NIGHT CHILLS









                                DEAN KOONTZ







Authorâs Introduction

BY THE TIME they have finished this book, many readers will be uneasy,
frightened, perhaps even horrified. Once entertained, however, they will be
tempted to dismiss Night Chills as quickly as they might a novel about
demonic possession or reincarnation. Although this story is intended
primarily to be a ãgood read,ä I cannot stress strongly enough that the
basic subject matter is more than merely a fantasy of mine; it is a reality
and already a major influence on all our lives.

Subliminal and subaudial advertising, carefully planned manipulation of our
subconscious  minds,  became a  serious  threat to  individual privacy  and
freedom at least as  long ago as 1957. In that year Mr. James Vicary gave a
public demonstration of the  tachistoscope, a machine for flashing messages
on  a motion  picture screen  so fast  that they  can be  read only  by the
subconscious  mind.  As  discussed   in  chapter  two  of  this  book,  the
tachistoscope   has   been   replaced,  for   the   most   part,  by   more
sophisticated÷and shocking÷devices  and processes. The  science of behavior
modification,  as achieved  through the  use of subliminal  advertising, is
coming into a Golden Age of technological breakthroughs and advancements in
theory.

Particularly  sensitive readers will  be dismayed  to learn that  even such
details as  the infinity transmitter (chapter ten)  are not figments of the
authorâs imagination.  Robert Farr,  the noted electronic  security expert,
discusses  wiretapping with  infinity  transmitters in  his  The Electronic
Criminals,  as  noted  in the  reference list  at  the end  of  this novel.

The drug that plays  a central role in Night Chills is a novelist's device.
It does not exist. It is the only piece of the scientific background that I
have  allowed  myself  to create  from  whole  cloth. Countless  behavioral
researchers have  conceived of it. Therefore,  when I say that  it does not
exist, perhaps I should add one cautionary word÷yet.

Those  who are studying  and shaping  the future of  subliminal advertising
will  say that  they have no  intention of  creating a society  of obedient
robots,  that such a  goal would be  in violation  of their  personal moral
codes. However,  as have thousands  of other scientists in  this century of
change, they will surely  learn that their concepts of right and wrong will
not  restrict  the  ways   in  which  more  ruthless  men  will  use  their
discoveries.

D. R. K.







THE BEGINNING





Saturday, August 6, 1977

THE DIRT  TRAIL was narrow.  Drooping boughs of tamarack,  spruce, and pine
scraped  the  roof  and  brushed  the  side  windows  of  the  Land  Rover.

ãStop here,ä Rossner said tensely.

Holbrook was  driving. He was a big, stem-faced  man in his early thirties.
He  gripped the  wheel  so tightly  that  his knuckles  were bloodless.  He
braked, pulled the  Rover to the right, and coasted in among  the trees. He
switched off the headlamps and turned on a dash light.

ãCheck your gun,ä Rossner said.

Each  man wore  a  shoulder holster  and carried  a SIC-Petter,  the finest
automatic pistol  in the  world. They pulled  the magazines, checked  for a
full complement of bullets,  slammed the magazines back into the butts, and
holstered the guns. Their  movements seemed to be choreographed, as if they
had practiced this a thousand times.

They got out and walked to the back of the car.

At three  oâclock in the morning,  the Maine woods were  ominously dark and
still.

Holbrook lowered the tailgate. A light winked on inside the Rover. He threw
aside  a   tarpaulin,  revealing  two  pairs   of  rubber  hip  boots,  two
flashlights, and other equipment.

Rossner was shorter, slimmer, and quicker than Holbrook.

He got  his boots on  first. Then he  dragged the last two  pieces of their
gear from the car.

The  main component  of each  device was  a pressurized  tank much  like an
aqualung cylinder, complete with shoulder straps and chest belt. A hose led
from the tank to a stainless-steel, pinspray nozzle.

They  helped  each  other  into the  straps,  made  certain their  shoulder
holsters were  accessible, and paced a bit to  get accustomed to the weight
on their backs.

At  3:10  Rossner  took  a compass  from  his  pocket,  studied  it in  his
flashlight   beam,  put   it  away,   and  moved   off  into   the  forest.

Holbrook followed,  surprisingly quiet for such a  large man. The land rose
rather  steeply. They  had to  stop twice  in the  next half hour  to rest.

At  3:40 they  came within sight  of the  Big Union sawmill.  Three hundred
yards  to their  right,  a complex  of two-  and three-story  clapboard and
cinder-block  buildings rose  out of  the frees.  Lights glowed at  all the
windows,  and   arc  lamps   bathed  the  fenced  storage   yard  in  fuzzy
purplish-white light.  Within the huge main  building, giant saws stuttered
and whined  continuously. Logs  and cut planks toppled  from conveyor belts
and boomed when they landed in metal bins.

Rossner  and Holbrook  circled around  the mill  to avoid being  seen. They
reached the top of the ridge at four oâclock.

They had no difficulty  locating the man-made lake. One end of it shimmered
in the wan moonlight, and the other end was shadowed by a higher ridge that
rose  behind it.  It  was a  neat oval,  three hundred  yards long  and two
hundred yards wide, fed by a gushing spring. It served as the reservoir for
both the  Big Union mill and  the small town of  Black River that lay three
miles away in the valley.

They followed the six-foot-high fence until they came to the main gate. The
fence was there to keep out animals, and the gate was not even locked. They
went inside.

At the shadowed end  of the reservoir, Rossner entered the water and walked
out ten feet before it rose nearly to the tops

of his  hip boots. The walls of the lake slanted  sharply, and the depth at
the center was sixty feet.

He unraveled the hose  from a storage reel on the side of the tank, grasped
the  steel tube  at  the end  of it,  and  thumbed a  button.  A colorless,
odorless chemical  exploded from the nozzle. He thrust  the end of the tube
underwater  and moved  it back and  forth, fanning  the fluid as  widely as
possible.

In twenty minutes his tank was empty. He wound the hose around the reel and
looked toward  the far end of the lake.  Holbrook had finished emptying his
tank and was climbing out onto the concrete apron.

They met at the gate. ãOkay?ä Rossner asked.

ãPerfect.ä

By 5:10 they were back at the Land Rover. They got shovels from the back of
the car and dug  two shallow holes in the rich black earth. They buried the
empty tanks, boots, holsters, and guns.

For two hours Holbrook  drove along a series of rugged dirt trails, crossed
St. John  River on a timber bridge, picked up  a graveled lane, and finally
connected with a paved road at half past eight.

From there Rossner took  the wheel. They didnât say more than a dozen words
to each other.

At twelve  thirty Holbrook got out at the Starlite  Motel on Route 15 where
he had a room.  He closed the car door without saying good-by, went inside,
locked the motel door, and sat by the telephone.

Rossner  had the  Roverâs tank  filled at  a Sunoco  station and  picked up
Interstate 95 south to  Waterville and past Augusta. From there he took the
Maine Turnpike  to Portland, where he stopped at  a service area and parked
near a row of telephone booths.

The afternoon  sun made mirrors  of the restaurant windows  and flashed off
the  parked cars.  Shimmering  waves of  hot  air rose  from the  pavement.

He looked at his watch. 3:35.

He   leaned  back   and   closed  his   eyes.   He  appeared   to  be   nap

ping, but every five minutes he glanced at his watch. At 3:55 he got out of
the car and went to the last booth in the row.

At four oâclock the phone rang.

ãRossner.ä

The   voice  at   the  other  end   of  the   line  was  cold   and  sharp:

ãI am the key, Mr. Rossner.ä

ãI am the lock,ä Rossner said dully.

ãHow did it go?ä

ãAs scheduled.ä

ãYou missed the three-thirty call.ä

ãOnly by five minutes.ä

The man  at the other end hesitated. Then: ãLeave  the turnpike at the next
exit  Turn right  on the  state route.  Put the  Rover up  to at  least one
hundred miles an hour.  Two miles along, the road takes a sudden turn, hard
to the  right; itâs banked by  a fieldstone wall. Do  not apply your brakes
when you  reach the curve. Do  not turn with the  road. Drive straight into
that wall at a hundred miles an hour.ä

Rossner  stared through  the glass  wall of  the booth.  A young  woman was
crossing  from the  restaurant  toward a  little  red sports  car. She  was
wearing  fight  white  shorts  with  dark  stitching. She  had  nice  legs.

ãGlenn?ä

ãYes, sir.ä

ãDo you understand me?ä

ãRepeat what Iâve said.ä

Rossner went through it, almost word for word.

ãVery good, Glenn. Now go do it.ä

ãYes, sir.ä

Rossner returned  to the Land Rover and drove  back onto the busy turnpike.

Holbrook sat quietly, patiently in the unlighted motel room. He switched on
the  television set,  but he  didnât watch it.  He got  up once to  use the
bathroom and  to get a drink  of water, but that was  the only break in his
vigil.

At 4:10 the telephone rang.

He picked it up. ãHolbrook.ä

ãI am the key, Mr. Holbrook.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

The man on  the other end of the line spoke for  half a minute. ãNow repeat
what Iâve said.ä

Holbrook repeated it.

ãExcellent. Now do it.ä

He hung  up, went into the  bathroom, and began to draw  a tub full of warm
water.

When  he turned  right  onto the  state  route, Glenn  Rossner pressed  the
accelerator all  the way to the  floor. The engine roared.  The carâs frame
began to  shimmy. Trees and houses and other  cars flashed past, mere blurs
of  color.   The  steering   wheel  jumped  and  vibrated   in  his  hands.

For the first mile and a half, he didnât look away from the road for even a
second. When he saw  the curve ahead, he glanced at the speedometer and saw
that  he  was  doing  slightly  better  than  a  hundred  miles  per  hour.

He whimpered,  but he  didnât hear himself.  The only things  he could hear
were the tortured noises produced by the car. At the last moment he gritted
his teeth and shuddered.

The Land  Rover hit the four-foot-high  stone wall so hard  that the engine
was jammed back into  Rossnerâs lap. The car plowed part of the way through
the wall.  Stones shot up and  rained back down. The  Rover tipped onto its
crushed front  end, rolled over on  its roof, slid across  the ruined wall,
and burst into flames.

Holbrook undressed  and climbed into the tub. He  settled down in the water
and picked up the single-edge razor blade that lay on the porcelain rim. He
held the blade by  the blunt end, firmly between the thumb and first finger
of  his  right  hand,  then slashed  open  the  veins  in  his left  wrist.

He tried to cut his right wrist. His left hand could not hold the blade. It
slipped from his fingers.

He plucked it out of the darkening water, held it in his right hand once
more, and cut across the bridge of his left foot.

Then he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Slowly, he drifted down a lightless tunnel of the mind, into ever deepening
darkness, getting dizzy and weak, feeling surprisingly little pain. In
thirty minutes he was comatose. In forty minutes he was dead.







Sunday, August 7, 1977

AFTER WORKING ALL WEEK on the midnight shift, Buddy Pellineri was unable to
change his sleeping habits for the weekend. At four oâclock Sunday morning,
he was in the  kitchen of his tiny, two-room apartment. The radio, his most
prized possession,  was turned  down low: music from  an all-night Canadian
station. He  was sitting at the table, next  to the window, staring fixedly
at the  shadows on the  far side of the  street. He had seen  a cat running
along the  walk over there, and  the hairs had stood up  on the back of his
neck.

There were  two things that Buddy Pellineri hated  and feared more than all
else in life: cats and ridicule.

For twenty-five  years he had lived  with his mother, and  for twenty years
she had  kept a cat in the house, first Caesar  and then Caesar the Second.
She had never realized that the cats were quicker and far more cunning than
her son  and, therefore, a bane to him. Caesar÷first  or second; it made no
difference÷  liked  to  lie  quietly  atop bookshelves  and  cupboards  and
high-boys, until Buddy walked past. Then he leaped on Buddyâs back. The cat
never scratched him badly;  for the most part it was concerned with getting
a good grip  on his shirt so that he could not  shake it loose. Every time,
as if following a script, Buddy would panic and run in circles or dart from
room to  room in search of his mother, with Caesar  spitting in his ear. He
never   suffered   much  pain   from   the   game;  it   was  the   sudden-

ness of the attack,  the surprise of it that terrified him. His mother said
Caesar was  only being playful. At times he confronted  the cat to prove he
was unafraid.  He approached it as it sunned on a  window sill and tried to
stare  it down.  But  he was  always the  first to  look away.  He couldnât
understand  people all  that well, and the  alien gaze of the  cat made him
feel especially stupid and inferior.

