far shoulder, over the unguarded brink, out
into emptiness, down, out of sight, gone.
Though no horror remained to be seen, Laura covered her face with her hands, perhaps trying to block out the
mental image of the pickup carrying its occupants down the rocky, nearly treeless wall of that gorge, tumbling
hundreds upon hundreds of feet. The driver and his companion would be dead before they hit bottom. Even above
the raging wind, she heard the truck strike an outcropping of rock, then another. But in seconds the noise of its
violent descent faded, and the only sound was the mad shrieking of the storm.
Stunned, they slid and groped their way down the embankment to the shoulder of the road between the Jeep and
the Blazer, where bits of glass and metal littered the snowy surface. Steam rose from under the Blazer as hot
radiator fluid drizzled onto the frozen ground, and the ruined vehicle creaked under the weight of the snowmobile
embedded in its hood.
Chris was crying. Laura reached for him. He came into her arms, and she lifted him, held him, while he sobbed
against her neck.
Dazed. Danny turned to their savior. "Who . . . who in the name of God are you?" Laura stared at her guardian,
finding it difficult to cope with the fact that he really was there. She had not seen him in over twenty years since she
was twelve, that day in the cemetery when she had spotted him watching her father's interment from the grove of
Indian laurels. She had not seen him close up for almost twenty-five years, since the day he had killed the junkie in
her father's grocery. When he failed to save her from the Eel, when he left her to handle that one on her own, a
loss of faith set in, and no doubt was encouraged when he did nothing to save Nina Dockweiler, either— or Ruthie.
With the passage of so much time, he had become a dream figure, more myth than reality, and in the last couple of
years she had not thought about him at all, had abandoned belief in him just as Chris was currently abandoning
belief in Santa Claus. She still had the note that he'd left on her desk, after her father's funeral. But she had long
ago convinced herself that it had not in fact been written by a magical guardian but perhaps by Cora or Tern Lance,
her father's friends. Now he had saved her again, miraculously, and Danny wanted to know who in the name of
God he was, and that was what Laura wanted to know as well.
The strangest part of it was that he looked the same as when he had shot the junkie. Exactly the same. She had
recognized him at once, even after the passage of so much time, because he had not aged. He still appeared to be
in his middle to late thirties. Im possibly, the years had left no mark on him, no hint of gray in his blond hair, no
wrinkles in his face. Though he had been her father’s age that bloody day in the grocery store, he now was of her
own generation or nearly so.
Before the man could answer Danny's question or find a way to avoid an answer, a car topped the hill and started
down toward them. It was a late-model Pontiac equipped with tire chains that sang on the pavement. The driver
apparently saw the damage to the Jeep and the Blazer and noted the pickup's still fresh skid marks that had not yet
been obliterated by wind and snow; he slowed— with reduced speed the song of the chains quickly changed to a
clatter—and pulled across the pavement into the southbound lane. Instead of going all the way to the shoulder and
out of traffic, however, the car continued north in the wrong lane, stopping only fifteen feet from them, near the back
of the Jeep. When he threw open the door and got out of the Pontiac, the driver—a tall man in dark clothing—was
holding an object that, too late, Laura identified as a submachine gun.
Her guardian said, "Kokoschka!"
Even as his name was spoken, Kokoschka opened fire.
Th ough he was more than fifteen years from Vietnam, Danny reacted with the instincts of a soldier. As bullets
ricocheted off the red Jeep in front of them and off the Blazer behind them, Danny grabbed Laura, pushing her and
Chris to the ground between the two vehicles.
As Laura dropped below the line of fire, she saw Danny struck in the back. He was hit at least once, maybe twice,
and she jerked as if the slugs had hit her. He fell against the front of the Blazer, dropped to his knees.
Laura cried out and, holding Chris with one arm, reached for her husband.


He was still alive, and in fact he swung toward her on his knees. His face was as white as the snow falling around
them, and she had the bizarre and terrible feeling that she was looking into the countenance of a ghost rather than
that of a living man. ' 'Get under the Jeep," Danny said, pushing her hand away. His voice was thick and wet, as if
something had broken in his throat. "Quick!"
One of the bullets had passed completely through him. Bright blood oozed down the front of his blue, quilted ski
jacket.
When she hesitated, he moved to her on hands and knees, pushed her toward the Jeep just a few feet away.
Another loud burst of submachine-gun fire crackled through the wintry air.
The gunman would no doubt move cautiously forward toward the front of the Jeep and slaughter them as they
cowered there. Yet they had nowhere to run: If they went up the embankment toward the trees, he would cut them
down long before they reached the safety of the forest; if they crossed the road, he would blow them away before
they reached the other side, and at the other side there was nothing but the steep-walled gorge, anyway; running
uphill, they would be heading toward him; running downhill, they would be putting their bac ks to him, making even
easier targets of themselves.
The submachine gun rattled. Windows burst. Bullets punctured sheet metal with a hard pock-twang.
Crawling to the front of the Jeep, dragging Chris with her, Laura saw her guardian slipping into the narrow space
between that vehicle and the snow-packed embankment. He was crouched below the fender, out of sight of the
man he had called Kokoschka. In his fear he no longer seemed magical, no guardian angel but merely a man and
in fact he was no longer a savi or, either, but an agent of Death, for his presence here had attracted the killer.
At Danny's urging she frantically squirmed under the Jeep. Chris squirmed, too, not crying now, being brave for his
father; but then he had not seen his rather shot, for his face had been pressed to Laura's breast, buried in her ski
jacket. It seemed useless to get under the Jeep because Kokoschka would find them anyway. He could not be so
dim-witted as to fail to look under the Jeep when they could be found nowhere else, so at most they were just
buying a little time, an extra minute of life at most.
When she was completely under the Jeep, pulling Chris against her to give him what little additional protection her
body could provide, she heard Danny speak to her from the front of the vehicle. "I love you." Anguish pierced her as
she realized that those three short words also meant goodbye.
Stefan slipped between the Jeep and the dirty, mounded snow along the embankment. There was little space, not
enough for him to have gotten out of the driver's door on that side when he had parked there, but barely enough to
squeeze along toward the rear bumper where Kokoschka might not expect him to show up, where he might get off
one good shot before Kokoschka swung around and sprayed him with the submachine gun.
Kokoschka. He had never been so surprised in his life as when Kokoschka had gotten out of that Pontiac. It meant
they were aware of his traitorous activities at the institute. And they were also aware that he had interposed himself
between Laura and her true destiny. Kokoschka had taken the Lightning Road with the intention of eliminating the
traitor and evidently Laura as well.
Now, keeping his head down, Stefan urgently forced his way between the Jeep and the embankment. The
submac hine gun chattered and windows blew out above him. At his back the snowbank was ice-crusted in many
places, jabbing painfully into him; when he endured the pain and pressed hard with his body, the ice cracked, and
the snow beneath it compacted just enough to give him passage. Wind streamed through the narrow space he
occupied, shrieking between sheet metal and snow, so it seemed that he was not alone there but was in the
company of some invisible creature that hooted and gibbered in his face.
He had seen Laura and Chris wriggling under the Jeep, but he knew that cover would provide only an additional
minute of safety, perhaps even less. When Kokoschka got to the front of the Jeep and didn't find them there, he
would look under the vehicle, get down at road level, and open fire, chopping them to pieces in their confinement.
And what of Danny? He was such a big man, barrel-chested, surely too big to slide swiftly under the Jeep. And
already he'd been shot; he must be stiff with pain. Besides, Danny wasn't the kind of man who hid from trouble, not
even trouble like this.
At last Stefan reached the rear bumper. Cautiously he looked out and saw the Pontiac parked eight feet away in the
southbound lane with its driver's door standing open, engine running. No Kokoschka. So with his Walther PPK/S
.380 in hand he eased away from the snowbank, moved behind the Jeep. He crouched against the tailgate and
peered around the other rear bumper.
Kokoschka was in the middle of the roadway, moving toward the front of the Jeep where he believed everyone had
taken cover. His weapon was an Uzi with an extended magazine, chosen for the mission because it would not be
anachronistic. As Kokoschka reached the gap between the Jeep and the Blazer, he opened fire again, sweeping
the submachine gun from left to right. Bullets screamed off metal, blew out tires, and thudded into the embank ment.
Stefan fired at Kokoschka, missed.
Suddenly, with berserk courage, Danny Packard launched himself at Kokoschka, coming out from his hiding place
tight up against the Jeep's grill, so low that he must have been lying flat, low enough to have been under the spray
of bullets the submachine gun had just laid down. He was wounded from the initial burst of fire but still quick and
powerful, and for a moment it seemed that he might even reach the gunman and disable him. Kokoschka was


sweeping the Uzi from left to right, already moving away from his target when he saw Danny coming at him, so he
had to reverse himself, bring the muzzle around. If he had been a few feet closer to the Jeep instead of in the
middle of the highway, he would not have nailed Danny in time.
"Danny, no!" Stefan shouted, squeezing off three shots at Kokoschka even as Packard was going for him.
But Kokoschka had kept a cautious distance, and he brought the spitting muzzle around, straight at Danny, when
they were still three or four feet apart. Danny was kicked backward by the impact of several slugs.
Stefan took no consolation from the fact that even as Danny was hit, Kokoschka was hit, too, taking two rounds
from the Walther, one in his left thigh and one in his left shoulder. He was knocked down. He dropped the
submachine gun as he fell; it spun along the pavement.
Under the Jeep, Laura was screaming,
Stefan rose from the cover of the rear bumper and ran toward Kokoschka, who was on the ground only thirty feet
downslope, near the Blazer now. He slipped on the snowy pavement, struggled to keep his balance.
Badly wounded, no doubt in shock, Kokoschka nevertheless saw him coming. He rolled toward the Uzi carbine,
which had come to rest by the rear tire of the Blazer.
Stefan fired three times as he ran, but he did not have the steadiness required for a good aim, and Kokoschka was
rolling away from him, so he missed the son of a bitch. Then Stefan slipped again and fell to one knee in the middle
of the road, landing so hard that pain shot up his thigh and into his hip.
Rolling, Kokoschka reached the submachine gun.
Realizing he'd never get to the man in time, Stefan dropped onto both knees and raised the Walther, holding it with
both hands. He was twenty feet from Kokoschka, not far. But even a good marksman could miss at twenty feet if
the circumstances were bad enough, and these were bad: a state of panic, a weird firing angle, gale-force wind to
deflect the shot.
Downslope, lying on the ground, Kokoschka opened fire the instant he got his hands on the Uzi, even before he
brought the weapon around, loosing the first twenty rounds under the Blazer, blowing out the front tires.
As Kokoschka swung the gun toward him, Stefan squeezed off his last three rounds with deliberation. In spite of the
wind and the angle, he had to make them count, for if he missed he would have no time to reload.
The first round from the Walther missed.
Kokoschka continued to bring the submachine gun around, and the arc of fire reached the front of the Jeep. Laura
was under the Jeep with Chris, and Kokoschka was shooting from ground level, so surely a couple of rounds had
passed under the vehicle.
Stefan fired again. The slug hit Kokoschka in the upper body, and the submachine gun stopped firing. Stefan's next
and last shot took Kokoschka in the head. It was over.
From beneath the Jeep, Laura saw Danny's incredibly brave charge, saw him go down again, flat on his back,
unmovi ng, and she knew that he was dead, no possibility of a reprieve this time. A flash of grief like the terrible light
from an explosion swept through her, and she glimpsed a future without Danny, a vision so starkly illuminated and
of such dreadful power that she almost blacked out.
Then she thought of Chris, still alive and sheltering against her. She blocked out the grief, knowing she would
return to it later—if she survived. The important thing right now was keeping Chris alive and, if possible, protecting
him from the sight of his father's bullet -riddled corpse.
Danny's body blocked part of her view, but she saw Kokoschka hit by gunfire. She saw her guardian approaching
the downed gunman, and for a moment it seemed the worst was over. Then her guardian slipped and fell to one
knee, and Kokoschka rolled toward the submachine gun that he had dropped. More gunfire. A lot of it in a few
seconds. She heard a couple of rounds passing under the Jeep, frighteningly close, lead cutting through the air with
a deadly whisper that was louder than any other sound in the world.
The silence after the gunfire was at first perfect. Initially she could not hear the wind or her son's low sobbing.
Gradually those sounds impinged upon her.
She saw her guardian was alive, and part of her was relieved, but part of her was irrationally angry that he had
survived because he had drawn this Kokoschka with him, and Kokoschka had killed Danny. On the other hand
Danny—and she and Chris—would surely have been killed in the collision with the truck, anyway, if her guardian
had not come along. Who the hell was he? Where did he come from? Why was he so interested in her? She was
frightened, angry, shocked, sick in her soul, and badly confused.
Clearly in pain, her guardian rose from his knees and hobbled to Kokoschka. Laura twisted farther around to look
directly down the hill, just past Danny's unmoving head. She could not quite see what her guardian was doing,
though he appeared to be tearing open Kokoschka's clothes.
After a while he hobbled back up the hill, carrying something he had taken off the corpse.
When he reached the Jeep, he crouched and looked under at her. "Come out. It's over." His face was pale, and in
the past few minutes he seemed to have aged at least a couple of his twenty-five lost years. He cleared his throat.
In a voice filled with what seemed like genuine, deeply felt remorse, he said, "I'm sorry, Laura. I'm so very sorry."
She squirmed on her belly toward the rear of the Jeep, bumping her head on the undercarriage. She pulled Chris
and encouraged him to come with her, for if they wriggled out nearer the front, the boy might see his father. Her