He was able to deal with ridicule more easily than he could deal with cats,
if  only because  it never  came as a  surprise. When  he was a  boy, other
children had teased him  mercilessly. He had learned to be prepared for it,
learned  how to  endure it.  Buddy was  bright enough  to know that  he was
different from others. If his intelligence quotient had been several points
lower, he  wouldnât have known enough  to be ashamed of  himself, which was
what people  expected of him. If his I.Q. had been  a few points higher, he
would have  been able to cope, at least to some  extent, with both cats and
cruel people. Because he  fell in between, his life was lived as an apology
for his stunted intellect÷  a curse he bore as a result of a malfunctioning
hospital incubator  where he  had been placed  after being born  five weeks
prematurely.

His father  had died in a mill accident when Buddy  was five, and the first
Caesar had  entered the house two  weeks later. If his  father hadnât died,
perhaps there would have  been no cats. And Buddy liked to think that, with
his father alive, no one would dare ridicule him.

Ever since  his mother had succumbed  to cancer ten years  ago, when he was
twenty-five, Buddy  had worked  as an assistant  night watchman at  the Big
Union Supply Company mill. If he suspected that certain people at Big Union
felt  responsible for  him and  that his  job was  make-work, he  had never
admitted it,  not even to himself.  He was on duty  from midnight to eight,
five  nights  a week,  patrolling  the  storage yards,  looking for  smoke,
sparks, and flames. He  was proud of his position. In the last ten years he
had  come  to  enjoy  a  measure  of  self-respect  that  would  have  been
inconceivable before he had been hired.

Yet theme  were times when he felt like a  child again, humiliated by other
children,  the brunt of  a joke he  could not  understand. His boss  at the
mill, Ed McGrady, the chief watchman on the graveyard shift, was a pleasant
man. He was incapable of hurting anyone. However, he smiled when others did
the  teasing.  Ed always  told  them  to stop,  always  rescued his  friend
Buddy÷but always got a laugh from it.

That was  why Buddy hadnât told  anyone what he had  seen Saturday morning,
nearly   twenty-four   hours   ago.  He   didnât   want   them  to   laugh.

Around  that time he  left the storage  yard and  walked well off  into the
trees to relieve himself. He avoided the lavatory whenever he could because
it was there the  other men teased him the most and showed the least mercy.
At  a quarter  to five,  he was standing  by a  big pine tree,  shrouded in
darkness, taking a pee, when he saw two men coming down from the reservoir.
They  carried hooded  flashlights  that cast  narrow yellow  beams.  In the
backwash of  the lights, as the men passed within  five yards of him, Buddy
saw they  were wearing rubber hip boots, as if  they had been fishing. They
couldnât fish  in the reservoir, could  they? There were no  fish up there.
Another thing .

each man wore a  tank on his back, like skin divers wore on television. And
they were  carrying guns in shoulder holsters. They  looked so out of place
in the woods, so strange.

They frightened  him. He sensed they were  killers. Like on the television.
If they knew they had been seen, they would kill him and bury him out here.
He  was sure  of it.  But then  Buddy always  expected the worst;  life had
taught him to think that way.

He stood  perfectly still, watched them  until they were out  of sight, and
ran  back to  the storage yard.  But he  quickly realized he  couldnât tell
anyone what  he had seen. They wouldnât believe him. And  by God, if he was
going to  be ridiculed for telling  what was only the  truth, then he would
keep it secret!

Just the same he  wished he could tell someone, if  not the watchmen at the
mill. He  thought and  thought about it  but still could not  make sense of
those  skin divers  or whatever they  were. -In  fact, the more  he thought
about it, the more bizarre it

seemed. He  was frightened by what he could  not understand. He was certain
that if he told  someone, it could be explained to him. Then he wouldnât be
afraid. But if they laughed .

Well, he  didnât understand their  laughter either, and that  was even more
frightening than the mystery men in the woods.

On the  far side  of Main Street,  the cat scampered from  the heavy purple
shadows and ran east  toward Edisonâs General Store, startling Buddy out of
his reverie. He pressed against the windowpane and watched the cat until it
turned the  corner. Afraid that it would try to sneak  back and climb up to
his third floor rooms,  he kept a watch on the place where it had vanished.
For the  moment he had forgotten  the men in the  woods because his fear of
cats   was   far   greater   than  his   fear   of   guns  and   strangers.



PART ONE:

Conspiracy



                                     1

                         Saturday, August 13, 1977

WHEN HE DROVE AROUND  THE CURVE, into the small valley, Paul Annendale felt
a change  come over  him. After  five hours behind the  wheel yesterday and
five  more today,  he  was weary  and tense÷but  suddenly his  neck stopped
aching and  his shoulders unknotted. He felt at  peace, as if nothing could
go wrong in this  place, as if he were Hugh Conway in  Lost Horizon and had
just entered Shangri-La.

Of  course, Black  River  was not  Shangri-La, not  by  any stretch  of the
imagination.  It  existed and  maintained  its population  of four  hundred
solely as an adjunct of the mill. For a company town it was quite clean and
attractive. The  main street was lined  with tall oak and  birch trees. The
houses were  New England  colonials, white frame and  brick saltboxes. Paul
supposed he responded to it so positively because he had no bad memories to
associate  with it,  only good  ones; and  that could  not be said  of many
places in a manâs life.

ãThereâs Edisonâs store! Thereâs Edisonâs!ä Mark Annendale leaned over from
the back seat, pointing through the windshield.

Smiling,  Paul  said,  ãThank  you, Coonskin  Pete,  scout  of the  north.ä

Rya was as excited as her brother, for Sam Edison was like a grandfather to
them. But she was more dignified than Mark.

At eleven she yearned  for the womanhood that was still years ahead of her.
She sat  up straight in her  safety harness beside Paul  on the front seat.
She said, ãMark, sometimes  I think youâre five years old instead of nine.ä

ãOh,  yeah?  Well, sometimes  I  think youâre   sixty  instead of  eleven!ä

ãTouchŽ,ä Paul said.

Mark grinned.  Usually, he was no match for his  sister. This sort of quick
response was not his style.

Paul glanced  sideways at Rya and  saw that she was  blushing. He winked to
let her know that he wasnât laughing at her.

Smiling, sure  of herself  again, she settled  back in her  seat. She could
have topped  Markâs line with a  better one and left  him mumbling. But she
was capable  of generosity,  not a particularly common  quality in children
her age.

The  instant the station  wagon stopped at  the curb,  Mark was out  on the
pavement  He bounded  up the  three concrete  steps, raced across  the wide
roofed  veranda, and disappeared  into the  store. The screen  door slammed
shut behind him just as Paul switched off the, engine.

Rya was  determined not to make  a spectacle of herself,  as Mark had done.
She took  her time getting out  of the car, stretched  and yawned, smoothed
the knees  of her jeans, straightened  the collar of her  dark blue blouse,
patted her long brown  hair, closed the car door, and went up the steps. By
the  time  she reached  the  porch,  however, she  too  had  begun to  run.

Edisonâs  General Store  was an  entire shopping  center in  three thousand
square feet. There was  one room, a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide,
with an ancient pegged pine floor. The east end of the store was a grocery.
The west end held  dry goods and sundries as well as a gleaming, modem drug
counter.

As his father had  been before him, Sam Edison was the townâs only licensed
pharmacist.

In the center of  the room, three tables and twelve oak chairs were grouped
in  front  of a  wood-burning  country  stove. Ordinarily,  you could  find
elderly men playing cards at one of

those tables,  but at the moment the chairs  were empty. Edison's store was
not  just a  grocery  and pharmacy;  it  was also  Black Riverâs  community
center.

Paul opened the heavy  lid on the soda cooler and plucked a bottle of Pepsi
from the icy water. He sat down at one of the tables.

Rya and Mark were standing at an old-fashioned glass-fronted candy counter,
giggling at  one of Samâs jokes.  He gave them sweets  and sent them to the
paperback and  comic book racks to choose  presents for themselves; then he
came over and sat with his back to the cold stove.

They shook hands across the table.

At a  glance, Paul thought, Sam  looked hard and mean.  He was very solidly
built,  five  eight, one  hundred  sixty  pounds, broad  in  the chest  and
shoulders. His  short-sleeved shirt revealed powerful  forearms and biceps.
His  face was  tanned and  creased, and  his eyes  were like chips  of gray
slate. Even  with his thick white hair and  beard, he looked more dangerous
than grandfatherly,  and he could have passed as  a decade younger than his
fifty-five years.

But that forbidding exterior  was misleading. He was a warm and gentle man,
a  push-over for  children. Most likely,  he gave  away more candy  than he
sold. Paul  had never seen him angry, had never  heard him raise his voice.

ãWhen did you get in town?ä

ãThis is our first stop.ä

ãYou didnât  say in your letter  how long youâd be  staying this year. Four
weeks?ä

ãSix, I think.ä

ãWonderful!ä His gray eyes glittered merrily; but in that very craggy face,
the expression  might have appeared to be malice  to anyone who didnât know
him well.  ãYouâre staying the night with us,  as planned? You arenât going
up into the mountains today?ä

Paul shook  his head: no. ãTomorrow will be soon  enough. Weâve been on the
road  since nine  this morning. I  donât have  strength to pitch  camp this
afternoon.ä

ãYouâre looking good, though.ä

ãIâm feeling good now that Iâm in Black River.ä

ãNeeded this vacation, did you?ä

ãGod, yes.ä Paul drank  some of the Pepsi. ãIâm sick to death of hypertense
poodles and Siamese cats with ringworms.ä

Sam smiled. ãIâve told  you a hundred times. Havenât I? You canât expect to
be an  honest veterinarian when you  set up shop in  the suburbs of Boston.
Down there  youâre a  nursemaid for neurotic house  pets÷and their neurotic
owners. Get out into the country, Paul.ä

ãYou mean  I ought to involve myself with  cows calving and mares foaling?ä

ãExactly.ä

Paul sighed. ãMaybe I will one day.ä

ãYou should  get those kids out of the suburbs, out  where the air is clean
and the water drinkable.ä

ãMaybe I will.ä He  looked toward the rear of the store, toward a curtained
doorway. ãIs Jenny here?ä

ãI spent  all morning  filling prescriptions, and now  sheâs out delivering
them. I  think Iâve  sold more drugs in  the past four days  than I usually
sell in four weeks.ä

ãEpidemic?ä

ãYeah. Flu, grippe, whatever you want to call it.ä

ãWhat does Doe Troutman call it?ä

Sam shrugged.  ãHeâs not  really sure. Some  new breed of  flu, he thinks.ä

ãW/hatâs he prescribing?ä

ãA general purpose antibiotic. Tetracycline.ä

ãThatâs not particularly strong.ä

ãYes, but this flu isnât all that devastating.ä

ãIs the tetracycline helping?ä

ãItâs too soon to tell.ä

Paul glanced at Rya and Mark.

ãTheyâre safer here than anywhere else in town,ä Sam said. ãJenny and I are
about  the only  people  in Black  River who  havenât  come down  with it.ä

ãIf I get up  there in the mountains and find Iâve got  two sick kids on my
hands, what should I expect? Nausea? Fever?ä

ãNone of that. Just night chills.ä

Paul tilted his head quizzically.

ãDamned scary,  as I  understand it.ä Samâs  eyebrows drew together  in one
bushy white bar. ãYou wake up in the middle of the night, as if youâve just
had a terrible dream.  You shake so hard you canât hold on to anything. You
can  barely walk.  Your heart  is racing.  Youâre pouring sweat÷and  I mean
sweating  pints÷like youâve got  awfully high  blood pressure. It  lasts as
much as an hour, then it goes away as if it never was. Leaves you weak most
of the next day.ä

Frowning, Paul said, ãDoesnât sound like flu.ä

ãDoesnât sound  like much  of anything. But  it scares hell  out of people.
Some of  them got sick Tuesday  night, and most of  the others joined in on
Wednesday. Every night they  wake up shaking, and every day theyâre weak, a
bit tired. Damned few people around here have had a good nightâs sleep this
week.ä

ãHas  Doe  Troutman  gotten  a  second  opinion  on any  of  these  cases?ä

ãNearest  other doctor  is sixty miles  away,ä Sam  said. ãHe did  call the
State Health  Authority yesterday  afternoon, asked for one  of their field
men to come up  and have a look. But they canât send anyone until Monday. I
guess  they canât  get  very excited  about an  epidemic of  night chills.ä

ãThe chills could be the tip of an iceberg.ä

ãCould be.  But you know bureaucrats.ä  When he saw Paul  glance at Rya and
Mark again, Sam said, ãLook, donât worry about it. Weâll keep the kids away
from everyone whoâs sick.ä

ãI was supposed to take Jenny up the street to Ultmanâs Cafe. We were going
to have a nice quiet dinner together.ä

ãIf you  catch the flu from a waitress or  another customer, youâll pass it
on to the kids. Skip the cafe. Have dinner here. You know Iâm the best cook
in Black River.ä

Paul hesitated.