guardian pulled them into the open. Laura sat back against the rear bumper and clutched Chris to her.
Tremulously, the boy said, "I want Daddy."
I want him too, Laura thought. Oh, baby, I want him, too, I want him so bad, all I want in the world is your daddy.
The storm was a full-fledged blizzard now, pumping snow out of the sky under tremendous pressure. The afternoon
was dying; light was fading, and all around the grim, gray day was succumbing to the queer, phosphorescent
darkness of a snowy night.
In this weather few people would be traveling, but he was sure that someone would come along soon. No more
than ten minutes had passed since he had stopped Laura in the Blazer, but even on this rural road in a storm, the
gap in traffic would not last much longer. He needed to have a talk with her and leave before he got entangled in
the aftermath of this bloody encounter.
Hunkering down in front of her and the weeping boy, behind the Jeep, Stefan said, "Laura, I've got to get out of
here, but I'll be back soon, in just a couple of days—"
"Who are you?" she demanded angrily.
"There's no time for that now."
"I want to know, damn you. I have a right to know."
"Yes, you do, and I'll tell you in a few days. But right now we have to get your story straight, the way we did that day
in the grocery store. Remember?"
"To hell with you."
Unfazed, he said, "It's for your own good, Laura. You can't tell the authorities the exact truth because it won't seem
real, will it? They'll think you're making it all up. Especially when you see me leave . . . well, if you tell them how I
went, they'll either be sure that you're somehow an accomplice to murder or a madwoman." She glared at him and
said nothing. He did not blame her for being angry. Perhaps she even wanted him dead, but he understood that
too. The only emotions she stirred in him, however, were love and pity and a profound respect.
He said, "You'll tell them that when you and Danny turned the curve at the bottom of the hill and started up, there
were three cars in the roadway: the Jeep parked here along the embankment, the Pontiac in the wrong lane just
where it is now, and another car was stopped in the northbound lane. There were . . . four men, two of them with
guns, and they seemed to have forced the Jeep off the road. You just came along at the wrong time, that's all. They
pointed a submachine gun at you, made you pull off the road, made you and Danny and Chris get out of the car. At
one point you heard talk about cocaine . . . somehow it involved drugs, you don't know how, but they were arguing
over drugs, and they seemed to have chased down the man in the Jeep—"
"Drug dealers out here in the middle of nowhere?" she said
scornfully.
"There could be processing labs out here—a cabin in the woods, processing PCP maybe. Listen, if the story makes
at least some sense, they'll want to buy it. The real story makes no sense at all, so you can't rely on it. So you tell
them the Robertsons came over the crest of the hill in their pickup—of course you don't know their name—and the
road was blocked by all these cars, and when he braked the pickup it started to slide—"
"You've got an accent," she said angrily. "A slight one but I can hear it. Where are you from?"
"I'll tell you all of that in a few days," he said impatiently, looking up and down the snow-blasted road. "I really will,
but now you've got to promise me you'll work with this false story, embellish it as best you can, and not tell them the
truth."
"I don't have any choice, do I?"
"No," he said, relieved that she realized her position.
She clung to her son and said nothing.
Stefan had begun to feel the pain in his half-frozen feet again. The heat of action had dissipated, leaving him
racked by shivers. He handed her the belt that he had taken off Kokoschka. "Put this inside your ski jacket. Don't let
anyone see it. When you get home, put it away somewhere."
"What is it?"
"Later. I'll try to return in a few hours. Only a few hours. Right now just promise me you'll hide it. Don't get curious,
don't put it on, and for God's sake don't push the yellow button on it."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't want to go where it'll take you."
She blinked at him in confusion. "Take me?"
"I'll explain but not now."
"Why can't you take it with you, whatever it is?"
"Two belts, one body —it's an anomaly, it'll cause a disruption of some kind in the energy field, and God only knows
where I might wind up or in what condition."
"I don't understand. What're you talking about?"
"Later. But, Laura, if for some reason I'm unable to come back, you better take precautions."
"What kind of precautions?"
"Arm yourself. Be prepared. There's no reason they should come after you if they get me, but they might. Just to


teach me a lesson, to humble me. They thrive on vengeance. And if they come for you . . . there'll be a squad of
them, well armed."
"Who the hell are they?"
Without answering, he got to his feet, wincing at the pain in his right knee. He backed away, taking one last, long
look at her. Then he turned, leaving her on the ground, in the cold and snow, against the back of the battered and
bullet-pocked Jeep, with her terrified child and her dead husband.
Slowly he walked out into the middle of the highway where more light seemed to come from the shifting snow on
the pavement than from the sky overhead. She called to him, but he ignored her.
He holstered his empty gun beneath his coat. He reached inside his shirt, felt for and located the yellow button on
his own travel belt, and hesitated.
They had sent Kokoschka to stop him. Now they would be waiting anxiously at the institute to learn the outcome.
He would be arrested on arrival. He probably never again would have an opportunity to take the Lightning Road to
return to her as he had promised.
The temptation to stay was great.
If he stayed, however, they would only send someone else to kill him, and he would spend the rest of his life
running from one assassin after another—while watching the world around him change in ways that would be too
horrible to endure. On the other hand, if he went back, there was a slim chance that he might still be able to destroy
the institute. Dr. Penlovski and the others obviously knew everything about his meddling in the natural flow of
events in this one woman's life, but perhaps they did not know that he had planted explosives in the attic and
basement of the institute. In that case, if they gave him an opportunity to get into his office for just a moment, he
could throw the hidden switch and blow the place— and all its files —to hell where it belonged. More likely than not,
they had found the explosive charges and removed them. But as long as there was any possibility whatsoever that
he could bring an end forever to the project and close the Lightning Road, he was morally obliged to return to the
institute, even if it meant that he would never see Laura again.
As the day died, the storm seemed to come more fiercely alive. On the mountainside above the highway, the wind
rumbled and keened through the enormous pines, and the boughs made an ominous rustling sound, as if some
many-legged, giant creature were scuttling down the slope. The snowflakes had become fine and dry, almost like
bits of ice, and they seemed to be abrading the world, smoothing it the way that sandpaper smoothed wood, until
eventually there would be no peaks and valleys, nothing but a featureless, highly polished plain as far as anyone
could see.
With his hand still inside his coat and shirt, Stefan pressed the yellow button three times in quick succession,
triggering the beacon. With regret and fear he returned to his own time.
Holding Chris, whose sobbing had subsided, Laura sat on the ground at the back of the Jeep and watched her
guardian walk into the slanting snow, past the rear of Kokoschka's Pontiac.
He stopped in the middle of the highway, stood for a long moment with his back to her, and then an incredible thing
happened. First the air became heavy; she was aware of a strange pressure, something she had never felt before,
as if the atmosphere of the earth were being condensed in some cosmic cataclysm, and abruptly she found it hard
to draw breath. The air acquired a curious odor, too, exotic but familiar, and after a few seconds she realized it
smelled like hot electrical wires and scorched insulation, much like what she had smelled in her own kitchen when a
toaster plug had shorted out a few weeks ago; that stink was overlaid with the crisp but not unpleasant scent of
ozone, which was the same odor that filled the air during any violent thunderstorm. The pressure grew greater, until
she almost felt pinned to the ground, and the air shimmered and rippled as if it were water. With a sound like an
enormous cork popping out of a bottle, her guardian vanished from the purple-gray, winter twilight, and
simultaneously with that pop came a great whoosh of wind, as if massive quantities of air were rushing in to fill
some void. Indeed for an instant she felt trapped in a vacuum, unable to breathe. Then the crushing pressure was
gone, the air smelled only of snow and pine, and everything was normal again.
Except, of course, after what she had seen, nothing could ever be normal for her again.
The night grew very dark. Without Danny it was the blackest night of her life. Only one light remained to illuminate
her struggle toward some distant hope of happiness: Chris. He was the last light in her darkness.
Later, at the top of the hill, a car appeared. Headlights bored through the gloom and the heavily falling snow.
She struggled to her feet and took Chris into the middle of the roadway. She waved for help.
As the descending car slowed, she suddenly wondered if when it stopped another man with another submachine
gun would get out and open fire. She would never again feel safe.













Four
THE INNER FIRE

On Saturday, August 13, 1988, seven months after Danny was shot down, Thelma Ackerson came to the mountain
house to stay for four days.
Laura was in the backyard, conducting target practice with her Smith & Wesson .38 Chiefs Special. She had just