Laughing softly, stroking his beard with one hand, Sam said, ãWeâll have an
early  dinner. Six  oâclock.  Thatâll give  you  and Jenny  plenty of  time
together. You can go for a ride later. Or

Iâll keep myself and the kids out of the den if youâd rather just stay
home.ä

Paul smiled. ãWhatâs on the menu?ä

ãManicotti.ä

ãWho needs Ultmanâs Cafe?ä

Sam nodded agreement. ãOnly the Ultmans.ä

Rya and Mark hurried over to get Samâs approval of the gifts they had
chosen for themselves. Mark had two dollarsâ worth of comic books, and Rya
had two paperbacks. Each of them had small bags of candy.

Ryaâs blue eyes seemed especially bright to Paul, as if there were lights
behind them. She grinned and said, ãDaddy, this is going to be the best
vacation weâve ever had!ä

                                     2

                         Thirty-one Months Earlier:

                          Friday, January 10, 1975

OGDEN SALSBURY ARRIVED ten minutes early for his three oâclock appointment.
That was characteristic of him.

H.  Leonard   Dawson,  president  and  principal   stockholder  of  Futurex
International, did  not at once  welcome Salsbury into his  office. In fact
Dawson kept  him waiting  until three fifteen.  That was  characteristic of
him.   He  never  allowed  his  associates  to  forget that  his  time  was
inestimably more valuable than theirs.

When  Dawsonâs secretary  finally  ushered Salsbury  into the  great  manâs
chambers,  it was  as if  she were  showing him to  the altar  in a  hushed
cathedral. Her  attitude was reverent. The outer  office had Muzak, but the
inner office had pure silence. The room was sparsely furnished: a deep blue
carpet, two  somber oil  paintings on the white  walls, two  chairs on this
side of the  desk, one chair on the other side of  it, a coffee table, rich
blue velvet  drapes drawn  back from seven  hundred square feet  of lightly
tinted  glass that  overlooked midtown  Manhattan. The secretary  bowed out
almost like an altar boy retreating from the sanctuary.

ãHow are you, Ogden?ä He reached out to shake hands.

ãFine. Just fine÷Leonard.ä

Dawsonâs hand was hard and dry; Salsburyâs was damp.

ãHowâs   Miriam?ä   He    noticed   Salsburyâs   hesitation.   ãNot   ill?ä

ãWe were divorced,ä Salsbury said.

ãIâm sorry to hear that.ä

Was there a trace  of disapproval in Dawsonâs voice? Salsbury wondered. And
why the hell should I care if there is?

ãWhen did you split up?ä Dawson asked.

ãTwenty-five years  ago÷Leonard.ä Salsbury felt  as if he ought  to use the
other manâs  last name rather than his first, but  he was determined not to
be  intimidated by Dawson  as he had  been when  they were both  young men.

ãIt has been a long time since weâve talked,ä Dawson said. ãThatâs a shame.
We had so many great times together.ä

They had  been fraternity brothers at Harvard and  casual friends for a few
years after they left  the university. Salsbury could not remember a single
ãgreatä time  they might have shared. Indeed, he  had always thought of the
name  H.  Leonard  Dawson  as  a  synonym  for both  prudery  and  boredom.

ãHave you remarried?ä Dawson asked.

Dawson frowned.  ãMarriage is essential to an ordered  life. It gives a man
stability.ä

ãYouâre right,ä  Salsbury said,  although he didnât believe  it. ãIâve been
the worse for bachelorhood.ä

Dawson   had   always   made   him   uneasy.  Today   was   no   exception.

He felt ill at  ease partly because they were so different from each other.
Dawson  was six  feet  two, broad  in the  shoulders,  narrow at  the hips,
athletic. Salsbury was five  feet nine, slope-shouldered, and twenty pounds
overweight. Dawson  had thick graying  hair, a deep tan,  clear black eyes,
and matinee-idol features; whereas Salsbury was pale with receding hair and
myopic brown  eyes that required thick  glasses. They were both fifty-four.
Of the two, Dawson had weathered the years far better.

Then again,  Salsbury thought, he began with better  looks than I did. With
better looks, more advantages, more money...

If   Dawson   radiated   authority,   Salsbury   radiated   servility.   In

the laboratory on his own familiar turf, Ogden was as impressive as Dawson.
They were not in the laboratory now, however, and he felt out of place, out
of his class, inferior.

ãHow is Mrs. Dawson?ä

The  other  man  smiled  broadly.  ãWonderful! Just  wonderful.  Iâve  made
thousands  of good decisions  in my life,  Ogden. But  she was the  best of
them.ä His  voice grew deeper and more solemn;  it was almost theatrical in
effect.    ãSheâs    a    good,    God-fearing,    church-loving    woman.ä

Youâre  still a  Bible thumper,  Salsbury thought.  He suspected  that this
might help him achieve what he had come here to do.

They  stared  at each  other,  unable  to think  of  any  more small  talk.

ãSit down,ä Dawson said.  He went behind the desk while Salsbury settled in
front of it. The four feet of polished oak between them further established
Dawsonâs dominance.

Sitting stiffly, briefcase on his knees, Salsbury looked like the corporate
equivalent of a lap  dog. He knew he should relax, that it was dangerous to
let Dawson  see how  easily he could be  intimidated. Nevertheless, knowing
this,  he could  only  pretend relaxation  by  folding his  hands atop  his
briefcase.

ãThis  letter.   -   .ã   Dawson  looked  at  the  paper  on  his  blotter.

Salsbury   had   written   the   letter,  and   he   knew   it  by   heart.

Dear Leonard:

Since  we left  Harvard, youâve  made more  money than  I have.  However, I
havenât wasted my life.  After decades of study and experimentation, I have
nearly perfected a process that is priceless. The proceeds in a single year
could   exceed   your   accumulated   wealth.  I   am   entirely   serious.

Could I  have an appointment  at your convenience? You  wonât regret having
given it to me.

Make the appointment for ãRobert Stanley,ä a subterfuge to keep my name out
of your date book. As you can see from the letterhead on this stationery, I
direct  operations at  the  main biochem  research laboratory  for Creative
Development Associates, a subsidiary  of Futurex International. If you know
the  nature   of  CDAâs   business,  you  will  understand   the  need  for
circumspection.

As ever, Ogden Salsbury

He  had  expected  to  get a  quick  response  with  that  letter, and  his
expectations  had been  met.  At Harvard,  Leonard had  been guided  by two
shining principles: money and God. Salsbury had supposed, and rightly, that
Dawson  hadnât changed. The  letter was  mailed on Tuesday.  Late Wednesday
Dawsonâs secretary called to make the appointment.

ãI donât  ordinarily sign for registered  letters,ä Dawson said sternly. ãI
accepted it only because your name was on it. After I read it I very nearly
threw it in the trash.ä

Salsbury winced.

ãHad it been from  anyone else, I would have thrown it away. But at Harvard
you were no braggart. Have you overstated your case?ä

ãYouâve    discovered   something    you   think   is    worth   millions?ä

ãYes. And more.ä His mouth was dry.

Dawson  took  a  manila  folder  from  the center  desk  drawer.  ãCreative
Development Associates.  We bought  that company seven years  ago. You were
with it when we made the acquisition.ä

ãYes, sir. Leonard.ä

As if  he had not noticed Salsburyâs slip of  the tongue, Dawson said, ãCDA
produces computer programs for universities and government bureaus involved
in  sociological  and  psychological studies.ä  He  didnât  bother to  page
through the report. He seemed to have memorized it. ãCDA also does research
for  government  and  industry. It  operates  seven  laboratories that  are
examining  the  biological, chemical,  and  biochemical  causes of  certain
sociological and psychological phenomena.  Youâre in charge of the Brockert
Institute in Connecticut.ä He  frowned. ãThe entire Connecticut facility is
devoted to top secret work for the Defense Department.ä His black eyes were
exception-

ally sharp  and clear. ãSo secret,  in fact, that even  I couldnât find out
what youâre doing up there. Just that itâs in the general field of behavior
modification.ä

Clearing his throat nervously,  Salsbury wondered if Dawson was broadminded
enough  to grasp  the  value of  what he  was  about to  be told.  ãAre you
familiar with the term Îsubliminal perceptionâ?ä

ãIt has to do with the subconscious mind.ä

ãThatâs  right÷as far  as it  goes. Iâm  afraid Iâm  going to  sound rather
pedantic, but a lecture is in order.ä

Dawson   leaned  back   as  Salsbury   leaned  forward.  ãBy   all  means.ä

Extracting two eight-by-ten photographs  from the briefcase, Salsbury said,
ãDo you see any difference between photo A and photo B?ä

Dawson  examined  them  closely.  They  were  black and  white  studies  of
Salsburyâs face. ãTheyâre identical.ä

ãOn   the  surface,   yes.   Theyâre  prints   of  the   same  photograph.ä

ãWhatâs the point?ä

ãIâll explain later. Hold on to them for now.ä

Dawson stared suspiciously at  the pictures. Was this some sort of game? He
didnât  like games. They  were a waste  of time.  While you were  playing a
game, you could just as easily be earning money.

ãThe human mind,ä Salsbury  said, ãhas two primary monitors for data input:
the conscious and the subconscious.ä

ãMy  church recognizes  the  subconscious,ä Dawson  said affably.  ãNot all
churches will admit it exists.ä

Unable  to see  the  point of  that, Salsbury  ignored it.  ãThese monitors
observe and store two  different sets of data. In a manner of speaking, the
conscious mind  is aware only of what happens in  its direct line of sight,
while the subconscious has  peripheral vision. These two halves of the mind
operate  independently  of each  other,  and  often in  opposition to  each
other-ä

ãOnly in the abnormal mind,ä Dawson said.

ãNo, no. In everyoneâs mind. Yours and mine included.ä

Disturbed that  anyone should think  his mind performed in  any state other
than   perfect   harmony   with    itself,   Dawson   started   to   speak.

ãFor  example,ä  Salsbury said  quickly,  ãa man  is  sitting at  a bar.  A
beautiful woman takes the stool next to his. With conscious intent he tries
to seduce  her. At the same time,  however, without being consciously aware
of  it, he  may be  terrified of  sexual involvement.  He may be  afraid of
rejection, failure,  or impotency.  With his conscious mind  he performs as
society  expects him to  perform in the  company of  a sexy woman.  But his
subconscious  works  effectively   against  his  conscious.  Therefore,  he
alienates  the  woman.  He  talks too  loudly  and  brashly. Although  heâs
ordinarily an  interesting fellow, he bores  her with stock market reports.
He  spills  his  drink  on  her.  That  behavior  is  the  product  of  his
subconscious fear.  His outer mind says ÎGoâ even  as his inner mind shouts
ÎStop.âä

Dawsonâs  expression  was sour.  He  didnât  appreciate the  nature of  the
example. Nevertheless, he said, ãGo on.ä

ãThe  subconscious is  the  dominant mind.  The conscious  sleeps,  but the
subconscious never  does. The  conscious has no  access to the  data in the
subconscious, but the subconscious  knows everything that transpires in the
conscious mind. The conscious  is essentially nothing more than a computer,
while the subconscious is the computer programmer.