reloaded, snapped the cylinder in place, and was about to put on her Hearing Guard headset when she heard a car
approaching on the long gravel driveway from the state route. She picked up a pair of binoculars from the ground at
her feet and took a closer look at the vehicle to be sure it was not an unwanted visitor. When she saw Thelma
behind the wheel, she put the glasses down and continued firing at the target—an outline of a man's head and
torso—that was lashed to a hay-bale backstop.
Sitting on the grass nearby, Chris plucked six more cartridges from the box and prepared to hand them to her when
she had fired the last round currently in the cylinder.
The day was hot, clear, and dry. Wildflowers by the hundreds blazed along the edge of the yard where the mown
area gave way to wild grass and weeds near the forest line. Squirrels had been at play on the grass a while ago,
and birds had been singing, but the shooting had temporarily frightened them away.
Laura might have been expected to associate her husband's death with the high retreat and to sell it. Instead she
had sold the house in Orange County four months ago and moved Chris to the San Bernardinos.
She believed that what had happened to them the previous January on route 330 could have happened anywhere.
The place was not to blame; the fault lay in her destiny, in the mysterious forces at work in her strangely troubled
life. Intuitively she knew that if her guardian had not stepped in to save her on that stretch of snowy highway, he
would have entered her life elsewhere, at another moment of crisis. At that place Kokoschka would have shown up
with a submachine gun, and the same set of violent, tragic events would have transpired.
Their other home had held more memories of Danny than did the stone and redwood place south of Big Bear. She
was better able to deal with her grief in the mountains than in Orange Park Acres.
Besides, oddly enough, the mountains felt much safer to her. In the highly populated suburbs of Orange County,
where the streets and freeways teemed with more than two million people, an enemy would not be perceived
among the crowd until he chose to act. In the mountains, however, strangers were highly visible, especially since
the house sat almost in the center of their thirty-acre property. And she had not forgotten her guardian's warning:
Arm yourself. Be prepared. If they come for you . . . there'll be a squad of them. When Laura fired the last round in
the .38 and pulled off the ear guards, Chris handed her six more cartridges. He removed his muffs, too, and ran to
the target to check her accuracy.
The backstop consisted of hay bales piled seven feet high and four deep; it was fourteen feet wide. Behind it were
acres of pine woods, her private land, so the need for an elaborate backstop was questionable, but she did not
want to shoot anyone. At least not accidentally.
Chris lashed up a new target and returned to Laura with the old one. "Four hits out of six, Mom. Two deaders, two
good wounds, but looks like you're pulling off to the left a little." "Let's see if I can correct that." "You're just getting
tired, that's all," Chris said. The grass around her was littered with over a hundred and fifty empty brass shell
casings. Her wrists, arms, shoulders, and nec k were beginning to ache from the cumulative recoil, but she wanted
to get in another full cylinder before quitting for the day. Back near the house, Thelma's car door slammed. Chris
put on his ear guards again and picked up the binoculars to watch the target while his mother fired.
Sorrow plucked at Laura as she paused to look at the boy, not merely because he was fatherless but because it
seemed so unfair that a child two months short of his eighth birthday should already know how dangerous life was
and should have to live in constant expectation of violence. She did her best to make sure there was as much fun in
his life as possible: They still played with the Tommy Toad fantasy, though Chris no longer believed that Tommy
was real; through a large personal library of children's classics, Laura also was showing him the pleasure and
escape to be found in books; she even did her best to make target practice a game and thereby divert the focus
from the deadly necessity of being able to protect themselves. Yet for the time being their lives were dominated by
loss and danger, by a fear of the unknown. That reality could not be hidden from the boy, and it could not fail to
have a profound and lasting effect on him.
Chris lowered the binoculars and looked at her to see why she was not shooting. She smiled at him. He smiled at
her. He had such a sweet smile it almost broke her heart.
She turned to the target, raised the .38, gripped it with both hands, and squeezed off the first shot of the new
series.
By the time Laura fired four rounds, Thelma stepped up beside her. She stood with her fingers in her ears, wincing.
Laura squeezed off the last two shots and removed her ear guards, and Chris retrieved the target. The roar of
gunfire was still echoing through the mountains when she turned to Thelma and hugged her.
"What's all this gun stuff?" Thelma asked. "Are you going to write new movies for Clint Eastwood? No, hey, better
yet, write the female equal of Clint's role—Dirty Harriet. And I'm just the broad to play it—tough, cold, with a sneer
that would make Bogart cringe."
"I'll keep you in mind for the part," Laura said, "but what I'd really like to see is Clint play it in drag."
"Hey, you've still got a sense of humor, Shane."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
Thelma frowned. "I didn't know what to think when I saw you blasting away, looking mean as a snake with fang
decay."
"Self-defense," Laura said. "Every good girl should learn


some.
"You were plinking away like a pro." Thelma noted the glitter of brass shell casings in the grass. "How often do you
do this?" "Three times a week, a couple of hours each time." Chris returned with the target. "Hi, Aunt Thelma. Mom,
you got four deaders out of six that time, one good wound, and a miss.''
"Deaders?" Thelma said.
"Still pulling to-the left, do you think?" Laura asked the boy.
He showed her the target. "Not so much as last time."
Thelma said, "Hey, Christopher Robin, is that all I get —just a lousy 'Hi, Aunt Thelma'?"
Chris put the target with the pile of others that he had taken down before it, went to Thelma, and gave her a big hug
and a kiss. Noticing that she was no longer done up in punk style, he said, "Gee, what happened to you, Aunt
Thelma? You look normal."
"I look normal? What is that—a compliment or an insult? Just you remember, kid, even if your old Aunt Thelma
looks normal, she is no such a thing. She is a comic genius, a dazzling wit, a legend in her own scrapbook.
Anyway, I decided punk was passe."
They enlisted Thelma to help them collect empty shell casings.
"Mom's a terrific shot," Chris said proudly.
"She better be terrific with all this practice. There's enough brass here to make balls for an entire army of Amazon
warriors."
To his mother, Chris said, "What's that mean?"
"Ask me again in ten years," Laura said.
When they went into the house, Laura locked the kitchen door. Two deadbolts. She closed the Levelor blinds over
the windows so no one could see them.
Thelma watched these rituals with interest but said nothing.
Chris put Raiders of the Lost Ark on the VCR in the family room and settled in front of the television with a bag of
cheese popcorn and a Coke. In the adjacent kitchen Laura and Thelma sat at the table and drank coffee while
Laura disassembled and cleaned the .38 Chiefs Special.
The kitchen was big but cozy with lots of dark oak, used brick on two walls, a copper range hood, copper pots hung
on hooks, and a dark blue, ceramic-tile floor. It was the kind of kitchen in which TV sitcom families worked out their
nonsensical crises and attained transcendent al enlightenment (with heart) in thirty minutes each week, minus
commercials. Even to Laura it seemed like an odd place to be cleaning a weapon designed primarily to kill other
human beings.
"Are you really afraid?" Thelma asked.
"Bet on it."
"But Danny was killed because you were unlucky enough to wander into the middle of a drug deal of some kind.
Those people are long gone, right?"
"Maybe not."
"Well, if they were afraid that you might be able to identify them, they'd have come to get you long before this."
"I'm taking no chances."
"You got to ease up, kid. You can't live the rest of your life expecting someone to jump at you from the bushes. All
right, you can keep a gun around the house. That's probably wise. But aren't you ever going to go out into the world
again? You can't tote a gun with you everywhere you go."
"Yes, I can. I've got a permit."
"A permit to carry that cannon?"
"I take it in my purse wherever we go."
"Jesus, how'd you get a permit to carry?"
"My husband was killed under strange circumstances by persons unknown. Those killers tried to shoot my son and
me—and they are still at large. On top of all that, I'm a rich and relatively famous woman. It'd be a little odd if I
couldn't get a permit to carry."
Thelma was silent for a minute, sipping her coffee, watching Laura clean the revolver. Finally she said, "This is kind
of spooky, Shane, seeing you so serious about this, so tense. I mean, it's seven months since . . . Danny died. But
you're as skittish as if someone had shot at you yesterday. You can't maintain this level of tension or readiness or
whatever you want to call it. That way lies madness. Paranoia. You've got to face the fact that you can't really be on
guard the rest of your life, every minute."
"I can, though, if I have to."
"Oh, yeah? What about right now? Your gun's disassembled. What if some barbarian thug with tattoos on his
tongue started kicking down the kitchen door?''
The kitchen chairs were on rubber casters, so when Laura suddenly shoved away from the table, she rolled swiftly
to the counter beside the refrigerator. She pulled open a drawer and brought out another .38 Chiefs Special.
Thelma said, "What —am I sitting in the middle of an arsenal?"
Laura put the second revolver back in the drawer. "Come on. I'll give you a tour."


Thelma followed her to the pantry. Hung on the back of the pantry door was an Uzi semiautomatic carbine.
"That's a machine gun. Is it legal to have one?"
"With federal approval, you can buy them at gunshops, though you can only get a semiautomatic; it's illegal to have
them modified for full automatic fire."
Thelma studied her, then sighed. "Has this one been modified?"
"Yes. It's fully automatic. But I bought it that way from an illegal dealer, not a gunshop."
"This is too spooky, Shane. Really."
She led Thelma into the dining room and showed her the revolver that was clipped to the bottom of the sideboard.
In the living room a fourth revolver was clipped under an end table next to one of the sofas. A second modified Uzi
was hung on the back of the foyer door at the front of the house. Revolvers were also hidden in the desk drawer in
the den, in her office upstairs, in the master bathroom, and in the nightstand in her bedroom. Finally, she kept a
third Uzi in the master bedroom.
Staring at the Uzi that Laura pulled from under the bed, Thelma said, "Spookier and spookier. If I didn't know you
better, Shane, I'd think you'd gone mad, a raving paranoid gun nut. But knowing you, if you're really this scared,
you've got to have some reason. But what about Chris around all these guns?"
"He knows not to touch them, and I know he can be trusted. Most Swiss families have members in the militia—
nearly every male citizen there is prepared to defend his country, did you know that?—with guns in almost every
house, but they have the lowest rate of accidental shootings in the world. Because guns are a way of life. Children
are taught to respect them from an early age. Chris'll be okay."
As Laura put the Uzi under the bed again, Thelma said, "How on earth do you find an illegal gun dealer?"
"I'm rich, remember?"
"And money can buy anything? Okay, maybe that's true. But, come on, how does a gal like you find an arms
dealer? They don't advertise on Laundromat bulletin boards, I presume."
"I've researched the backgrounds to several complicated novels, Thelma. I've learned how to find anyone or
anything I need."
Thelma was silent as they returned to the kitchen. From the family room came the heroic music that accompanied
Indiana Jones on all of his exploits. While Laura sat at the table and continued cleaning the revolver, Thelma
poured fresh coffee for both of them.
"Straight talk now, kiddo. If there's really some threat out there that justifies all this armament, then it's bigger than
you can handle yourself. Why not bodyguards?"
"I don't trust anyone. Anyone but you and Chris, that is. And Danny's father, except he's in Florida."
"But you can't go on like this, alone, afraid ..."
Working a spiral brush into the barrel of the revolver, Laura said, "I'm afraid, yeah, but I feel good about being
prepared. All my life I've stood by while people I love have been taken from me. I've done nothing about it but
endure. Well, to hell with that. From now on, I fight. If anyone wants to take Chris from me, they're going to have to
go through me to get him, they'll have to fight a war."
"Laura, I know what you're going through. But listen, let me play psychoanalyst here and tell you that you're
reacting less to any real threat than you are overreacting to a sense of helplessness in the face of fate. You can't
thwart Providence, kid. You can't play poker with God and expect to win because you've got a .38 in your purse. I
mean, you lost Danny to violence, yeah, and maybe you could say that Nina Dockweiler would have lived if
someone had put a bullet in the Eel when he first deserved it, but those are the only cases where lives of people
you loved might've been saved with guns. Your mother died in childbirth. Your father died of a heart attack. We lost
Ruthie to fire. Learning to defend yourself with guns is fine, but you've got to keep perspective, you've got to have a
sense of humor about our vulnerability as a species, or you'll wind up in an institution with people who talk to tree
stumps and eat their belly-button lint. God forbid, but what if Chris got cancer? You're all prepared to blow away
anyone who touches him, but you can't kill cancer with a revolver, and I'm afraid you're so crazy determined to
protect him that you'll fall to pieces if something like that happens, something you can't deal with, that no one can
deal with. I worry about you, kid."
Laura nodded and felt a rush of warmth for her friend. "I know you do, Thelma. And you can put your mind at ease.
For thirty-three years I just endured; now I'm fighting back as best I can. If cancer were to strike me or Chris, I'd hire
all the best specialists, seek the finest possible treatment. But if all failed, if for example Chris died of cancer, then
I'd accept defeat. Fighting doesn't preclude enduring. I can fight, and if fighting fails, I can still endure."
For a long time Thelma stared at her across the table. At last she nodded. "That's what I hoped to hear. Okay. End
of discussion. On to other things. When do you plan to buy a tank, Shane?"
"They're delivering it Monday."
"Howitzers, grenades, bazookas?"
"Tuesday. What about the Eddie Murphy movie?"
"We closed the deal two days ago," Thelma said.
"Really. My Thelma is going to star in a movie with Eddie Murphy?"
"Your Thelma is going to appear in a movie with Eddie Murphy. I don't think I qualify as a star yet."