ãThe data  stored in the different halves of the  mind are collected in the
same way: through the  five known senses. But the subconscious sees, hears,
smells, tastes, and feels  far more than does the outer mind. It apprehends
everything that  passes too quickly or too  subtly to impress the conscious
mind. For  our purposes, in  fact, that is the  definition of Îsubliminalâ:
anything that  happens too quickly or  too subtly to make  an impression on
the conscious mind. More than ninety percent of the stimuli that we observe
through our five senses is subliminal input.ä

ãNinety percent?ä  Dawson said.  ãYou mean I  see, feel, smell,  taste, and
hear ten times more than I think I do? An example?ä

Salsbury   had   one   ready.   ãThe   human   eye   fixates   on   objects

at least one hundred thousand times a day. A fixation lasts from a fraction
of  a second  to a third  of a minute.  However, if  you tried to  list the
hundred thousand  things you had looked  at today, you wouldnât  be able to
recall  more than a  few hundred of  them. The  rest of those  stimuli were
observed  by and  stored  in the  subconscious÷as were  the  additional two
million  stimuli  reported  to   the  brain  by  the  other  four  senses.ä

Closing his eyes as  if to block out all of those sights he wasnât aware of
seeing, Dawson said, ãYouâve  made three points.ä He ticked them off on his
manicured fingers. ãOne, the subconscious is the dominant half of the mind.
Two,  we  donât  know   what  our  subconscious  minds  have  observed  and
remembered. We canât recall that data at will. Three, subliminal perception
is  nothing  strange or  occult;  it is  an  integral part  of our  lives.ä

ãPerhaps the major part of our lives.ä

ãAnd  youâve  discovered  a  commercial  use  for  subliminal  perception.ä

Salsburyâs hands were shaking. He was close to the core of his proposition,
and he  didnât know whether Dawson  would be fascinated or  outraged by it.
ãFor two decades, advertisers  of consumer products have been able to reach
the  subconscious minds  of potential  customers by  the use  of subliminal
perception.  The ad  agencies refer  to these  techniques by  several other
names. Subliminal  reception. Threshold regulation. Unconscious perception.
Subception.   Are   you   aware   of  this?   Have   you   heard  of   it?ä

Still  enviably  relaxed,  Dawson  said, ãThere  were  several  experiments
conducted  in movie  theaters÷fifteen÷maybe  twenty years  ago. I  remember
reading about them in the newspapers.ä

Salsbury nodded rapidly. ãYes. The first was in 1957.ä

ãDuring  an   ordinary  showing  of  some   film,  a  special  message  was
superimposed on  the screen. ÎYou are thirsty,â  or something of that sort.
It was flashed off  and on so fast that no one realized it was there. After
it had been flashed÷what,  a thousand times? nearly everyone in the theater
went to the lobby and bought soft drinks.ä

In  those  first  crude  experiments,  which were  carefully  regulated  by
motivation  researchers,  subliminal messages  had  been  delivered to  the
audience with a tachistoscope, a machine patented by a New Orleans company,
Precon  Process  and  Equipment   Corporation,  in  October  of  1962.  The
tachistoscope was  a standard film projector  with a high-speed shutter. It
could  flash a  message twelve  times a  minute at  of a second.  The image
appeared  on  the screen  for  too  short a  time  to be  perceived by  the
conscious  mind, but  the  subconscious was  fully  aware of  it. During  a
six-week test of the  tachistoscope, forty-five thousand theater-goers were
subjected to two messages:

ãDrink  Coca-Colaä  and  ãHungry?   Eat  Popcorn.ä  The  results  of  these
experiments   left  no   doubt  about   the  effectiveness   of  subliminal
advertisement. Popcorn  sales rose sixty percent,  and Coco-Cola sales rose
nearly twenty percent.

The subliminals apparently had influenced people to buy these products even
though they were not hungry or thirsty.

ãYou see,ä Salsbury said,  ãthe subconscious mind believes everything it is
told. Even though it constructs behavioral sets based on the information it
receives,  and  although  those  sets  guide the  conscious  mind÷it  canât
distinguish between truth and falsehood! The behavior that it programs into
the conscious mind is often based on misconceptions.ä

ãBut   if    that   were   correct,   weâd    all   behave   irrationally.ä

ãAnd we  all do,ä Salsbury said, ãin one way  or another. Donât forget, the
subconscious doesnât always construct programs based on wrong-headed ideas.
Just sometimes.  This explains  why intelligent men, paragons  of reason in
most  things,  harbor  at  least a  few  irrational  attitudes.ä Like  your
religious fanaticism,  he thought. He said:  ãRacial and religious bigotry,
for instance. Xenophobia, claustrophobia,  acrophobia . . . If a man can be
made to  analyze one of these fears on a  conscious level, heâll reject it.
But the  conscious resists analysis. Meanwhile, the  inner half of the mind
continues to misguide the outer half.ä

ãThese  messages on  the movie  screen÷the conscious  mind wasnât  aware of
them; therefore, it couldnât reject them.ä

Salsbury sighed.  ãYes. Thatâs the essence of  it. The subconscious saw the
messages and caused the outer mind to act on them.ä

Dawson  was  growing  more  interested by  the  minute.  ãBut  why did  the
subliminals sell more popcorn than soda?ä

ãThe first message÷âDrink  Coca-Colaâ÷was a declarative sentence,ä Salsbury
said,  ãa direct order.  Sometimes the  subconscious obeys an  order thatâs
delivered subliminally÷and sometimes it doesnât.ä

ãWhy is that?ä

Salsbury shrugged.  ãWe donât know. But you  see, the second subliminal was
not entirely  a direct  order. It was  more sophisticated. It  began with a
question:  ÎHungry?â The  question  was designed  to cause  anxiety  in the
subconscious. It helped to  generate a need. It established a Îmotivational
equation.â The  need, the anxiety, is on the left  side of the equals sign.
To fill the right  side, to balance the equation, the subconscious programs
the  conscious to  buy the  popcorn. One  side cancels  out the  other. The
buying of the popcorn cancels out the anxiety.ä

ãThe method  is similar to posthypnotic suggestion.  But Iâve. heard that a
man  canât  be  hypnotized  and  made  to  do something  he  finds  morally
unacceptable. In  other words, if he isnât a killer  by nature, he canât be
made to kill while under hypnosis.ä

ãThatâs not true,ä Salsbury  said. ãAnyone can be made to do anything under
hypnosis. The inner mind  can be manipulated so easily. . . For example, if
I hypnotized  you and  told you to  kill your wife, you  wouldnât obey me.ä

ãOf course I wouldnât!ä Dawson said indignantly.

ãYou love your wife.ä

ãI certainly do!ä

ãYou have no reason to kill her.ä

ãNone whatsoever.ä

Judging  by   Dawsonâs  emphatic   denials,  Salsbury  thought   the  manâs
subconscious  must   be  brimming  with  repressed   hostility  toward  his
God-fearing, church-loving  wife. He didnât dare  say as much. Dawson would
have denied it÷and might  have tossed him out of the office. ãHowever, if I
hypnotized you and told

you that your wife  was having an affair with your best friend and that she
was plotting to kill you in order to inherit your estate, you would believe
me and֊

ãI would not. Julia would be incapable of such a thing.ä

Salsbury nodded  patiently. ãYour conscious mind  would reject my story. It
can  reason.  But  after  Iâd  hypnotized  you,  Iâd be  speaking  to  your
subconscious÷which   canât    distinguish   between    lies   and   truth.ä

ãAh. I see.ä

ãYour subconscious  wonât act  on a direct  order to kill  because a direct
order doesnât  establish a  motivational equation. But  it will  believe my
warning that she intends to kill you. And so believing, it will construct a
new behavioral  set based  on the lies÷and  it will program  your conscious
mind for  murder. Picture the equation, Leonard. On  the left of the equals
sign there  is anxiety generated by the  Îknowledgeâ that your wife intends
to do away with  you. On the right side, to balance the equation, to banish
the  anxiety, you  need the death  of your  wife. If your  subconscious was
convinced that  she was going to  kill you in your  sleep tonight, it would
cause you to murder her before you ever went to bed.ä

ãWhy wouldnât I just go to the police?ä

Smiling, more sure of  himself than he had been when he entered the office,
Salsbury  said, ãThe  hypnotist could  guard against  that by  telling your
subconscious that  your wife would make it look  like an accident, that she
was  so  clever  the  police  would  never  prove  anything  against  her.ä

Raising one hand, Dawson waved at the air as if he were shooing away flies.
ãThis is all very  interesting,ä he said in a slightly bored tone of voice.
ãBut it seems academic to me.ä

Ogdenâs self-confidence was fragile. He began to tremble again. ãAcademic?ä

ãSubliminal advertising  has been outlawed. There was  quite a to-do at the
time.ä

ãOh, yes,ä  Salsbury said, relieved. ãThere  were hundreds of newspaper and
magazine editorials.  Newsday  called it the most  alarming invention since
the atomic bomb. The Saturday Re-

view said that the subconscious mind was the most delicate apparatus in the
universe and that it must never be sullied or twisted to boost the sales of
popcorn or anything else.

ãIn  the  late 1950s,  when  the  experiments with  the tachistoscope  were
publicized,  nearly  everyone agreed  that  subliminal  advertising was  an
invasion of privacy. Congressman  James Wright of Texas sponsored a bill to
outlaw any device, film,  photograph, or recording Îdesigned to advertise a
product or indoctrinate the  public by means of making an impression on the
subconscious mind.  Other congressmen  and senators drafted  legislation to
deal with  the menace, but none  of the bills got  out of committee. No law
was   passed    restricting   or    forbidding   subliminal   advertising.ä

Dawson raised his eyebrows. ãDo politicians use it?ä

ãMost of them donât  understand the potential. And the advertising agencies
would just as soon keep them ignorant. Every major agency in the U.S. has a
staff  of  media  and  behavioral  scientists to  develop  subliminals  for
magazine  and television  ads.  Virtually every  consumer item  produced by
Futurex  and  its  subsidiaries   is  sold  with  subliminal  advertising.ä

ãI   donât  believe   it,ä   Dawson  said.   ãI  would   know   about  it.ä

ãNot unless  you wanted to know  and made an effort  to learn. Thirty years
ago, when  you were starting out,  this sort of thing  didnât exist. By the
time it came into  use, you were no longer closely tied to the sales end of
your   businesses.   You   were   more   concerned   with   stock   issues,
mergers÷wheeling and dealing. In a conglomerate of this size, the president
canât  possibly  pass approval  on  every  ad for  every  product of  every
subsidiary.ä

Leaning  forward in  his chair, a  look of  distaste on his  handsome face,
Dawson said, ãBut I find it rather÷repulsive.ä

ãIf you  accept the  fact that a  manâs mind can be  programmed without his
knowledge,  youâre rejecting  the  notion that  every man  is at  all times
captain of his fate. It scares hell out of people.

ãFor two decades Americans  have refused to face the unpleasant truth about
subliminal  advertising. Opinion  polls  indicate that,  of those  who have
heard of subliminal advertising,

ninety  percent are  certain it has  been outlawed.  They have no  facts to
support  this  opinion,  but  they donât  want  to  believe anything  else.
Furthermore,  between fifty and  seventy percent  of those polled  say they
donât  believe subliminals  work. They  are so  revolted by the  thought of
being controlled  and manipulated  that they reject the  possibility out of
hand.  Rather than  educate  themselves about  the actuality  of subliminal
advertising, rather than rise  up and rage against it, they dismiss it as a
fantasy, as science fiction.ä

Dawson shifted uneasily in  his chair. Finally, he got up, went to the huge
windows and stared out at Manhattan.

Snow had begun to  fall. There was very little light in the sky. Wind, like
the  voice   of  the   city,  moaned  on   the  far  side   of  the  glass.

Turning back  to Salsbury, Dawson said,  ãOne of our subsidiaries  is an ad
agency. Woolring  and Messner. You  mean every time they  make a television
commercial, they  build into  it a series of  subliminally flashed messages
with a tachistoscope?ä

ãThe advertiser  has to  request subliminals,ä Salsbury  said. ãThe service
costs extra.  But to answer  your question÷no, the tachistoscope  is out of
date.

ãThe science of subliminal  behavior modification developed so rapidly that
the  tachistoscope  was  obsolete  soon  after  it  was  patented.  By  the
mid-1960s, most  subliminals in television commercials  were implanted with
rheostatic photography.  Everyone has seen a  rheostatic control for a lamp
or  overhead  light: by  turning  it,  one can  make  the  light dimmer  or
brighter.  The same principle  can be  used in motion  picture photography.
First,  the  commercial  is  shot  and  edited  to  sixty  seconds  in  the
conventional manner.  This is the half  of the advertisement that registers
with the conscious mind.  Another minute of film, containing the subliminal
message, is shot with minimal light intensity, with the rheostat turned all
the way down. The resultant image is too dim to register with the conscious
mind. When  it is  projected on a  screen, the screen appears  to be blank.
However, the subconscious sees and absorbs it. These

two films  are projected  simultaneously and printed  on a third  length of
film. It  is this composite version  that is used on  television. While the
audience watches  the commercial, the subconscious  mind watches÷and obeys,
to one degree or another

÷the subliminal directive.

ãAnd thatâs only the  basic technique,ä Salsbury said. ãThe refinements are
even more clever.ä

Dawson paced. He wasnât nervous. He was just÷excited.