"You had fourth lead in that picture with Steve Martin, third lead in the picture with Chevy Chase. And this is second
lead, right? And how many times have you hosted the Tonight show? Eight times, isn't it? Face it, you're a star."
"Low magnitude, maybe. Isn't it weird, Shane? Two of us come from nothing, McIlroy Home, and we make it to the
top. Strange?"
"Not so strange," Laura said. "Adversity breeds toughness, and the tough succeed. And survive."
Stefan left the snow-filled night in the San Bernardino Mountains and an instant later was inside the gate at the
other end of Lightning Road. The gate resembled a large barrel, not unlike one of those that were popular in
carnival funhouses, except that its inner surface was of highly polished copper rather than wood, and it did not turn
under his feet. The barrel was eight feet in diameter and twelve feet long, and in a few steps he walked out of it,
into the main, ground-floor lab of the institute, where he was certain that he'd be met by armed men.
The lab was deserted.
Astonished, he stood for a moment in his snow-flecked peacoat and looked around in disbelief. Three walls of the
thirty-by-forty-foot room were lined floor to ceiling with machinery that hummed and clicked unattended. Most of the
overhead lamps were off, so the room was softly, eerily lit. The machinery supported the gate, and it featured
scores of dials and gauges that glowed pale green or orange, for the gate—which was a breach in time, a tunnel to
any when—was never shut down; once closed, it could be reopened only with great difficulty and a tremendous
expenditure of energy, but once open it could be maintained with comparatively little effort. These days, because
the primary research work was no longer focused on developing the gate itself, the main lab was attended by
institute personnel only for routine maintenance of the machinery and, of course, when a jaunt was in progress. If
different circumstance had pertained, Stefan would never have been able to make the scores of secret,
unauthorized trips that he had taken to monitor—and sometimes correct—the events of Laura's life.
But though it was not unusual to find the lab deserted most times of the day, it was singularly strange now, for they
had sent Kokoschka to stop him, and surely they would be waiting anxiously to learn how Kokoschka had fared in
those wintry California mountains. They had to have entertained the possibility that Kokoschka would fail, that the
wrong man would return from 1988, and that the gate would have to be guarded until the situation was resolved.
Where were the secret police in their black trenchcoats with padded shoulders? Where were the guns with which
he had expected to be greeted?
He looked at the large clock on the wall and saw that it was six minutes past eleven o'clock, local time. That was as
it should have been. He'd begun the jaunt at five minutes till eleven that morning, and every jaunt ended exactly
eleven minutes after it began. No one knew why, but no matter how long a time traveler spent at the other end of
his journey, only eleven minutes passed at home base. He had been in the San Bernardinos for nearly an hour and
a half, but only eleven minutes had transpired in his own life, in his own time. If he had stayed with Laura for
months before pressing the yellow button on his belt, activating the beacon, he would still have returned to the
institute only—and precisely—eleven minutes after he had left it.
But where were the authorities, the guns, his angry colleagues expressing their outrage? After discovering his
meddling in the events of Laura's life, after sending Kokoschka to get him and Laura, why would they walk away
from the gate when they had to wait only eleven minutes to learn the outcome of the confrontation?
Stefan took off his boots, peacoat, and shoulder holster, and tucked them out of sight in a corner behind some
equipment. He had left his white lab coat in the same place when he had departed on the jaunt, and now he slipped
into it again. Baffled, still worried in spite of the lack of a hostile greeting committee, he stepped out of the lab into
the ground-floor corridor and went looking for trouble.
At two-thirty Sunday morning Laura was at her word processor in the office adjacent to the master bedroom,
dressed in pajamas and a robe, sipping apple juice, and working on a new book. The only light in the room came
from the electronic-green letters on the computer screen and from a small desk lamp tightly focused on a printout of
yesterday's pages. A revolver lay on the desk beside the script.
The door to the dark hallway was open. She never closed any but the bathroom door these days because sooner
or later a closed door might prevent her from hearing the stealthy progress of an intruder in another part of the
house. The house had a sophisticated alarm system, but she kept interior doors open just in case.
She heard Thelma coming down the hallway, and she turned just as her friend looked through the door. "Sorry if
I've made any noise that's kept you awake."
"Nah. We nightclub types work late. But I sleep till noon. What about you? You usually up at this hour?"
"I don't sleep well any more. Four or five hours a night is good for me. Instead of lying in bed, fidgeting, I get up and
write."
Thelma pulled up a chair, sat, and propped her feet on Laura's desk. Her taste in sleepwear was even more
flamboyant than it had been in her youth: baggy silk pajamas in a red, green, blue, and yellow abstract pattern of
squares and circles.
"I'm glad to see you're still wearing bunny slippers," Laura said. "It shows a certain constancy of personality."
"That's me. Rock-solid. Can't buy bunny slippers in my size any more, so I have to buy a pair of furry adult slippers
and a pair of kids' slippers, snip the eyes and ears off the little ones and sew them on the big ones. What're you
writing?"


"A bile-black book."
"Sounds like just the thing for a fun weekend at the beach."
Laura sighed and relaxed in her spring-backed armchair. "It's a novel about death, about the injustice of death. It's
a fool's project because I'm trying to explain the unexplainable. I'm trying to explain death to my ideal reader
because then maybe I can finally understand it myself. It's a book about why we have to struggle and go on in spite
of that knowledge of our mortality, why we have to fight and endure. It's a black, bleak, grim, moody, depressing,
bitter, deeply disturbing book."
"Is there a big market for that?"
Laura laughed. "Probably no market at all. But once an idea for a novel seizes a writer . . . well, it's like an inner fire
that at first warms you and makes you feel good but then begins to eat you alive, burn you up from within. You can't
just walk away from the fire; it keeps burning. The only way to put it out is to write the damned book. Anyway, when
I get stuck on this one, I turn to a nice little children's book I'm writing all about Sir Tommy Toad."
"You're nuts, Shane."
"Who's wearing the bunny slippers?"
They talked about this and that, with the easy camaraderie they had shared for twenty years. Perhaps it was
Laura's loneliness, more acute than in the days immediately following Danny's murder, or maybe it was fear of the
unknown, but for whatever reason she began to speak of her special guardian. In all the world only Thelma might
believe the tale. In fact Thelma was spellbound, soon lowering her feet from the desk and sitting forward on her
chair, never expressing disbelief, as the story unrolled from the day the junkie was shot until the guardian vanished
on the mountain highway.
When Laura had quenched that inner fire, Thelma said, "Why didn't you tell me about this . . . this guardian years
ago? Back in McIlroy ?"
"I don't know. It seemed like something . . . magical. Something I should keep to myself because if I shared it I'd
break the spell and never see him again. Then after he left me to deal with the Eel on my own, after he had done
nothing to save Ruthie, I guess I just stopped believing in him. I never told Danny about him because by the time I
met Danny my guardian was no more real to me than Santa Claus. Then suddenly . . . there he was again on the
highway."
"That night on the mountain, he said he'd be back to explain everything in a few days . . . ?"
But I haven't seen him since. I've been waiting seven months, and I figure that when someone suddenly
materializes it might be my guardian or, just as likely, another Kokoschka with a submarine gun."
The story had electrified Thelma, and she fidgeted on her chair as if a current were crackling through her. Finally
she got up and paced. "What about Kokoschka? The cops find out anything about him?"
"Nothing. He was carrying no identification whatsoever. The Pontiac he was driving was stolen, just like the red
Jeep. They ran his fingerprints through every file they've got, came up empty-handed. And they can't interrogate a
corpse. They don't know who he was or where he came from or why he wanted to kill us."
"You've had a long time to think about all this. So any ideas? Who is this guardian? Where did he come from?"
"I don't know." She had one idea in particular that she focused on, but it sounded mad, and she had no evidence to
support the theory. She withheld it from Thelma not because it was crazy, however, but because it would sound so
egomaniacal. "I just don't know."
"Where's this belt he left with you?"
"In the safe," Laura said, nodding toward the corner where a floor-set box was hidden under the carpet.
Together they pulled the wall-to-wall carpet off its tack strip in that corner, revealing the face of the safe, which was
a cylinder twelve inches in diameter and sixteen inches deep. Only one item reposed within, and Laura withdrew it.
They moved back to the desk to look at the mysterious article in better light. Laura adjusted the flexible neck of the
lamp.
The belt was four inches wide and was made of a stretchy, black fabric, perhaps nylon, through which were woven
copper wires that formed intricate and peculiar patterns. Because of its width, the belt required two small buckles
rather than one; those were also made of copper. In addition, sewn on the belt just to the left of the buckles, was a
thin box the size of an old-fashioned cigarette case—about four inches by three inches, only three-quarters of an
inch thick—and this, too, was made of copper. Even on close examination no way to open the rectangular copper
box could be discerned; its only feature was a yellow button toward the lower left corner, less than an inch in
diameter.
Thelma fingered the odd material. "Tell me again what he said would happen if you pushed the yellow button."
"He just told me for God's sake not to push it, and when I asked why not, he said, 'You won't want to go where it'll
take you.'"
They stood side by side in the glow of the desk lamp, staring at the belt that Thelma held. It was after four in the
morning, and the house was as silent as any dead, airless crater on the moon.
Finally Thelma said, "You ever been tempted to push the button?"
"No, never," Laura said without hesitation. "When he mentioned the place to which it would take me ... there was a
terrible look in his eyes. And I know he returned there himself only with reluctance. I don't know where he comes


from, Thelma, but if I didn't misunderstand what I saw in his eyes, the place is just one step this side of hell."
Sunday afternoon they dressed in shorts and T-shirts, spread a couple of blankets on the rear lawn, and made a
long, lazy picnic of potato salad, cold cuts, cheese, fresh fruit, potato chips, and plump cinnamon rolls with lots of
crunchy pecan topping. They played games with Chris, and he enjoyed the day enormously, partly because Thelma
was able to shift her comic engine into a lower gear, producing one-liners designed for eight -year-olds.
When Chris saw squirrels frolicking farther back in the yard, near the woods, he wanted to feed them. Laura gave
him a pecan roll and said, "Tear it into little pieces and toss the pieces to them. They won't let you get too near. And
you stay close to me, you hear?"
"Sure, Mom."
"Don't you go all the way to the woods. Only about halfway."
He ran thirty feet from the blanket, only a little more than halfway to the trees, then dropped to his knees. He tore
pieces from the cinnamon roll and threw them to the squirrels, making those quick and cautious creatures edge a
bit closer for each successive scrap.
"He's a good kid," Thelma said.
"The best." Laura moved the Uzi to her side.
"He's only ten or twelve yards away," Thelma said.
"But he's closer to the woods than to me." Laura studied the shadows under the serried pines. Plucking a few
potato chips from the bag, Thelma said, "Never been on a picnic with someone who brought a submachine gun. I
sort of like it. Don't have to worry about bears." "It's hell on ants, too."
Thelma stretched out on her side on the blanket, her head propped up on one bent arm, but Laura continued to sit
with her legs crossed Indian-fashion. Orange butterflies, as bright as condensed sunshine, darted through the warm
August air.
"The kid seems to be coping," Thelma said.
"More or less," Laura agreed. "There was a very bad time. He cried a lot, wasn't emotionally stable. But that
passed. They're flexible at his age, quick to adapt, to accept. But as good as he seems ... I'm afraid there's a
darkness in him now that wasn't there before and that isn't going to go away."
"No," Thelma said, "it won't go away. It's like a shadow on the heart. But he'll live, and he'll find happiness, and
there'll be times when he's not aware of the shadow at all." While Thelma watched Chris luring the squirrels, Laura
studied her friend's profile.
"You still miss Ruth, don't you?"
"Every day for twenty years. Don't you still miss your dad?" "Sure," Laura said. "But when I think of him, I don't
believe what I feel is like what you feel. Because we expect our parents to die before us, and even when they die
prematurely, we can accept it because we've always known it was going to happen sooner or later.
But it’s different when the one who dies is a wife, husband, child... or sister. We don't expect them to die on us, not
early in life. So it's harder to cope. Especially, I suppose, if she's a twin sister.”
*When I get a piece of good news —career news, I mean—the first thing I always think of is how happy Ruthie
would have been for me. What about you, Shane? You coping?"
"I cry at night."
"That's healthy now. Not so healthy a year from now."
“I lie awake at night and listen to my heartbeat, and it's a lonely sound. Thank God for Chris. He gives me purpose.
And you. I've got you and Chris, and we're sort of family, don't you think?"
"Not just sort of. We are family. You and me—sisters." Laura smiled, reached out, and rumpled Thelma's tousled
hair "But," Thelma said, "being sisters doesn't mean you get to borrow my clothes."
In the corridors and through the open doors of the institute's offices and labs, Stefan saw his colleagues at work,
and none of them had any special interest in him. He took the elevator to the third floor where just outside his office
he encountered Dr. Wladyslaw Januskaya, who was Dr. Vladimir Penlovski's longtime protege and second in
charge of the time-travel research which originally had been called Project Scythe but which for several months
now had been known by the apt code name Lightning Road.
Januskaya was forty, ten years younger than his mentor, but he looked older than the vital, energetic Penlovski.
Short, overweight, balding, with a blotchy complexion, with two bright gold teeth in the front of his mouth, wearing
thick glasses that made his eyes look like painted eggs, Januskaya should have been a comic figure. But his
unholy faith in the state and his zeal in working for the totalitarian cause were sufficient to counteract his comic
potential; indeed he was one of the more disturbing men involved with Lightning Road.
"Stefan, dear Stefan," Januskaya said, "I've been meaning to tell you how grateful we are for your timely
suggestion, last October, that the power supply to the gate should be provided by a secure generator. Your
foresight has saved the project. If we were still drawing from the municipal power lines . . . why, the gate would
have collapsed half a dozen times by now, and we'd be woefully behind schedule."
Having returned to the institute in expectation of arrest, Stefan was confused to find his treachery undiscovered and
startled to hear himself being praised by this evil worm. He had suggested switching the gate to a secure generator
not because he wanted to see their vile project achieve success but because he had not wanted his own jaunts into