Heâs   beginning   to   see    the   value,   Salsbury   thought   happily.

ãI see  how subliminals could be  hidden in a piece  of film thatâs full of
motion, light and shadow,ä  Dawson said. ãBut magazine ads? Thatâs a static
medium. One image, no  movement. How could a subliminal be concealed on one
page?ä

Pointing  to the photographs  he had  given Dawson earlier,  Salsbury said,
ãFor that picture I  kept my face expressionless. Two copies were made from
the  same negative.  Copy  A was  printed over  a vague  image of  the word
Îanger.â And B was printed over the word Îjoy.âä

Comparing   the  photos,   Dawson   said,  ãI   donât  see   either  word.ä

ãIâd  be   displeased  if  you   did.  They  arenât  meant   to  be  seen.ä

ãWhat was the purpose?ä

ãOne hundred students at  Columbia were given photo A and asked to identify
the emotion expressed by  the face. Ten students had no opinion. Eight said
Îdispleasureâ and eighty-two said  Îanger.â A different group studied photo
B. Eight expressed no  opinion. Twenty-one said Îhappinessâ and seventy-one
said Îjoy.âä

ãI see,ä Dawson said thoughtfully.

Salsbury said,  ãBut thatâs as crude as the  tachistoscope. Let me show you
some sophisticated  subliminal ads.ä He  plucked a sheet of  paper from his
briefcase. It  was a page from  Time magazine. He  put the page on Dawsonâs
blotter.

ãItâs an ad for Gilbeyâs Gin,ä Dawson said.

At  a glance  it was  a simple  liquor advertisement. A  five-word headline
stood at  the top of the page: BREAK OUT THE  FROSTY BOTTLE. The only other
copy was toward the lower right-hand

corner: AND KEEP YOUR  TONICS DRY! The accompanying illustration held three
items. The most prominent of these was a bottle of gin which glistened with
water droplets  and frost. The cap  of the bottle lay  at the bottom of the
page.  Beside the bottle  was a tall  glass filled  with ice cubes,  a lime
slice,  a swizzle  stick and,  presumably, gin.  The background  was green,
cool, pleasant.

The message intended for the conscious mind was clear:

This  gin  is  refreshing   and  offers  an  escape  from  everyday  cares.

ÎWhat  the  page  had  to  say  to  the  subconscious  mind  was  far  more
interesting.  Salsbury explained  that most  of the subliminal  content was
buried beneath the threshold  of conscious recognition, but that some of it
could  be  seen  and   analyzed,  although  only  with  an  open  mind  and
perseverance.  The   subliminal  that  the  conscious   could  most  easily
comprehend was  hidden in the ice cubes. There  were four ice cubes stacked
one atop the other.  The second cube from the top and the lime slice formed
a  vague letter  S which the  conscious mind  could see when  prompted. The
third cube  held a  very evident letter E  in the area of  light and shadow
that  comprised the  cube  itself. The  fourth chunk  of ice  contained the
subtle but unmistakable outline of the letter X: S-E-X.

Salsbury  had come  around behind  Dawsonâs desk  and had  carefully traced
these   three   letters   with   his   forefinger.   ãDo   you   see   it?ä

Scowling, Dawson  said, ãI saw the E immediately  and the other two without
much trouble.  But Iâm  finding it hard  to believe they were  put there on
purpose. It could be an accident of shading.ä

ãIce  cubes usually donât  photograph well,ä  Salsbury said. ãWhen  you see
them in an advertisement, theyâve nearly always been drawn by an artist. In
fact, this  entire ad has been painted over  a photograph. But thereâs more
than the word in the ice.ä

Squinting at the page, Dawson said, ãWhat else?ä

ãThe bottle  and glass are on a  reflective surface.ä Salsbury circled that
area of the reflection that dealt with the bottle

and the cap. ãWithout stretching your imagination too far, can you see that
the reflection of the bottle is divided in two, forming what might be taken
to  be a  pair of  legs? Do you  see, also,  that the reflected  bottle cap
resembles   a    penis   thrusting   out   from    between   those   legs?ä

Dawson bristled. ãI can see it,ä he said coldly.

Too interested  in his own lecture  to notice Dawsonâs uneasiness, Salsbury
said, ãOf  course, the melting ice  on the bottle cap  could be semen. That
image was  never meant to be entirely  subliminal. The conscious mind might
recognize the  intent here.  But it would  not recognize the  reflection in
that table unless it  was guided to the recognition.ä He pointed to another
spot on  the page. ãWould it be going too far  to say these shadows between
the reflections  of the  bottle and the  glass form vaginal  lips? And that
this  drop of  water on the  table is  positioned on the  shadows precisely
where the clitoris would be on a vagina?ä

When  he  perceived  the  subliminal sex  organ,  its  lips parted,  Dawson
blushed. ãI see it. Or I think I do.ä

Salsbury reached  in his briefcase. ãIâve got  other examples.ä One of them
was a  two-page subscription solicitation that  had appeared shortly before
Christmas  several  years before,  in   Playboy.  On  the right-hand  page,
Playmate Liv  Lindeland, a  busty blonde, knelt  on a white  carpet. On the
left-hand page stood an  enormous walnut wreath. She was tying a red bow to
the top of the wreath.

In one test, Salsbury  explained, a hundred subjects spent an hour studying
two hundred  advertisements, including  this one. When the  hour ended they
were asked to  list the first ten of those  items that they could remember.
Eighty-five percent  listed the Playboy  ad. In describing  it, all but two
subjects mentioned  the wreath. Only five of  them mentioned the girl. When
questioned  further,  they  had  trouble recalling  if  she  was a  blonde,
brunette, or redhead. They  remembered that her breasts were uncovered, but
they couldnât  say for  sure whether she  was wearing a hat  or was clothed
from  the waist  down. (She  had no  hat and  was nude.)  None of  them had
trouble describing the

wreath, for it was there that the subconscious had been riveted.

ãDo you see why?ä Salsbury asked. ãThereâs not a walnut in that Îwalnutâ
wreath. Itâs composed of objects that resemble the heads of penises and
vaginal slits.ä

Unable to speak, Dawson leafed through the other advertisements without
asking Salsbury to explain them. Finally he said, ãCamel cigarettes,
Seagramâs, Sprite, Bacardi Rum Some of the most prominent companies in the
country are using subliminals to sell their products.ä

ãWhy shouldnât they? Itâs  legal. If the competition uses them, what choice
does even  the most morally  uplifted company really have?  Everyone has to
stay  competitive. In short,  there are  no individual villains.  The whole
system is the villain.ä

Dawson returned  to his executive chair,  his face a book  of his thoughts.
One could  read there  that he disliked  any talk against  ãthe systemä and
that  he was nonetheless  shocked by what  he had  been shown. He  was also
trying to  see how  he could make  a profit from  it. He  operated with the
conviction that God wanted him to sit in an executive chair at the pinnacle
of a  billion-dollar corporation;  and he was  certain that the  Lord would
help  him to  see  that, although  subliminal advertising  had a  cheap and
possibly immoral side to  it, there was also an aspect of it that could aid
him in his divine mission. As he saw it, his mission was to pile up profits
for the Lord; when he and Julia were dead, the Dawson holdings would belong
to the church.

Salsbury returned to his  seat in front of the desk. The litter of magazine
pages on the blotter  and bare oak seemed like a collection of pornography.
He felt as if  he had been trying to titillate Dawson. Irrationally, he was
embarrassed.

ãYouâve shown  me that a great deal of creative  effort and money goes into
subliminal  commercials  and  ads,ä  Dawson  said.  ãEvidently,  thereâs  a
generally held theory that subconscious sexual stimulation sells goods. But
does it? Enough to be worth the expense?ä

ãUnquestionably! Psychological studies have proved that most Americans
react to sexual stimuli with subconscious anxiety and tension. So if the
subliminal half of a television commercial for

XYZ  soda  shows a  couple  having intercourse,  the viewerâs  subconscious
starts bubbling with anxiety÷and  that establishes a motivational equation.
On  the left  side  of the  equals sign,  thereâs  anxiety and  tension. To
complete the  equation and cancel  out these bad feelings,  the viewer buys
the  product, a  bottle or  a case  of XYZ.  The equation is  finished, the
blackboard wiped clean.ä

Dawson was surprised. ãThen  he doesnât buy the product because he believes
it will give him a better sex life?ä

ãJust the opposite,ä Salsbury  said. ãHe buys it to escape from sex. The ad
fills him  with desire on a subconscious level,  and by buying that product
he  is able  to satisfy  the desire  without risking  rejection, impotence,
humiliation, or  some other  unsatisfactory experience with a  woman. Or if
the  viewer is a  woman, she buys  the product  to satisfy desire  and thus
avoids an unhappy affair  with a man. For both men and women, the desire is
well  relieved if  the  product has  an oral  aspect.  Like food  or soda.ä

ãOr cigarettes,ä  Dawson said. ãCould that explain  why so many people have
trouble giving up cigarettes?ä

ãNicotine  is   addictive,ä Salsbury  said. ãBut  thereâs no  question that
subliminals  in  cigarette  ads   reinforce  the  habit  in  most  people.ä

Scratching his  square chin, Dawson  said, ãIf these are  so effective, why
donât I smoke? Iâve seen the ads before.ä

ãThe  science hasnât  been  perfected yet,ä  Salsbury said.  ãIf  you think
smoking  is  a  disgusting   habit,  if  youâve  decided  never  to  smoke,
subliminals canât  change your  mind. On the  other hand, if  youâre young,
just entering  the cigarette  market, and have  no real opinions  about the
habit, subliminals  can influence you to pick it up. Or  if you were once a
heavy smoker  but kicked the habit, subliminals  can persuade you to resume
smoking.  Subliminals   also  affect  people  who   have  no  strong  brand
preferences. For example, if  you donât drink gin or donât like to drink at
all, subliminals  in the Gilbeyâs ad  wonât make you run  out to the liquor
store. If you do drink, and if you do like gin, and if you donât care which
brand of  gin you drink, these  ads could establish a  brand preference for
you. They work,

Leonard. Subliminals sell hundreds of millions of dollarsâ worth of goods
every year, a substantial percentage of which the public might never buy if
it were not subliminally manipulated.ä

Dawson said, ãYouâve been working on subliminal perception up there in
Connecticut for the last ten years?ä

ãYes.ä

ãPerfecting the science?ä

ãThatâs correct.ä

ãThe Pentagon sees a weapon in it?ä

ãDefinitely. Donât you see it?ä

Quietly, reverently, Dawson said, ãIf youâve perfected the science . . .
youâre talking about total mind control. Not just behavior modification,
but absolute, ironlike control.ä

For a moment neither of them could speak. ãWhatever youâve discovered,ä
Dawson said, ãyou apparently want to keep it from the Defense Department.
They might call that treason.ä

ãI donât care what they call it,ä Salsbury said sharply. ãWith your money
and my knowledge, we donât need the Defense Department÷or anyone else.
Weâre more powerful than all the worldâs governments combined.ä

Dawson couldnât conceal his excitement. ãWhat is it? What have you got?ä

Salsbury went to the windows and watched the snow spiraling down on the
city. He felt as if he had taken hold of a live wire. A current buzzed
through him. Shaking with it, almost able to imagine that the snowflakes
were sparks exploding from him, feeling himself to be at the vortex of a
God-like power, he told Dawson what he had found and what role Dawson could
play in his scenario of conquest.

Half an hour later, when Ogden finished, Dawson÷who had never before been
humble anywhere but in church÷said, ãDear God.ä He stared at Salsbury as a
devout Catholic might have gazed upon the vision at Fatima. ãOgden, the two
of us are going to÷inherit the earth?ä His face was suddenly split by an
utterly humorless smile.

                                     3

                         Saturday, August 13, 1977

IN  ONE  OF THE  THIRD-FLOOR  GUEST  BEDROOMS of   the  Edison house,  Paul
Annendale arranged  his shaving  gear on top  of the dresser.  From left to
right: a can of  foam, a mug containing a lather brush, a straight razor in
a plastic safety case,  a dispenser full of razor blades, a styptic pencil,
a bottle  of skin  conditioner, and a  bottle of after-shave  lotion. Those
seven items  had been arranged in such an  orderly fashion that they looked
as if  they belonged  in one of  those animated cartoons  in which everyday
items come to life and march around like soldiers.