Laura's life to be interrupted by the failure of the public power supply.
"I would not have thought last October that by this time we would have come to such a situation as this, with
ordinary public no longer to be trusted," Januskaya said, shaking his head, "the social order so thoroughly
disturbed. What must they endure to see the socialist state of their dreams triumph, eh?”
"These are dark times," Stefan said, meaning very different things than Januskaya meant.
“But we will triumph," Januskaya said forcefully. His magnified eyes filled with the madness that Stefan knew too
well. "Through the Lightning Road, we will triumph."
He patted Stefan on the shoulder and continued down the hall.
After Stefan watched the scientist walk nearly to the elevators, he said. "Oh, Dr. Januskaya?"
The fat white worm turned and looked at him. "Yes?"
"Have you seen Kokoschka today?"
"Today? No, not yet today."
"He's here, isn't he?"
"Oh, I'd imagine so. He's here pretty much as long as there's anyone working, you know. He's a diligent man. If we
had more like Kokoschka we'd have no doubt of ultimate triumph. Do you need to talk to him? If I see him, should I
send him to you?"
"No, no," Stefan said. "It's nothing urgent. I wouldn't want to interrupt him in other work. I'm sure I'll see him sooner
or later."
Januskaya continued to the elevators, and Stefan went into his office, closing the door behind him.
He crouched beside the filing cabinet that he had repositioned slightly to cover one-third of the grille in the corner
ventilation chase. In the narrow space behind it, a bundle of copper wires was barely visible, coming out of the
bottom slot in the grille. The wires were connected to a simple dial-type timer that was in turn plugged into a wall
outlet farther behind the cabinet. Nothing had been disconnected. He could reach behind the cabinet, set the timer,
and in one to five minutes, depending on how big a twist he gave the dial, the institute would be destroyed.
What the hell is going on? he wondered.
He sat for a while at his desk, staring at the square of sky that he could see from one of his two windows: scattered,
dirty gray clouds moving sluggishly across an azure backdrop.
Finally he left his office, went to the north stairs, and climbed quickly past the fourth floor to the attic. The door
opened with only a brief squeak. He flipped the light switch and entered the long, half-finished room, stepping as
softly as possible on the board floor. He checked three of the charges of plastique that he had hidden in the rafters
two nights ago. The explosives had not been disturbed.
He had no need to examine the charges in the basement. He left the attic and returned to his office.
Obviously no one knew about either his intention of destroying the institute or his attempts to turn Laura's life away
from a series of ordained tragedies. No one except Kokoschka. Damn it, Kokoschka had to know because he had
shown up on the mountain road with an Uzi.
So why hadn't Kokoschka told anyone else?
Kokoschka was an officer of the state's secret police, a true fanatic, obedient and eager servant of the government,
and personally responsible for the security of Lightning Road. On discovering a traitor at the institute, Kokoschka
would not have hesitated to call in squads of agents to encircle the building, guard the gate, and interrogate
everyone.
Surely he would not have allowed Stefan to go to Laura's aid on that mountain highway, then follow with the intent
of killing them all. For one thing, he would want to detain Stefan and interrogate him to determine if Stefan had
conspirators in the institute.
Kokoschka had learned of Stefan's meddling in the ordained flow of events in one woman's life. And he had either
discovered or had not discovered the explosives in the institute—probably not, or he would have at least unwired
them. Then for reasons of his own he had not reacted as a policeman but as an individual. This morning he had
followed Stefan through the gate, to that wintry afternoon in January of '88, with intentions that Stefan did not now
understand at all.
It made no sense. Yet that was what had to have happened.
What had Kokoschka been up to?
He would probably never know.
Now Kokoschka was dead on a highway in 1988, and soon someone at the institute would realize that he was
missing.
This afternoon at two o'clock, Stefan was scheduled to take an approved jaunt under the direction of Penlovski and
Januskaya. He had intended to blow the institute—in two senses —at one o'clock, an hour before the scheduled
event. Now, at 11:43, he decided that he would have to move faster than he originally intended, before Kokoschka's
disappearance caused alarm.
He went to one of the tall files, opened the bottom drawer, which was empty, and disconnected it from its slides,
lifting it all the way out of the cabinet. Wired to the back of the drawer was a pistol, a Colt Commander 9mm
Parabellum with a nine-round magazine, acquired on one of his illicit jaunts and brought back secretly to the


institute. From behind another drawer he removed two high-tech silencers and four additional, fully loaded
magazines. At his desk, working quickly lest someone enter without knocking, he screwed one of the silencers onto
the pistol, flicked off the safety, and distributed the other silencer and magazines in the pockets of his
lab coat.
When he left the institute by way of the gate for the last time, he could not trust to the explosives to kill Penlovski,
Januskaya, and certain other scientists. The blast would bring down the building no doubt destroy all machinery
and paper files, but what if just one of the key researchers survived? The necessary knowledge to rebuild the gate
was in Penlovski's and Januskaya's minds, so Stefan planned to kill them and one other man, Volkaw, before he
set the timer on the explosives and entered the gate to return to Laura.
With the silencer attached, the Commander was too long to fit all the way in the pocket of his lab coat, so he turned
the pocket inside out and tore the bottom of it. With his finger on the trigger, he shoved the gun into his now
bottomless pocket and held it there as he opened his office door and went into the hallway.
His heart pounded furiously. This was the most dangerous part of his plan, the killing, because there were so many
opportunities for something to go wrong before he finished with the gun and returned to his office to set the timer on
the explosives.
Laura was a long way off, and he might never see her again.
On Monday afternoon Laura and Chris dressed in gray sweat suits. After Thelma helped them unroll the thick gym
mats on the patio at the back of the house, Laura and Chris sat side by side and did deep-breathing exercises.
"When does Bruce Lee arrive?" Thelma asked.
"At two," Laura said.
"He's not Bruce Lee, Aunt Thelma," Chris said exasperatedly. "You keep calling him Bruce Lee, but Bruce Lee is
dead."
Mr. Takahami arrived promptly at two o'clock. He was wearing a dark blue sweat suit, on the back of which was the
logo for his martial arts school: QUIET STRENGTH. When introduced to Thelma, he said, "You're a very funny
lady. I love your record album."
Glowing from the praise, Thelma said, "And I can honestly tell you that I sincerely wish Japan had won the war."
Henry laughed. "I think we did."
Sitting on a sun lounger, sipping iced tea, Thelma watched while Henry instructed Laura and Chris in self-defense.
He was forty years old, with a well-developed upper body and wiry legs. He was a master of judo and karate, as
well as an expert kick boxer, and he taught a form of self-defense based on various martial arts, a system which he
had devised himself. Twice a week he drove out from Riverside and spent three hours with Laura and Chris.
The kicking, punching, poking, grunting, twisting, throwing, off-the-hip rolling combat was conducted gently enough
not to cause injury but with enough force to teach. Chris's lessons were less strenuous and less elaborate than
Laura's, and Henry gave the boy plenty of breaks to pause and recoup. But by the end of the session, Laura was,
as always, dripping sweat and exhausted.
When Henry left, Laura sent Chris upstairs to shower while she and Thelma rolled up the mats.
"He's cute," Thelma said.
"Henry? I guess he is."
"Maybe I'll take up judo or karate."
"Have your audiences been that dissatisfied lately?"
"That one was below the belt, Shane."
"Anything's fair when the enemy's formidable and merciless."
The following afternoon, as Thelma was putting her suitcase in the trunk of her Camaro for the return trip to Beverly
Hills, she said, "Hey, Shane, you remember that first foster family you were sent to from McIlroy ?"
"The Teagels," Laura said. "Flora, Hazel, and Mike."
Th elma leaned against the sun-warmed side of the car next to Laura "You remember what you told us about
Mike's fascination with newspapers like the National Enquirer!"
“I remember the Teagels as if I lived with them yesterday." " Thelma said, "I've been thinking a lot about what's to
you—this guardian, the way he never ages, the way he appeared into thin air—and I thought of the Teagels, and it
all seems sort of ironic to me. All those nights at McIlroy, we laughed at nutty old MikeTeagel . . . and now what you
find yourself in the middle of is a prime bit of exotic news."
Laura laughed softly. "Maybe I'd better reconsider all those tales of aliens living secretly in Cleveland, huh?" "I
guess what I'm trying to say is ... life is full of wonders and surprises. Some of them are nasty surprises, yeah, and
some days are as dark as the inside of the average politician's head. But just the same, there are moments that
make me realize we're all here for some reason, enigmatic as it might be. It's not meaningless. If it was
meaningless, there'd be no mystery. It'd be as dull and clear and lacking in mystery as the mechanism of a Mr.
Coffee machine."
Laura nodded.
"God, listen to me! I'm torturing the English language to come up with a half-baked philosophical statement that
ultimately means nothing more than 'keep your chin up, kid."


“You're not half-baked."
“Mystery," Thelma said. "Wonder. You're in the middle of it, Shane, and that's what life's all about. If it's dark right
now . . .well, this too shall pass."
They stood by the car, hugging, not needing to say more, until Chris ran out from the house with a crayon drawing
he had done for Thelma and that he wanted her to take back to LA with her. It was a crude but charming scene of
Tommy Toad standing outside a movie theater, gazing up at a marquee on which Thelma's name was huge. He
had tears in his eyes. "But do you really have to go, Aunt Thelma? Can't you stay one more day?" Thelma hugged
him, then carefully rolled up the drawing as if in of a priceless masterwork. "I'd love to stay, Christopher but I can't.
My adoring fans are crying for me to make this. Besides, I've got a big mortgage."
“What's a mortgage?"
"The greatest motivator in the world," Thelma said, giving him a last kiss. She got into the car, started the engine,
put down the side window, and winked at Laura. "Exotic news, Shane."
"Mystery."
"Wonder."
Laura gave her the split-finger greeting from Star Trek.
Thelma laughed. "You'll make it, Shane. In spite of the guns and all I've learned since I came here on Friday, I'm
less worried about you now than I was then."
Chris stood at Laura's side, and they watched Thelma's car until it went down the long driveway and disappeared
onto the state route.
Dr. Vladimir Penlovski's large office suite was on the fourth floor of the institute. When Stefan entered the reception
lounge, it was deserted, but he heard voices coming from the next room. He went to the inner door, which was ajar,
pushed it all the way open, and saw Penlovski giving dictation to Anna Kaspar, his secretary.
Penlovski looked up, mildly surprised to see Stefan. He must have perceived the tension in Stefan's face, for he
frowned and said, "Is something wrong?"
"Something's been wrong for a long time," Stefan said, "but it'll all be fine now, I think." Then, as Penlovski's frown
deepened, Stefan pulled the silencer-equipped Colt Commander from the pocket of his lab coat and shot the
scientist twice in the chest.
Anna Kaspar sprang up from her chair, dropping her pencil and dictation pad, a scream caught in her throat.
He did not like killing women—he did not like killing anyone— but there was no choice now, so he shot her three
times, knocking her backward onto the desk, before the scream could tear free of her.
Dead, she slid off the desk and crumpled to the floor. The shots had been no louder than the hissing of an angry
cat, and the sound of the body dropping had been insufficient to draw attention.
Penlovski was slumped in his chair, eyes and mouth open, staring sightlessly. One of the shots must have pierced
his heart, for there was only a small spot of blood on his shirt; his circulation had seen cut off in an instant.
Stefan backed out of the room, closed the door. He crossed the reception lounge and, stepping into the hall, shut
the outer door too.
His heart was racing. With those two murders he had cut himself from his own time, his own people. From here on,
the only life for him was in Laura's time. Now there was no turning back.
With his hands—and the gun—jammed in his lab-coat pockets, he went down the hall toward Januskaya's office. As he neared
the office, his other colleagues came out of it. They said hello as they passed him, and he stopped to see if they were
heading for Penlovski ‘s office. If they were, he'd have to kill them too.
He was relieved when they stopped at the elevators. The more corpses he left strewn around, the more likely
someone would be to stumble across one of them and sound an alarm that would prevent him from setting the
timer on the explosives and escaping by way of the Lightning Road.
He went into Januskaya's office, which also had a reception area. At the desk, the secretary—provided, as Anna
Kaspar had been, by the secret police—looked up and smiled.
“Is Dr. Januskaya here?" Stefan asked.
"No. He's down in the documents room with Dr. Volkaw."
Volkaw was the third man whose overview of the project was enough to require that he be eliminated. It seemed
a good omen that he and Wladyslaw Januskaya were conveniently in the same place.
In the documents room, they stored and studied the many books, newspapers, magazines, and other materials that
had been brought back from time travelers from scheduled jaunts. These days the men who had conceived of
Lightning Road were engaged in an urgent analysis of the key points at which alterations in the natural flow of
events could provide the changes in the course of history that they desired.
On the way down in the elevator, Stefan replaced the pistol's silencer with the unused spare. The first would muffle
another dozen shots before its sound baffles were seriously damaged. But he did not want to overuse it. The
second silencer was additional insurance. He also quickly exchanged the half-empty magazine for a full one.
The first-floor corridor was a busy place, with people coming and going from one lab and research room to another.
He kept his hands in his pockets and went directly to the documents room.
When Stefan entered, Januskaya and Volkaw were standing at an oak table, bent over a copy of a magazine,


arguing heatedly but in low voices. They glanced up, then immediately continued their discussion, assuming that he
was there for research purposes of his own.
Stefan put two bullets in Volkaw's back.
Januskaya reacted with confusion and shock as Volkaw flew forward into the table, driven by the impact of the
nearly silent gunfire.
Stefan shot Januskaya in the face, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. Not trusting himself
to speak to one of his colleagues with any degree of self-control or coherence, he tried to appear to be lost in
thought, hoping that would dissuade them from approaching him. He went to the elevators as quickly as possible
without running, went to his third-floor office, reached behind the file cabinet, and twisted the dial on the timer as far
as it would go, giving himself just five minutes to get to the gate and away before the institute was reduced to
burning rubble.
By the time the school year began, Laura had won approval for Chris to receive his education at home, from a
state-accredited tutor. Her name was Ida Palomar, and she reminded Laura of Marjorie Main, the late actress in the
Ma and Pa Kettle movies. Ida was a big woman, a bit gruff, but with a generous heart, and she was a good teacher.
By the Thanksgiving school break, instead of feeling as if they were imprisoned, both she and Chris had
accommodated to the relative isolation in which they lived. In fact they had actually come to enjoy the special
closeness that developed between them as a result of having so few other people in their lives.
On Thanksgiving Day Thelma called from Beverly Hills to wish them a happy holiday. Laura took the call in the
kitchen, which was full of the aroma of roasting turkey. Chris was in the family room, reading Shel Silverstein.
"Besides wishing you a happy holiday," Thelma said, "I'm calling to invite you down here to spend Christmas week
with me and Jason."
"Jason?" Laura said.
"Jason Gaines, the director," Thelma said. "He's the guy who's directing this film I'm making. I've moved in with
him."
"Does he know it yet?"
"Listen, Shane, I make the wisecracks."
"Sorry."
"He says he loves me. Is that crazy or what? I mean, Jeez, here's this decent -looking guy, only five years older
than me, with no visible mutations, who's a hugely successful film direc tor, worth many millions, who could just
about have any stacked little starlet he wanted, and the only one he wants is me. Now obviously he's brain-
damaged, but you wouldn't know it to talk to him, he could pass for normal. He says what he loves about me is I've
got a brain—"
"Does he know how diseased it is?"
"There you go again, Shane. He says he loves my brain and sense of humor, and he's even excited by my body —
or if he isn't excited then he's the first guy in history who could fake an erection."
"You've got a perfectly lovely body."
"Well, I'm beginning to consider the possibility that it's not as bad as I always thought. That is, if you consider
boniness to be the sine qua non of feminine beauty. But even if I am able to look at my bod in a mirror now, it's still
got this face perched atop it."
"You've got a perfectly lovely face—especially now that it's not surrounded by green and purple hair."
"It's not your face, Shane. Which means I'm mad for inviting you here for Christmas week. Jason will see you, and
the next thing I'll be sitting in a Glad trash bag at the curb. But what about it? Will you come? We're shooting the
film in and around LA, and we'll finish principal photography December tenth. Then Jason's got a lot of work to do,
what with the editing, the whole schmear, but Christmas week we're just stopping. We'd like you to be here. Say
you will."
"I'd sure like to meet the man smart enough to fall for you, Thelma, but I don't know. I feel . . . safe here."
"What do you think —we're dangerous?"
"You know what I mean."
"You can bring an Uzi."
"What will Jason think of that?"
"I'll tell him you're a radical leftist, save-the-sperm-whale, get -toxic-preservatives-out -of-Spam, parakeet liberationist
and that you keep an Uzi with you at all times in case the revolution comes without warning. He'll buy it. This is
Hollywood, kid. Most of the actors he works with are politically crazier than that."
Through the family-room archway, Laura could see Chris curled up in the armchair with his book.
She sighed. "Maybe it is time we got out in the world once in a while. And it's going to be a difficult Christmas if it's
just Chris and me, this being the first without Danny. But I feel uneasy ..."
"It's been over ten months, Laura," Thelma said gently.
"But I'm not going to let down my guard."
"You don't have to. I'm serious about the Uzi. Bring your whole arsenal if that'll make you feel better. Just come."
"Well ... all right."


"Fantastic! I can't wait for you to meet Jason."
"Do I detect that the love this brain-damaged Hollywood maven feels for you is reciprocated?"
"I'm crazy about him," Thelma admitted.
"I'm happy for you, Thelma. In fact I'm standing here now with a grin that won't stop, and nothing's made me feel so
good in months."
Everything she said was true. But after she hung up, she missed Danny more than ever.
As soon as he set the timer behind the filing cabinet, Stefan left his third-floor office and went to the main lab on the
ground floor. It was 12:14, and because the scheduled jaunt was not until two o'clock, the main lab was deserted.
The windows were sealed, and most of the overhead lights were still off, as they had been little more than an hour
ago, when he had returned from the San Bernardinos. The multitude of dials, gauges, and lighted graphs of the
support machinery glowed green and orange. More in shadow than in the light, the gate awaited him. Four minutes
till detonation.
He went directly to the primary programming board and carefully adjusted the dials and switches and levers, setting
the gate for the desired destination: southern California, near Big Bear, at eight o'clock on the night of January 10,
1988, just a few hours after Danny Packard had been killed. He had done the necessary calculations days ago and
had them on a sheet of paper to which he referred, so he was able to program the machinery in only a minute. If he
could have traveled to the afternoon of the tenth, prior to the accident and the shoot -out with Kokoschka, he would
have done so in the hope of saving Danny. However, they had learned that a time traveler could not revisit a place
if he scheduled his second arrival shortly before his previous jaunt; there was a natural mechanism that prevented
a traveler from being in a place where he might encounter himself on a previous jaunt. He could return to Big Bear
after he had left Laura that January night, for having already departed from the highway, he was no longer at risk of
encountering himself there. But if he set the gate for an arrival time that would make it possible for him to meet
himself, he would simply bounce back to the institute without going anywhere. That was one of many mysterious
aspects of time travel which they had learned, around which they worked, but which they did not understand.
When he finished programming the gate, he glanced at the latitude and longitude indicator to confirm that he would
arrive in the general area of Big Bear. Then he looked at the clock that noted his arrival time, and he was startled to
see that it showed 8:00 P.M., January 10, 1989, instead of 1988. The gate was now set to deliver him to Big Bear
not hours after Danny's death but a full year later.
He was sure that his calculations were correct; he'd had plenty of time to make them and recheck them over the
past couple of weeks. Evi dently, nervous as he was, he had made a mistake when entering the numbers. He would
have to reprogram the gate. Less than three minutes until detonation. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and studied
the numbers on the paper, the end product of his extensive calculations. As he reached for a control knob to
cancel out the current program and re-enter the first of the figures again, a shout of alarm went up in the ground-
floor corridor. The cries sounded as if they were coming from the north end of the building, in the general area of
the document room.
Someone had found the bodies of Januskaya and Volkaw. He heard more shouting. People running. Glancing
nervously at the closed door to the hall, he decided he had no time to reprogram. He would have to settle for
returning to Laura one year after he had last left her.
With the silencer-fitted Colt Commander in his right hand, he rose from the programming console and headed
toward the gate—that eight-foot-high, twelve-foot-long, polished steel, open-ended barrel resting a foot off the
floor on copper-plated blocks. He did not even want to risk taking time to recover his peacoat from the corner where
he had left it an hour ago. The commotion in the corridor was louder. When he was only a couple of steps from the
entrance to the gate, the lab door was thrown open behind him with such force that it hit the wall with a crash. "Stop
right there!"
Stefan recognized the voice, but he did not want to believe what he heard. He brought up the pistol as he swung
around to confront his challenger: The man who had raced into the lab was Kokoschka.
Impossible. Kokoschka was dead. Kokoschka had followed him to Big Bear on the night of January 10, 1988, and
he had killed Kokoschka on that snowswept highway.
Stunned, Stefan squeezed off two shots, both wide. Kokoschka returned his fire. One slug took Stefan in the chest,
high on the left side, knocking him backward against the edge of the gate. He stayed on his feet and got off three
shots at Kokoschka, forcing the bastard to dive for cover and roll behind a lab bench.
There were less than two minutes from detonation. Stefan felt no pain because he was in shock. But his left arm
was useless; it hung limply at his side. And an insistent, oily blackness seeped in at the edges of his vision.
Only a few overhead lights had been left on, but suddenly even they flickered and went out, leaving the room
vaguely illuminat ed by the wan glow of the many glass-covered dials and gauges.
For an instant Stefan thought the dying light was a further surrender of his consciousness, a subjective
development, but then he realized the public power supply had failed again, evidently due to the work of saboteurs,
for there had been no sirens to warn of an air attack.
Kokoschka fired twice from darkness, the muzzle flash marking his position, and Stefan loosed the last three
rounds in his pistol, though there was no hope of hitting Kokoschka through the marble lab bench.