He turned from the dresser and went to one of the two large windows. In the
distance  the mountains rose  above the  valley walls, majestic  and green,
mottled  by   purple  shadows  from  a   few  passing  clouds.  The  nearer
ridges÷decorated with  stands of pines, scattered  elms, and meadows÷sloped
gently toward the town. On the far side of Main Street, birch trees rustled
in  the breeze.  Men  in short-sleeved  shirts  and women  in crisp  summer
dresses  strolled along  the sidewalk.  The veranda  roof and the  sign for
Edisonâs store were directly below the window.

As his  gaze moved  back and back  from the distant  mountains, Paul became
aware  of his  own  reflection in  the window  glass. At  five ten  and one
hundred fifty  pounds, he  was neither tall  nor short, heavy  nor thin. In
some ways  he looked older than  thirty-eight, and in other  ways he looked
younger. His  Crinkly, almost frizzy light brown hair  was worn full on the

sides but not  long. It was a hair style more suited  to a younger man, but
it looked  good on  him. His eyes  were so blue  that they  might have been
chips of mirrors reflecting  the sky above. The expression of pain and loss
lying beneath the surface brightness of those eyes belonged to a much older
man.  His  features were  narrow,  somewhat  aristocratic; but  a deep  tan
softened the sharp angles of his face and saved him from a haughty look. He
appeared to be a man who would feel at ease both in an elegant drawing room
and in a waterfront bar.

He was  wearing a blue workshirt, blue  jeans, and black square-toed boots;
however, he  did not seem to  be casually dressed. Indeed,  in spite of the
jeans,  there was  an  air of  formality about  his  outfit. He  wore those
clothes better  than most  men wore tuxedos.  The sleeves of  his shirt had
been carefully pressed and creased. His opened collar stood up straight and
stiff, as if it  had been starched. The silvery buckle on his belt had been
carefully polished. Like his shirt, his jeans seemed to have been tailored.
His low-heeled boots shone almost like patent leather.

He had always been  compulsively neat. He couldnât remember a time when his
friends hadnât kidded  him about it. As a child he had  kept his toy box in
better order than his mother had kept the china closet.

Three  and  a half  years  ago,  after Annie  died  and left  him with  the
children, his need for  order and neatness had become almost neurotic. On a
Wednesday afternoon,  ten months after the  funeral, when he caught himself
rearranging  the contents  of a  cabinet in  his veterinary clinic  for the
seventh time  in two  hours, he realized  that his compulsion  for neatness
could become  a refuge  from life and  especially from grief.  Alone in the
clinic,  standing   before  an  array   of  instruments÷forceps,  syringes,
scalpels÷he cried for the first time since he learned Annie was dead. Under
the misguided  belief that  he had to  hide his grief from  the children in
order to provide them  with an example of strength, he had never given vent
to the  powerful emotions that the loss of his  wife had engendered. Now he
cried, shook, and raged at the cruelty of it. He rarely used foul language,
but   now   he   strung   together  all   the   vile   words  and   phrases

that he knew, cursing God and the universe and life÷and himself. After
that, his compulsive neatness ceased to be a neurosis and became, again,
just another facet of his character, which frustrated some people and
charmed others.

Someone knocked on the bedroom door.

He turned away from the window. ãCome in.ä

Rya opened the door. ãItâs seven oâclock, Daddy. Suppertime.ä

In faded red jeans and a short-sleeved white sweater, with her dark hair
falling past her shoulders, she looked startlingly like her mother. She
tilted her head to one side, just as Annie use to do, as if trying to guess
what he was thinking.

ãIs Mark ready?ä

ãOh,ä she said, ãhe was ready an hour ago. Heâs in the kitchen, getting in
Samâs way.ä

ãThen weâd better get down there. Knowing Markâs appetite, Iâd say he has
half the food eaten already.ä

As he came toward her, she stepped back a pace. ãYou look absolutely
marvelous, Daddy.ä

He smiled at her and lightly pinched her cheek. If she had been
complimenting Mark, she would have said that he looked ãsuper,ä but she
wanted him to know that she was judging him by grown-up standards, and she
had used grown-up language.

ãYou really think so?ä he asked.

ãJenny wonât be able to resist you,ä she said.

He made a face at her.

ãItâs true,ä Rya said.

ãWhat makes you think I care whether or not Jenny can resist me?ä

Her expression said he should stop treating her as a child. ãWhen Jenny
came down to Boston in March, you were altogether different.ä

ãDifferent from what?ä

ãDifferent from the way you usually are. For two whole weeks,ä she said,
ãwhen you came home from the clinic, you didnât once grump about sick
poodles and Siamese cats.ä

ãWell,  thatâs because  the only patients  I had  for those two  weeks were
elephants and giraffes.ä

ãOh, daddy.ä

ãAnd a pregnant kangaroo.ä

Rya  sat   on  the  bed.  ãAre  you  going  to   ask  her  to  marry  you?ä

ãThe kangaroo?ä

She grinned,  partly at  the joke and  partly at the  way he  was trying to
evade the  question. ãIâm not sure  Iâd like a kangaroo  for a mother,ä she
said. ãBut if  the baby is yours, youâre going to have  to marry her if you
want to do the right thing.ä

ãI swear  itâs not  mine,ä he said.  ãIâm not romantically  inclined toward
kangaroos.ä

ãToward Jenny?ä she asked.

ãWhether or  nor Iâm  attracted to her,  the important question  is whether
Jenny likes me.ä

ãYou  donât  know?ä Rya  asked.  ãWell  .  .  .  Iâll  find  out for  you.ä

Teasing her, he said, ãHow will you do that?ä

ãAsk her.ä

ãAnd make me look like Miles Standish?ä

ãOh, no,ä she said.  ãIâll be subtle about it.ä She got up from the bed and
went to the door.  ãMark must have eaten three-fourths of the food by now.ä

ãRya?ä

She looked back at him.

ãDo you like Jenny?ä

She grinned. ãOh, very much.ä

For seven  years, since Mark was two and Rya  four, the Annendales had been
taking  their summer  vacation  in the  mountains above  Black  River. Paul
wanted to communicate to  his children his own love of wild places and wild
things. During these four-  and six-week vacations, he educated them in the
ways of nature so that they might know the satisfaction of being in harmony
with  it. This  was a  joyous education,  and they  looked forward  to each
outing.

The   year   that   Annie   died,  he   almost   canceled   the  trip.   At

first it  had seemed  to him that  going without her would  only make their
loss more  evident. Rya  had convinced him  otherwise. ãItâs like  Mommy is
still in this house,ä  Rya had said. ãWhen I go from one room to another, I
expect to find her  there, all pale and drawn like she was near the end. If
we go  camping up beyond Black River, I guess maybe  Iâll expect to see her
in the  woods too, but at  least I wonât expect to  see her pale and drawn.
When we  went to  Black River, she was  so pretty and healthy.  And she was
always so happy when  we were out in the forest.ä Because of Rya, they took
their vacation as usual  that year, and it proved to be the best thing they
could have done.

The first  year that  he and Annie  took the children to  Black River, they
bought their dry goods and supplies at Edisonâs General Store. Mark and Rya
had fallen  in love  with Sam Edison the  day they met him.  Annie and Paul
came  under his  spell nearly  as quickly.  By the  end of  their four-week
vacation,  they had  come down from  the mountain  twice to have  dinner at
Edisonâs, and  when they left for  home they had promised  to keep in touch
with an occasional letter. The following year, Sam told them that they were
not to go up  into the mountains to set up camp after the long tiring drive
from Boston. Instead, he insisted they spend the night at his place and get
a fresh  start in the morning. That  first-night stop-over had become their
yearly routine. By now  Sam was like a grandfather to Rya and Mark. For the
past two years, Paul had brought the children north to spend Christmas week
at Edisonâs.

Paul had met Jenny Edison just last year. Of course, Sam fiad mentioned his
daughter many times. She  had gone to Columbia and majored in music. In her
senior year  she married  a musician and  moved to California  where he was
playing in a band. But after more than seven years, the marriage had turned
sour, and  she had come home  to get her wits about  her and to decide what
she wanted  to do  next. As proud  a father as  he had been,  Sam had never
shown pictures  of her. That was  not his style. On  his first day in Black
River last year, walking into Edisonâs where she was waiting on children at
the candy

counter÷and catching sight of  her÷Paul had for a moment been unable to get
his breath.

It happened  that quickly between them. Not  love at first sight. Something
more fundamental  than love. Something  more basic that had  to come first,
before love  could develop. Instinctively, intuitively,  even though he had
been certain  there could be no one after Annie, he  had known that she was
right  for  him. Jenny  felt  the attraction  too, powerfully,  immediately

÷but almost unwillingly.

If he had told  all of this to Rya, she would have said, ãSo why arenât you
married?ä If life were only that simple .

After dinner, while Sam  and the children washed the dishes, Paul and Jenny
retired to  the den. They propped their feet  up on an antique woodcarverâs
bench, and he put  his arm around her shoulder. Their conversation had been
free  and easy  at the  table, but  now it  was stilted.  She was  hard and
angular under  his arm, tense. Twice, he leaned  over and kissed her gently
on the  corner of  the mouth, but  she remained stiff and  cool. He decided
that she  was inhibited by the  possibility that Rya or  Mark or her father
might walk into the room at any moment, and he suggested they take a drive.

ãI donât know . .

He  stood  up. ãCome  on.  Some  fresh night  air  will be  good for  you.ä

Outside, the night was chilly. As they got in the car, she said, ãWe almost
need the heater.ä

ãNot at all,ä he said. ãJust snuggle up and share body heat.ä He grinned at
her. ãWhere to?ä

ãI know a nice quiet little bar in Bexford.ä

ãI thought we were staying out of public places?ä

ãThey donât have the flu in Bexford," she said.

ãThey donât? Itâs only thirty miles down the road.ä

She  shrugged.  ãThatâs  just  one  of  the curiosities  of  this  plague.ä

He put  the car in gear  and drove out into the street.  ãSo be it. A quiet
little bar in Bexford.ä

She found an all-night  Canadian radio station playing American swing music
from the 1940s. ãNo  more talk for a while,ä she said. She sat close to him
with her head against his shoulder.

The  drive from  Black  River to  Bexford was  a  pleasant one.  The narrow
black-top road rose and  fell and twisted gracefully through the lightless,
leafy countryside.  For miles at  a time, trees arched  across the roadway,
forming a  tunnel of cool night  air. After a while,  in spite of the Benny
Goodman  music,  Paul felt  that  they  were the  only  two  people in  the
world÷and that was a surprisingly agreeable thought.

She was  even lovelier  than the mountain  night, and as  mysterious in her
silence as some of  the deep, unsettled northern hollows through which they
passed. For such a  slender woman, she had great presence. She took up very
little  space on  the  seat, and  yet she  seemed to  dominate the  car and
overwhelm him. Her eyes,  so large and dark, were closed, yet he felt as if
she were watching him. Her face÷too beautiful to appear in Vogue: she would
have made the other  models in the magazine look like horses÷was in repose.
Her full  lips were slightly parted as she sang  softly with the music; and
this bit  of animation,  this parting of  the lips had  more sensual impact
than  a heavy-eyed, full-faced  leer from  Elizabeth Taylor. As  she leaned
against him, her dark  hair fanned across his shoulder, and her scent÷clean
and soapy÷rose to him.

In Bexford, he parked across the street from the tavern.

She switched off the radio and kissed him once, quickly, as a sister might.
ãYouâre a nice man.ä

ãWhat did I do?ä

ãI didnât want to talk, and you didnât make me.ä

ãIt wasnât  any hardship,ä he  said. ãYou and me.  . .  we communicate with
silence as well as with words. Hadnât you noticed?ä

She smiled. ãIâve noticed.ä

ãBut maybe you donât  put enough value on that. Not as much as you should.ä

ãI put a great deal of value on it,ä she said.

ãJenny, what we have is÷ä

She put  one hand on his lips. ãI didnât mean  for the conversation to take
such a serious turn,ä she said.

ãBut  I think  we  should talk  seriously.  Weâre long  overdue for  that.ä

ãNo,ä she said. ãI  donât want to talk about us, not seriously. And because
youâre such  a nice  man, youâre going to  do what I want.ä  She kissed him
again, opened her door, and got out of the car.

The  tavern was  a  warm, cozy  place. There  was  a rustic  bar  along the
left-hand wall,  about fifteen tables in the center of  the room, and a row
of maroon  leatherette booths along the right  wall. The shelves behind the
bar were lit with  soft blue bulbs. Each of the tables in the center of the
room  held  a  tall  candle  in  a  red  glass lantern,  and  an  imitation
stained-glass Tiffany  lamp hung over  each of the booths.  The jukebox was
playing a soulful country ballad by Charlie Rich. The bartender, a heavyset
man with a walrus  mustache, joked continuously with the customers. Without
trying for  it, without  being aware of  it, he sounded like  W. C. Fields.
There were  four men  at the bar, half  a dozen couples at  the tables, and
other couples  in the  booths. The last  booth was open, and  they took it.

When they  had ordered  and received their  drinks from a  perky red-headed
waitress÷Scotch for  him and  a dry vodka  martini for her÷Paul  said, ãWhy
donât you  come up and spend  a few days with us at  camp? We have an extra
sleeping bag.ä

ãIâd like that,ä she said.

ãWhen?ä

ãMaybe next week.ä

ãIâll tell the kids.  Once theyâre expecting you, you wonât be able to back
out of it.ä

She laughed. ãThose two are something else,ä she said.

ãHow true.ä

ãDo you  know what Rya said  to me when she was  helping me pour the coffee
after dinner?ä Jenny took  a sip of her drink. ãShe asked if I had divorced
my first husband because he was a lousy lover.ä

ãOh, no! She didnât really.ä

ãOh, yes, she did.ä

ãI   know   that   girlâs   only   eleven.   But   sometimes   I   wonder..

ãReincarnation?ä Jenny asked.

ãMaybe thatâs it.  Sheâs only eleven years old in this  life, but maybe she
lived  to be  seventy in  another life. What  did you  say to her  when she
asked?ä

Jenny shook  her head as if  she were amazed at  her gullibility. Her black
hair swung away from her face. ãWell, when she saw that I was about to tell
her it was none of her business whether or not my first husband was a lousy
lover, she  told me I mustnât  be cross with her.  She said she wasnât just
being nosy. She said she was just a growing girl, a bit mature for her age,
who  had  a  perfectly  understandable  curiosity about  adults,  love  and
marriage. Then she really began to con me.ä

Paul grimaced. ãI can  tell you the line she used: Poor little orphan girl.
Confused by  her own  pubescence. Bewildered by  a new set  of emotions and
body chemistry.ä

ãSo sheâs used it on you.ä

ãMany times.ä

ãAnd you fell for it?ä

ãEveryone falls for it.ä

ãI  sure did.  I  felt so  sorry for  her.  She had  a  hundred questions÷ä

ãAll of them intimate,ä Paul said.

ã÷and I  answered all of them. And then I  found out the whole conversation
was  meant to  lead up  to one line.  After she  had learned more  about my
husband than  she could  ever want to  know, she told  me that  she and her
mother had  had long  talks a year  or so before  Annie died,  and that her
mother told her you were just a fantastic lover.ä

Paul groaned.

ãI said  to her, ÎRya, I believe youâre trying to  sell your father to me.â
She  got indignant and  said that was  a terrible  thing to think.  I said,
ÎWell, I  canât believe that your mother ever said  anything of the sort to
you. How  old would  you have been  then? Six?â And she  said, ÎSix, thatâs
right.  But  even  when  I  was  six,  I  was  very mature  for  my  age.âä

\Vhen he was done laughing, Paul said, ãWell, you canât

blame her. Sheâs only playing the matchmaker because she likes you. So does
Mark.ä  He leaned  toward her and  lowered his  voice slightly. ãSo  do I.ä

She looked down at  her drink. ãRead any good books lately?ä He stirred his
Scotch  and sighed. ãSince  Iâm such a  nice man,  Iâm supposed to  let you
change the subject that easily.ä

ãThatâs right.ä

Jenny Leigh Edison distrusted  romance and feared marriage. Her ex-husband,
whose name  she had  gladly surrendered, was  one of those  men who despise
education, work, and sacrifice, but who nonetheless think they deserve fame
and fortune. Because, year  after year, he achieved neither goal, he needed
some excuse  for failure. She made a good one. He  said he hadnât been able
to put  together a successful band  because of her. He  hadnât been able to
get  a recording  contract with  a major  company because  of her.  She was
holding him back, he said. She was getting in his way, he said. After seven
years of  supporting him by playing  cocktail-bar piano, she suggested that
they would  both be  happier if the  marriage were dissolved.  At first, he
accused her  of deserting  him, and then  he threatened to kill  her if she
left. She divorced him.  ãLove and romance arenât enough to make a marriage
work,ä  she  had once  told  Paul.  ãYou need  something  else. Maybe  itâs
respect. Until  I do know what  it is, Iâm in  no hurry to get  back to the
altar.ä

Like the  nice man that he was, he had changed  the subject at her request.
They  were talking about  music when Bob  and Emma  Thorp came over  to the
booth and said hello.

Bob  Thorp  was  chief  of  the  four-man  police  force  in  Black  River.
Ordinarily,  a town  so  small would  have boasted  no  more than  a single
constable. But in Black River, more than a constable was needed to maintain
order  when  the logging  camp  men  came into  town  for some  relaxation;
therefore, Big Union Supply  Company paid for the four-man force. Bob was a
six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound ex-MP with  martial arts training. With his
square face, deep-set eyes,  and low forehead, he looked both dangerous and
dim-witted.  He could  be dangerous,  but he  was not  stupid. He  wrote an
amusing  column for  Black  Riverâs weekly  newspaper, and  the  quality of
thought and  language in those pieces  would have been a  credit to any big
city  newspaper's editorial  page. This  combination of brute  strength and
unexpected  intelligence made Bob  a match  even for lumbermen  much bigger
than he was.

At thirty-five Emma Thorp was still the prettiest woman in Black River. She
was a green-eyed blonde  with a spectacular figure, a combination of beauty
and  sex appeal  that had  gotten her  into the  finals of the  Miss U.S.A.
Contest ten years ago. That achievement made her Black Riverâs only genuine
celebrity. Her son, Jeremy,  was the same age as Mark. Jeremy stayed at the
Annendale camp for a few days every year. Mark valued him as a playmate÷but
valued him more because  his mother was Emma. Mark was deeply in puppy love
with Emma and mooned around her every chance he got.

ãAre you here on vacation?ä Bob asked.

ãJust got in this afternoon.ä

Jenny said,  ãWeâd ask you to sit down, but Paulâs  trying to keep an armâs
length from everyone who has the flu. If he picked it up, heâd just pass it
on to the kids.ä

ãItâs nothing serious,ä Bob said. ãNot the flu, really. Just night chills.ä

ãMaybe  you can  live with them,ä  Emma said.  ãBut I think  theyâre pretty
serious.  I havenât  had  a good  sleep all  week.  They arenât  just night
chills. I  tried to  take a nap this  afternoon, and I woke  up shaking and
sweating.ä

Paul said, ãYou both look very good.ä

ãI tell you,ä Bob said, ãitâs nothing serious. Night chills. My grandmother
used to complain of them.ä

ãYour  grandmother complained  of  everything,ä Emma  said. ãNight  chills,
rheumatiz, the ague, hot flashes . .

Paul  hesitated, smiled, and  said, ãOh hell,  sit down.  Let me buy  you a
drink.ä

Glancing at his watch,  Bob said, ãThanks, but we really canât. They have a
poker game  in the back room here every Saturday  night. Emma and I usually
play. Theyâre expecting us.ä

ãYou play, Emma?ä Jenny asked.

ãBetter than Bob does,ä Emma said. ãLast time, he lost fifteen dollars, and
I won thirty-two.ä

Bob grinned  at his  wife and said, ãTell  the truth now. Itâs  not so much
skill.  Itâs just  that when youâre  playing, most  of the men  donât spend
enough time looking at their cards.ä

Emma touched  the low-cut  neckline of her  sweater. ãWell, bluffing  is an
important part  of good poker playing. If the damn  fools can be bluffed by
some   cleavage,  then   they   just  donât   play  as   well  as   I  do.ä

On the  way home,  ten miles out of  Bexford, Paul started to  turn off the
blacktop  road onto  a scenic  overlook that  was a favorite  loversâ lane.

ãPlease, donât stop,ä Jenny said.

ãWhy not?ä

ãI want you.ä

He put  the car in park,  half on the road, half off.  ãAnd thatâs a reason
not to stop?ä

She avoided  looking at  him. ãI want you,  but you arenât the  kind of man
that can  be satisfied with just the sex. You  want something more from me.
Itâs got to be  a deeper commitment with you÷love, emotion, caring. Iâm not
up to that part of it.ä

Cupping her  chin in his hand, he gently turned her  face to him. ãWhen you
were  down to  Boston in March,  you were  very changeable. One  moment you
thought  we could  make it  together, and  the next  moment you  thought we
couldnât.  But then,  the last  few days,  just before  you went  home, you
seemed to  have made  up your mind.  You said that  we were  right for each
other, that  you just  needed a little  more time.ä He had  proposed to her
last Christmas. Ever since,  in bed and out, he had been trying to convince
her that they were two halves of an organism, that neither of them could be
whole without  the other.  In March, he  thought he had  made some headway.
ãNow,ä he said, ãyouâve changed your mind again.ä

She  took his  hand from her  chin, and kissed  the palm.  ãIâve got to  be
sure.ä

ãIâm not like your husband,ä he said.

ãI know youâre not. Youâre a÷ä

ãVery nice man?ä he asked.

ãI need more time.ä

ãHow much more?ä

ãI donât know.ä

He studied her  for a moment, then put the car in  gear and drove back onto
the blacktop. He switched on the radio.

A few minutes later she said, ãAre you angry?ä

ãNo. Just disappointed.ä

ãYouâre too positive about  us,ä she said. ãYou should be more careful. You
should have some doubts like I do.ä

ãI   have   no  doubts,ä   he   said.   ãWeâre  right   for  each   other.ä

ãBut you should  have doubts,ä she said. ãFor instance, doesnât it seem odd
to you  that Iâm such a physical match for your  first wife, for Annie? She
was the same build as I am, the same size. She had the same color hair, the
same eyes. Iâve seen those photographs of her.ä

He  was a  little upset  by that. ãDo  you think  Iâve fallen for  you only
because you remind me of her?ä

ãYou loved her a great deal.ä

ãThat has nothing to  do with us. I just like sexy, dark women.ä He smiled,
trying to  make a joke of it÷both to convince her  and to stop himself from
wondering if she was at least partly right.

She said, ãMaybe.ä

ãDammit,  thereâs no  maybe about it.  I love  you because youâre  you, not
because youâre like anyone else.ä

They rode in silence.

The eyes  of several deer glittered  in the brush at  the side of the road.
When the  car passed, the herd moved. Paul caught a  glimpse of them in the
rearview  mirror÷graceful, ghostly  figures÷as  they crossed  the pavement.

At last  Jenny said, ãYouâre so  sure weâre meant for  each other. Maybe we
are÷under the right circumstances.  But Paul, all Weâve ever shared is good
times. Weâve  never known adversity together.  Weâve never shared a painful
experience. Marriage is

full of big and little crises. My husband and I were fairly good together
too, until the crises came. Then we were at each otherâs throats. I just
canât . . . I wonât gamble my future on a relationship that has never been
tested with hard times.ä

ãShould I start praying for sickness, financial ruin, and bad luck?ä

She sighed and leaned against him. ãYou make me sound foolish.ä

ãI donât mean to.ä

ãI know.ä

Back in Black River, they shared one kiss and went to separate rooms to lie
awake most of the night.

                                     4

                        Twenty-eight Months Earlier:

                          Saturday, April 12, 1975



THE HELICOPTER÷A PLUSH, luxuriously  appointed Bell JetRanger TI÷chopped up
the dry  Nevada air  and flung it  down at the  Las Vegas  Strip. The pilot
gingerly approached  the landing  pad on the  roof of the  Fortunata Hotel,
hovered  over  the red  target  circle for  a  moment, then  put down  with
consummate skill.

As the rotors stopped  churning overhead, Ogden Salsbury slid open his door
and stepped out onto  the hotel roof. For a few seconds he was disoriented.
The cabin of the  JetRanger had been air-conditioned. Out here, the air was
like a parching gust from a furnace. A Frank Sinatra album was playing on a
stereo,  blasting  forth  from  speakers mounted  on  six-foot-high  poles.
Sunlight  reflected  from the  rippling  water  in the  roof-top pool,  and
Salsbury was partially blinded  in spite of his sunglasses. Somehow, he had
expected the roof to  bobble and sway under him as the helicopter had done;
and when it did not, he staggered slightly.