Thankful that the gate was powered by a secure generator and still functional, Stefan threw away the pistol and
with his good hand gripped the rim of the barrel-shaped portal. He pulled himself inside and crawled frantically
toward the three-quarter point, where he would cross the energy field and depart this place for Big Bear, 1989.
As he hitched on two knees and one good arm through the gloomy interior of the barrel, he abruptly realized that
the timer on the detonator in his office was connected to the public power supply. The countdown to destruction
had been interrupted when the lights had gone out.
With dismay he understood why Kokoschka was not dead in Big Bear in 1988. Kokoschka had not made that trip
yet. Kokoschka had only now learned of Stefan's perfidy, when he had discovered the bodies of Januskaya and
Volkaw. Before the public power supply was restored, Kokoschka would search Stefan's office, find the detonator,
and disarm the explosives. The institute would not be destroyed.
Stefan hesitated, wondering if he should go back.
Behind him he heard other voices in the lab, other security men arriving to reinforce Kokoschka. He crawled
forward.
And what of Kokoschka? The security chief evidently would travel to January 10, 1988, trying to kill Stefan on state
route 330. But he would only manage to kill Danny before being killed himself. Stefan was pretty sure that
Kokoschka's death was an immutable destiny, but he would need to think more about the paradoxes of time travel,
to see if there was any way Kokoschka could escape being gunned down in 1988, a death that Stefan had already
witnessed.
The complications of time travel were confusing even when one pondered them with a clear head. In his condition,
wounded and struggling to remain conscious, he only grew dizzier thinking about such things. Later. He would
worry about it later.
Behind him in the dark laboratory, someone began firing into the entrance of the gate, hoping to hit him before he
reached the point of departure.
He crawled the last couple of feet. Toward Laura. Toward a new life in a distant time. But he had hoped to close
forever the bridge between the era he was leaving and that to which he was now pledging himself. Instead the gate
would remain open. And they could come across time to get him . . . and Laura.
Laura and Chris spent Christmas with Thelma at Jason Gaines's house in Beverly Hills. It was a twenty-two-room,
Tudor-style mansion on six walled acres, a phenomenally large property in an area where the cost per acre had
long ago escalated far beyond reason. During construction in the '40s—it had been built by a producer of screwball
comedies and war movies—no compromises had been made in quality, and the rooms were marked by beautiful
detail work that could not have been duplicated these days at ten times the original cost: There were intricately
coffered ceilings, some made of oak, some of copper; crown moldings were elaborately carved; the leaded
windows were of stained or beveled glass, and they were set so deep in the castle-thick walls that one could
comfortably sit on the wide sills; interior lintels were decorated with hand-carved panels—vines and roses, cherubs
and banners, leaping deer, birds with ribbons trailing from their bills; exterior lintels were of carved granite, and in
two were set mortared clusters of colorful Della Robbia-style ceramic fruits. The six-acre property around the house
was a meticulously maintained private park where winding stone pathways led through a tropical landscape of
palms, benjaminas, ficus nidida, azaleas laden with brilliant red blossoms, impatiens, ferns, birds of paradise, and
seasonal flowers of so many species that Laura could identify only half of them.
When Laura and Chris arrived early on Saturday afternoon, the day before Christmas, Thelma took them on a long
tour of the house and grounds, after which they drank hot cocoa and ate miniature pastries prepared by the cook
and served by the maid in the airy sun porch that looked out upon the swimming pool.
"Is this a crazy life, Shane? Can you believe that the same girl who spent almost ten years in holes like McIlroy and
Caswell could end up living here without first having to be reincarnated as a princess?"
The house was so imposing that it encouraged anyone who owned it to feel Important with a capital I, and anyone
in possession of it would be hard-pressed to avoid smugness and pomposity. But when Jason Gaines came home
at four o'clock, he proved to be as unpretentious as anyone Laura knew, amazingly so for a man who had spent
seventeen years in the movie business. He was thirty-eight, five years older than Thelma, and he looked like a
younger Robert Vaughn, which was a lot better than "decent-looking," as Thelma had referred to him. He was
home less than half an hour before he and Chris huddled in one of his three hobby rooms, playing with an electric
train set that covered a fifteen-by-twenty-foot platform, complete with detailed villages, rolling countryside,
windmills, waterfalls, tunnels, and bridges.
That night, with Chris asleep in the room adjoining Laura's, Thelma visited her. In their pajamas they sat cross-
legged on her bed, as if they were girls again, though they ate roasted pistachios and drank Christmas champagne
instead of cookies and milk.
"The weirdest thing of all, Shane, is that in spite of where I came from, I feel as if I belong here. I don't feel out of
place."
She did not look out of place, either. Though she was still recognizably Thelma Ackerson, she had changed in the
past few months. Her hair was better cut and styled; she had a tan for the first time in her life; and she carried
herself more like a woman and less like a comic trying to win laughter—meaning approval—with each funny


gesture and posture. She was wearing less flamboyant— and sexier—pajamas than usual: clingy, unpatterned,
peach-colored silk. She was, however, still sporting bunny slippers.
"Bunny slippers," she said, "remind me of who I am. You can't get a swelled head if you wear bunny slippers. You
can't lose your sense of perspective and start acting like a star or a rich lady if you keep on wearing bunny slippers.
Besides, bunny slippers give me confidence because they're so jaunty; they make a statement; they say 'Nothing
the world does to me can ever get me so far down that I can't be silly and frivolous.' If I died and found myself in
hell, I could endure the place if I had bunny slippers."
Christmas Day was like a wonderful dream. Jason proved to be a sentimentalist with the undiminished wonder of a
child. He insisted they gather at the Christmas tree in pajamas and robes, that they open their gifts with as much
popping of ribbons and noisy tearing of paper and as much general drama as possible, that they sing carols, that
while opening gifts they abandon the idea of a healthy breakfast and instead eat cookies, candy, nuts, fruitcake,
and caramel popcorn. He proved that he had not just been trying to be a good host when he had spent the previous
evening with Chris at the trains, for all Christmas Day he engaged the boy in one form of play or another, both
inside and outside the house, and it was clear that he had a love of and natural rapport with kids. By dinnertime
Laura realized Chris had laughed more in one day than in the entire past eleven months.
When she tucked the boy into bed that night, he said, "What a great day, huh, Mom?"
"One of the all-time greats," she agreed.
"All I wish," he said as he dropped toward sleep, "is that Daddy could've been here to play with us."
"I wish the same thing, honey."
"But in a way he was here, 'cause I thought of him a lot. Will I always remember him, Mom, the way he was, even
after dozens and dozens of years, will I remember him?"
"I'll help you remember, baby."
"Because sometimes already there are little things I don't quite remember about him. I have to think hard to
remember them. But I don't want to forget 'cause he was my daddy."
When he was asleep, Laura went through the connecting door to her own bed. She was immensely relieved when
a few minutes later Thelma came by for another girl-to-girl, because without Thelma, she would have had a few
very bad hours there.
"If I had babies, Shane," Thelma said, climbing into Laura's bed, "do you think there's any chance at all that they'd
be allowed to live in society, or would they be banished to some ugly-kid equivalent of a leper colony?"
"Don't be silly."
"Of course, I could afford massive plastic surgery for them. I mean, even if it turns out that their species is
questionable, I could afford to have them made passably human."
"Sometimes your put -downs of yourself make me angry."
"Sorry. Chalk it up to not having a supportive mom and dad. I've got both the confidence and doubt of an orphan."
She was quiet for a moment, then laughed and said, "Hey, you know what? Jason wants to marry me. I thought at
first he was possessed by a demon and unable to control his tongue, but he assures me we've no need of an
exorcist, though he's evidently suffered a minor stroke. So what do you think?"
"What do I think? What's that matter? But for what it's worth, he's a terrific guy. You are going to grab him, aren't
you?"
"I worry that he's too good for me. "
"No one's too good for you. Marry him."
"I worry that it won't work out, and then I'll be devastated."
"And if you don't give it a try," Laura said, "you'll be worse than devastated—you'll be alone."
Stefan felt the familiar, unpleasant tingle that accompanied time travel, a peculiar vibration that passed inward from
his skin, through his flesh, into the marrow of his bones, then swiftly back out again from bones to flesh to skin.
With a pop-whoooosh he left the gate, and in the same instant he was stumbling down a steep, snow-covered
slope in the California mountains on the night of January 10, 1989.
He tripped, fell on his wounded side, rolled to the bottom of the slope, where he came to rest against a rotted log.
Pain flashed through him for the first time since he had been shot. He cried out and flopped onto his back, biting his
tongue to keep from passing out, blinking up at the tumultuous night.
Another thunderbolt ripped the sky, and light seemed to pulse from the jagged wound. By the spectral glow of the
snow-covered earth and by the fierce but fitful flashes of lightning, Stefan saw that he was in a clearing in a forest.
Leafless, black trees thrust bare limbs toward the fulminous sky, as if they were fanatical cultists praising a violent
god. Evergreens, boughs drooping under surplices of snow, stood like the solemn priests of a more decorous
religion.
Arriving in a time other than his own, a traveler disrupted the forces of nature in some way that required the
dissipation of tremendous energy. Regardless of the weather at the point of arrival, the imbalance was corrected by
a sky-shattering display of lightning, which was why the ethereal highway on which time travelers journeyed was
called the Lightning Road. For reasons no one had been able to ascertain, a return to the institute, to the traveler's
own era, was marked by no celestial pyrotechnics.


The lightning subsided, as it always did, from bolts worthy of the Apocalypse to distant flickerings. In a minute the
night was dark and calm again.
As the thunderbolts had faded, his pain had increased. It almost seemed as if the lightning that had cracked the
vaults of heaven was now captured within his chest, left shoulder, and left arm, too great a power for mortal flesh to
contain or endure.
He got onto his knees and rose shakily to his feet, worried that he had little chance of getting out of the woods alive.
But for the phosphorescent glow of the snow-mantled clearing, the cloudy night was cellar-black, forbidding.
Though undisturbed by wind, the winter air was icy, and he was wearing only a thin lab coat over shirt and pants.
Worse, he might be miles from a highway or any landmark by which he could reckon his position. If the gate was
considered as a gun, its accuracy was remarkable for the temporal distance covered to the target, but it was far
from perfect in its aim. A traveler usually arrived within ten or fifteen minutes of the time he intended, but not always
with the desired geographic precision. Sometimes he touched down within a hundred yards of his physical
destination, but on other occasions he was as far as ten or fifteen miles off, as on the day that he had traveled to
January 10, 1988, to save Laura, Danny, and Chris from the Robertsons' sliding pickup truck.
On all previous trips, he had carried both a map of the target area and a compass, lest he find himself in just such a
place of isolation as he had arrived at now. But this time, having left his peacoat in the corner of the lab, he had
neither compass nor map, and the occluded sky deprived him of the hope of finding his way out of the forest with
the help of the stars.
He stood in snow almost to his knees, wearing street shoes, no boots, and he felt as if he must start moving
immediately or freeze to the ground. He looked around the clearing, hoping for inspiration, for a twinge of intuition,
but at last he chose a direction at random and headed to his left, searching for a deer trail or other natural course
that would provide him a passage through the forest. His entire left side from neck to waist throbbed with pain. He
hoped that the bullet, in passing through him, had torn no arteries and that the rate of blood loss was slow enough
to allow him at least to reach Laura and see her face, the face he loved, one last time before he died.
The one-year anniversary of Danny's death fell on a Tuesday, and although Chris did not mention the significance
of the date, he was aware of it. The boy was unusually quiet. He spent most of that somber day playing silently with
his Masters of the Universe action figures in the family room, which was the kind of play ordinarily characterized by
vocal imitations of laser weapons, clashing swords, and spaceship engines. Later he sprawled on his bed in his
room, reading comic books. He resisted Laura's every effort to draw him out of his self-imposed isolation, which
was probably for the best; any attempt she made to be cheerful would have been transparent, and he would have
been further depressed by the perception that she was also struggling mightily to turn her thoughts away from their
grievous loss.
Thelma, who had called only days before to report the good news that she had decided to marry Jason Gaines,
called again at seven-fifteen that evening, just to chat, as if she were unaware of the importance of the date. Laura
took the call in her office, where she was still struggling with the bile-black book that had occupied her for the past
year.
"Hey, Shane, guess what? I met Paul McCartney! He was in LA to negotiate a recording contract, and we were at
the same party Friday night. When I first saw him, he was stuffing an hors d'oeuvre in his mouth, he said hello, he
had crumbs on his lip, and he was gorgeous. He said he'd seen my movies, thought I was very good, and we
talked—you believe this?—we must've chatted twenty minutes, and gradually the strangest thing happened."
"You discovered that you'd undressed him while you were talking."
"Well, he still looks very good, you know, still that cherub face we swooned over twenty years ago but marked now
by experience tres sophisticated and with an extremely appealing touch of sadness about his eyes, and he was
enormously amusing and charming. At first maybe I did want to tear his clothes off, yeah, and live out the fantasy at
last. But then the longer we talked, the less he seemed like a god, the more he seemed like a person, and in
minutes, Shane, the myth evaporated, and he was just this very nice, attractive, middle-aged man. Now what do
you make of that?"
"What am I supposed to make of it?"
"I don't know," Thelma said. "I'm a little disturbed. Shouldn't a living legend continue to awe you longer than twenty
minutes after you meet him? I mean, I've met lots of stars by now, and none of them have remained godlike, but
this was McCartney."
"Well, if you want my opinion, his swift loss of mythological stature says nothing negative about him, but it says
plenty positive about you. You've achieved a new maturity, Ackerson."
"Does this mean I've got to give up watching old Three Stooges movies every Saturday morning?"
"The Stooges are permitted, but food fights are definitely a thing of the past for you."
By the time Thelma hung up at ten minutes till eight, Laura was feeling slightly better, so she switched from the bile-
black book to the tale about Sir Tommy Toad. She had written only two sentences of the children's story when the
night beyond the windows was lit by a bolt of lightning bright enough to spark dire thoughts of nuclear holocaust.
The subsequent thunderclap shook the house from roof to foundation, as if a wrecker's ball had slammed into one
of the walls. She came to her feet with a start, so surprised that she did not even hit the "save" key on the


computer. A second bolt seared the night, making the windows as luminous as television screens, and the thunder
that followed was louder than the first explosion.
"Mom!"
She turned and saw Chris standing in the doorway. "It's okay," she said. He ran to her. She sat in the spring-
backed armchair and pulled him onto her lap. "It's all right. Don't be afraid, honey."
"But it's not raining," he said. "Why's it booming like that if it's not raining?"
Outside, an incredible series of lightning bolts and overlapping thunderclaps continued for nearly a minute, then
subsided. The power of the event had been so great, Laura was able to imagine in the morning they would find the
broken sky lying about in huge chunks like fragments of a giant eggshell.
Before he walked five minutes from the clearing in which he had arrived, Stefan was forced to pause and lean
against the thick trunk of a pine whose branches began just above his head. The pain of his wound wrung streams
of sweat from him, yet he was shivering in the bitter January cold, too dizzy to stand up, yet terrified of sitting down
and falling into an endless sleep. With the drooping boughs of that mammoth pine overhead and all around, he felt as
if he had taken refuge under Death's black robe, from which he might not emerge..
Before putting Chris to bed for the night, she made sundaes for them with coconut-almond ice cream and Hershey's
syrup. They ate at the kitchen table, and the boy's depression seemed to have lifted. Perhaps by marking the end
of that sad anniversary with such drama, the bizarre weather phenomenon had startled him out of thoughts of death
and into the contemplation of wonders. He was filled with talk of the lightning that had crackled down a kite string
and into Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory in the old James Whale film, which he'd seen for the first time a week ago,
and of the lightning that had frightened Donald Duck in a Disney cartoon, and of the stormy night in 101 Dalmatians
during which Cruella DeVille had posed such a dire threat to the title-role puppies.
By the time she tucked him in and kissed him goodnight, he was approaching sleep with a smile—a half smile, at
least—rather than with the frown that had weighed upon his face all day. She sat in a chair by the side of his bed
until he was fast asleep, though he was no longer afraid and did not require her presence. She stayed simply
because she needed to look at him for a while.
She returned to her office at nine-fifteen, but before going to the word processor, she stopped at a window and
stared out at the snow-swathed front lawn, at the black ribbon of the graveled driveway leading to the distant state
route, and up at the starless night sky. Something about the lightning deeply disturbed her: not that it had been so
strange, not that it had been potentially destructive, but that the unprecedented and almost supernatural power of it
had been somehow . . . familiar. She seemed to recall having witnessed a similar stormy display on another
occasion, but she could not remember when. It was an uncanny feeling, akin to deja vu, and it would not fade.
She went into the master bedroom and checked the security-control panel in her closet to be sure the perimeter
alarm covering all the windows and doors was engaged. From beneath the bed, she withdrew the Uzi, which had
an extended magazine holding four hundred exotic, lightweight, alloy -jacketed rounds. She took the gun back to her
office and put it on the floor by her chair.
She was about to sit down when lightning split the night again, frightening her, and it was followed at once by a
crack of thunder she felt in her bones. Another bolt and another and another blazed in the windows like a series of
leering, ghostly faces formed of ectoplasmic light.
As the heavens quaked with scintillant shudders, Laura hurried to Chris's room to calm him. To her surprise, though
the lightning and thunder were shockingly more violent than they had been previously, the boy was not awakened,
perhaps because the din seemed a part of some dream he was having about Dalmation puppies on a stormy night
of adventure.
Again, no rain fell.
The lightning and thunder quickly subsided, but her anxiety remained high.
He saw strange ebony shapes in the darkness, things that slipped between the trees and watched him with eyes
blacker than their bodies, but though they startled and frightened him, he knew that they were not real, only
phantoms spawned by his increasingly disoriented mind. He plodded onward in spite of outer cold, inner heat,
prickling pine needles, sharp bramble thorns, icy ground that sometimes tilted out from beneath his feet and
sometimes spun like a phonograph turntable. The pain in his chest and shoulder and arm was so intense that he
was assailed by delirium images of rats gnawing at his flesh from within his body, though he could not figure how
they had gotten in there.
After wandering for at least an hour—it seemed like many hours, even days, but could not have been days because
the sun had not risen—he came to the perimeter of the forest and, at the far end of a sloping half acre of snow-
mantled lawn, he saw the house. Lights were vaguely visible at the edges of the blind-covered windows.
He stood, disbelieving, at first convinced that the house was no more real than the Stygian figures that had
accompanied him through the woods. Then he began moving toward the mirage—in case it wasn't a fever dream,
after all.
When he had taken only a few steps, a lash of lightning whipped the night, scarred the sky. The whip cracked
repeatedly, and each time a stronger arm seemed to power it.
Stefan's shadow leaped and writhed on the snow around him, though he was temporarily paralyzed by fear.


Sometimes he had two shadows because lightning silhouetted him simultaneously from two directions. Already
well-trained hunters had followed him on the Lightning Road, determined to stop him before he had a chance to
warn Laura.
He looked back at the trees out of which he had come. Under the stroboscopic sky, the evergreens seemed to jump
toward him, then back, then toward him again. He saw no hunters there.
As the lightning faded, he staggered toward the house again. He fell twice, struggled up, kept moving, though he
was afraid that if he fell again he would not be able to get to his feet or shout loud enough to be heard.
Staring at the computer screen, trying to think about Sir Tommy Toad and thinking instead of the lightning, Laura
suddenly recalled when she previously had seen such a preternaturally stormy sky: the very day on which her
father had first told her about Sir Tommy, the day that the junkie had come into the grocery, the day that she had
seen her guardian for the first time, that summer of her eighth year.
She sat up straight in her chair.
Her heart began to hammer hard, fast.
Lightning of that unnatural power meant trouble of a specific nature, trouble for her. She could recall no lightning on
the day that Danny died or when her guardian appeared in the cemetery during her father's burial service. But with
an absolute certainty that she could not explain, she knew that the phenomenon she had witnessed tonight held a
terrible meaning for her; it was an omen and not a good one.
She grabbed the Uzi and made a circuit of the upstairs, checking all the windows, looking in on Chris, making sure
everything was as it should be. Then she hurried downstairs to inspect those rooms.
As she stepped into the kitchen, something thumped against the back door. With a gasp of surprise and fear, she
whirled in that direction, swung the Uzi around, and nearly opened fire.
But it was not the determined sound of someone breaking in. It was an unthreatening thump, barely louder than a
knock, repeated twice. She thought she heard a voice, too, weakly calling her name.
Silence.
She edged to the door and listened for perhaps half a minute.
Nothing.
The door was a high-security model with a steel core sandwiched between two inch-thick slabs of oak, so she was
not worried about being shot by a gunman on the other side. Yet she hesitated to move directly to it and peer
through the fisheye lens because she feared seeing an eye pressed to the other side, trying to peer in at her. When
at last she had the courage for it, the peephole gave her a wide-angled view of the patio, and she saw a man
sprawled on the concrete, his arms flung out at his sides, as if he had fallen backward after knocking on the door.
Trap, she thought. Trap, trick.
She switched on the outdoor spotlights and crept to the Levelor-covered window above the built-in writing desk.
Cautiously she lifted one of the slats. The man on the concrete patio was her guardian. His shoes and trousers
were caked with snow. He wore what appeared to be a white lab coat, the front darkly stained with blood.
As far as she could see, no one was crouched on the patio or on the lawn beyond, but she had to consider the
possibility that someone had dumped his body there as a lure to bring her out of the house. Opening the door at
night, under these circumstances, was foolhardy.
Nevertheless she could not leave him out there. Not her guardian. Not if he was hurt and dying.
She pressed the alarm bypass button next to the door, disengaged the dead-bolt locks, and reluctantly stepped into
the wintry night with the Uzi at the ready. No one shot at her. On the dimly snow-illumined lawn, all the way back to
the forest, nothing moved.
She went to her guardian, knelt at his side, and felt for his pulse. He was alive. She peeled back one of his eyelids.
He was unconscious. The wound high in the left side of his chest looked bad, though it did not appear to be
bleeding at the moment.
Her training with Henry Takahami and her regular exercise program had dramatically increased her strength, but
she was not strong enough to lift the wounded man with one arm. She propped the Uzi by the back door and found
she could not lift him even with both arms. It seemed dangerous to move a man who was so badly hurt, but more
dangerous to leave him in the frigid night, especially when someone was apparently in pursuit of him. She
managed to half lift and half drag him into the kitchen, where she stretched him out on the floor. With relief she
retrieved the Uzi, relocked the door, and engaged the alarm again.
He was frighteningly pale and cold to the touch, so the immediate necessity was to strip off his shoes and socks,
which were crusted with snow. By the time she dealt with his left foot and was unlacing his right shoe, he was
mumbling in a strange language, the words too slurred for her to identify the tongue, and in English he muttered
about explosives and gates and "phantoms in the trees."
Though she knew that he was delirious and very likely could not understand her any more than she could
understand him, she spoke to him reassuringly: "Easy now, just relax, you'll be all right; as soon as I get your foot
out of this block of ice, I'll call a doctor."
The mention of a doctor brought him briefly out of his confusion. He gripped her arm weakly, fixed her with an
intense, fearful gaze. "No doctor. Get out ... got to get out ..."


"You're in no condition to go anywhere," she told him. "Except by ambulance to a hospital."
"Got to get out. Quick. They'll be coming . . . soon coming . . ."
She glanced at the Uzi. "Who will be coming?"
"Assassins," he said urgently. "Kill me for revenge. Kill you, kill Chris. Coming. Now."
At that moment there was no delirium in his eyes or voice. His pale, sweat-slick face was no longer slack but taut
with terror.
All her training with guns and in the martial arts no longer seemed like hysterical precautions. "Okay," she said,
"we'll get out as soon as I've had a look at that wound, see if it needs to be dressed."
"No! Now. Out now."
"But—"
"Now," he insisted. In his eyes was such a haunted look, she could almost believe that the assassins of whom he
spoke were not ordinary men but creatures of some supernatural origin, demons with the ruthlessness and
relentlessness of the soulless.
"Okay," she said. "We'll get out now."
His hand fell away from her arm. His eyes shifted out of focus, and he began to mumble thickly, senselessly.
As she hurried across the kitchen, intending to go upstairs and wake Chris, she heard her guardian speak dreamily
yet anxiously of a "great, black, rolling machine of death," which meant nothing to her but frightened her
nonetheless.