The  swimming pool  and  the glass-walled  recreation room  beside  it were
adjuncts  of  the  enormous   thirtieth-floor  presidential  suite  of  the
Fortunata Hotel. This afternoon there were only two people using it: a pair
of voluptuous young women in skimpy white string bikinis. They were sitting
on the  edge of  the pool, near  the deep end,  dangling their  legs in the
water.

A squat, powerfully built man in gray slacks and a short-sleeved white silk
shirt: was  hunkered down beside them,  talking to them. All  three had the
perfect  nonchalance that, Ogden  thought, came  only with power  or money.
They  appeared not  even  to have  noticed the  arrival of  the helicopter.

Salsbury crossed the roof to them. ãGeneral Klinger?ä

The squat man looked up at him.

The  girls didnât seem  to know that  he existed.  The blonde had  begun to
lather the  brunette with tanning  lotion. Her hands lingered  on the other
girlâs calves and knees,  then inched lovingly along her taut brown thighs.
Obviously, they were more than just good friends.

ãMy nameâs Salsbury.ä

Klinger stood  up. He didnât offer to shake  hands. ãIâve got one suitcase.
Be with you in a minute.ä He walked back toward the glass-walled recreation
room.

Salsbury stared  at the girls. They had the  longest, loveliest legs he had
ever  seen.  He cleared  his  throat and  said,  ãIâll bet  youâre in  show
business.ä

Neither of  them looked  at him. The  blonde squeezed lotion  into her left
hand and  massaged the swelling  tops of the brunette's  large breasts. Her
fingers trailed  under the  bikini bra, flicked across  the hidden nipples.

Salsbury felt  like a fool÷as he always had  around beautiful women. He was
certain that they were  making fun of him. You stinking bitches! he thought
viciously. Some  day Iâll  have any of you  I want. Some day  Iâll tell you
what I want, and  youâll do it, and youâll love it because Iâll tell you to
love it.

Klinger  returned,   carrying  one   large  suitcase.  He  had   put  on  a
two-hundred-dollar, blue-and-gray-plaid sport coat.

Looks  like  a gorilla  dressed  up  for a  circus  act, Salsbury  thought.

In the passengersâ compartment  of the helicopter, as they lifted away from
the  roof, Klinger  pressed his face  to the  window and watched  the girls
dwindle into  sexless specks. Then he  sighed and sat back  and said, ãYour
boss knows how to arrange a manâs vacation.ä

Salsbury blinked in confusion. ãMy boss?ä

Glancing at him, Klinger  said, ãDawson.ä He took a packet of cheroots from
an inside  coat pocket.  He fished one  out and lit it  for himself without
offering  one to  Salsbury.  ãWhat did  you  think of  Crystal and  Daisy?ä

Salsbury took off his sunglasses. ãWhat?ä

ãCrystal and Daisy. The girls at the pool.ä

ãNice. Very nice.ä

Pausing for  a long drag of  his cheroot, Klinger blew  out smoke and said,
ãYou wouldnât believe what those girls can do.ä

ãI thought they were dancers,ä Salsbury said.

Klinger  looked at  him disbelievingly,  and then  threw back his  head and
laughed. ãOh,  they are! They dance  their little asses off  every night in
the  Fortunataâs main  showroom. But  theyâve also  been performing  in the
penthouse  suite.  And let  me  tell you,  dancing  is the  least of  their
talents.ä

Salsbury was  perspiring even though the cabin of  the Jet-Ranger was cool.
Women  . .  . He feared  them÷and wanted them desperately.  To Dawson, mind
control  meant unlimited  wealth,  a financial  stranglehold on  the entire
world.  To Klinger it  might mean  unrestricted power, the  satisfaction of
unquestioned command.  But to Salsbury, it meant having  sex as often as he
wanted it,  in as  many ways as  he wanted it,  with any  woman he desired.

Blowing  smoke at  the cabin  ceiling, Klinger  said, ãIâll bet  youâd like
having  those two in  your bed, shoving  it in  them, one after  the other.
Would you like that?ä

ãWho wouldnât?ä

ãTheyâre hard  on a man,ä Klinger  said, chuckling. ãTakes a  man with real
stamina to  keep them  happy. You think you  could handle both Crystal  and
Daisy?ä

ãI could give it a good try.ä

Klinger laughed loudly.

Salsbury hated him for that.

This  crude  bastard was  nothing  more  than an  influence peddler,  Ogden
thought. He could be bought÷and his price was cheap. In one way or another,
he helped Futurex International

in its competitive bidding  for Pentagon contracts. In return, he took free
vacations in Las Vegas, and some sort of stipend was paid into a Swiss bank
account. There  was only one element of  this arrangement that Salsbury was
unable to  reconcile with Leonard Dawsonâs  personal philosophy. He said to
Klinger:

ãDoes Leonard pay for the girls too?ä

ãWell, I  donât. Iâve never had to pay for it.ä He stared hard at Salsbury,
until he was convinced that the scientist believed him. ãThe hotel picks up
the  tab. Thatâs  one  of Futurexâs  subsidiaries. But  both Leonard  and I
pretend he doesnât know  about the girls. Whenever he asks me how I enjoyed
a vacation, he acts  as if all Iâve done is sit around the pool, by myself,
reading  the  latest books.ä  He  was  amused. He  sucked  on his  cheroot.
ãLeonard  is  a Puritan,  but  he knows  better  than to  let his  personal
feelings interfere  with business.ä He  shook his head. ãYour  boss is some
man.ä

ãHeâs not my boss,ä Salsbury said.

Klinger didnât seem to have heard him.

ãLeonard  and I  are partners,ä  Salsbury said.  Klinger looked him  up and
down. ãPartners.ä ãThatâs right.ä

Their eyes met.

Reluctantly, after a few seconds, Salsbury looked away.

ãPartners,ä Klinger said. He didnât believe it.

We  are  partners, Salsbury  thought. Dawson  may own this  helicopter, the
Fortunata Hotel,  Crystal, Daisy,  and you. But  he doesnât own  me, and he
never will. Never.

At  the Las  Vegas airport,  the helicopter  put down  thirty yards  from a
dazzling,  white  Grumman Gulf  Stream  jet.  Red letters  on the  fuselage
spelled FUTUREX INTERNATIONAL.

Fifteen  minutes later  they were  airborne, on  their way to  an exclusive
landing strip near Lake Tahoe.

Klinger unbuckled his seat belt and said, ãI understand youâre to give me a
briefing.ä

ãThatâs right.  Weâve got  two hours for  it.ä He put his  briefcase on his
lap. ãHave you ever heard of subliminal÷ä

ãBefore we get going, Iâd like a Scotch on the rocks.ä

ãI believe thereâs a bar aboard.ä ãFine. Just fine.ä

ãItâs back there.ä Salsbury gestured over his shoulder.

Klinger said,  ãMake mine  four ounces of  Scotch and four ice  cubes in an
eight-ounce glass.ä

At first Salsbury gazed  at him uncomprehendingly. Then he got it: generals
didnât  mix their  own drinks.  Donât let  him intimidate you,  he thought.
Against his  will, however, he  found himself getting up  and moving toward
the back  of the plane. It  was as if he  were not in control  of his body.
When  he   returned  with  the  drink,   Klinger  didnât  even  thank  him.

ãYou say youâre one of Leonardâs partners?ä

Salsbury realized  that, by acting more like a waiter  than like a host, he
had only  reinforced the  generalâs conviction that the  word ãpartnerä did
not fit him. The bastard had been testing him.

He began  to wonder if Dawson  and Klinger were too much  for him. Was he a
bantam in  a ring with heavyweights?  He might be setting  himself up for a
knockout punch.

He quickly dismissed that thought. Without Dawson and the general, he could
not keep  his discoveries from the government,  which had financed them and
owned them  and would be jealous  of them if it  knew that they existed. He
had no choice but to associate with these people; and he knew he would have
to be  cautious, suspicious, and watchful. But a man  could safely make his
bed with the devil  so long as he slept with a loaded gun under his pillow.

Couldnât he?

Pine House, the twenty-five-room Dawson mansion that overlooked Lake Tahoe,
Nevada, had  won two design awards  for its architect and  been featured in
House Beautiful. It stood at the waterâs edge on a five-acre estate, with a
backdrop of  more than  one hundred towering  pine trees; and  it seemed to
rise naturally from the  landscape rather than intrude upon it, even though
its lines were quite  modern. The first level was large, circular, of stone
and without windows. The second story÷a

circle the  same size as but not concentric to the  first level÷ was a step
up from  the ground floor. Lakeside,  at the back of  the house, the second
story overhung the first,  sheltering a small boat dock; and here there was
a twelve-foot-long window that provided a magnificent view of the water and
the  distant pine-covered  slopes.  The dome-shaped,  black slate  roof was
crowned with a slender, needlelike eight-foot spire.

When he first saw the place, Salsbury thought that it was a cousin to those
futuristic  churches  that  had  been  rising in  wealthy  and  progressive
parishes over the last ten or fifteen years. Without a thought for tact, he
had said as much÷and  Leonard had taken the comment as a compliment. Having
been  refamiliarized with  his  hostâs eccentricities  during their  weekly
meetings  over the  past three  months, Ogden  was fairly certain  that the
house was supposed  to resemble a church, that Dawson meant  for it to be a
temple, a holy monument to wealth and power.

Pine House  had cost  nearly as much  as a church:  one and  a half million
dollars, including the price  of the land. Nevertheless, it was only one of
five houses and three  large apartments that Dawson and his wife maintained
in the United States, Jamaica, England, and Europe.

After dinner  the three men reclined  in easy chairs in  the living room, a
few feet  from the  picture window. Tahoe,  one of the  highest and deepest
lakes in the world, shimmered with light and shadow as the last rays of the
sun,  already gone  behind  the mountains,  drained  from the  sky. In  the
morning the  water had a clear, greenish cast. By  afternoon it was a pure,
crystalline blue. Now,  soon to be as black as a vast  spill of oil, it was
like purple  velvet folded  softly against the  shoreline. For five  or ten
minutes they enjoyed the view, speaking only to remark on the meal they had
just finished and on the brandy they were sipping.

At last Dawson turned to the general and said, ãErnst, what do you think of
subliminal advertising?ä

The general had anticipated  this abrupt shift from relaxation to business.
ãFascinating stuff.ä

ãYou have no doubts?ä

ãThat it exists? None whatsoever. Your man here has the

proof. But  he didnât  explain what subliminal  advertising has to  do with
me.ä

Sipping brandy,  savoring it,  Dawson nodded toward  Salsbury. Putting down
his own drink, angry  with Klinger for referring to him as Dawsonâs man and
angry with Dawson for  not correcting the general, reminding himself not to
address Klinger  by his  military title, Ogden  said, ãErnst, we  never met
until  this morning.  Iâve never  told you  where  I work÷but Iâm  sure you
know.ä

ãThe    Brockert    Institute,ä    Klinger    said   without    hesitation.

General  Ernst  Klinger supervised  a  division of  the Pentagonâs  vitally
important Department of Security for Weapons Research. His authority within
the  department extended to  the states  of Ohio, West  Virginia, Virginia,
Maryland,  Delaware,  Pennsylvania,  New  Jersey,  New  York,  Connecticut,
Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Vermont,  New Hampshire, and Maine. It was his
responsibility  to  choose,  oversee  the installation  of,  and  regularly
inspect  the   traditional  and  electronic  systems   that  protected  all
laboratories,  factories,  and  test   sites  where  weapons  research  was
conducted within  those fourteen states. Several  laboratories belonging to
Creative  Development  Associates,   including  the  Brockert  facility  in
Connecticut,  came under  his  jurisdiction; and  Salsbury would  have been
surprised if the general  had not known the name of the scientist in charge
of the work at Brockert.

ãDo you  know what  sort of research  weâre conducting up  there?ä Salsbury
asked.

ãIâm responsible for the security, not the research,ä Klinger said. ãI only
know  what I  need to  know. Like  the backgrounds  of the people  who work
there,  the layout  of  the buildings,  and the  nature of  the surrounding
countryside. I donât need to know about your work.ä

ãIt has to do with subliminals.ä

Stiffening as  if he had sensed  stealthy movement behind him,  Some of the
brandy-inspired  color  seeping from  his  face, Klinger  said, ãI  believe
youâve  signed   a  secrecy   pledge  like  everyone   else  at  Brockert.ä

ãYes, I have.ä

ãYou just now violated it.ä

ãI am aware of that.ä

ãAre  you  aware  of  the  penalty?ä  ãYes.  But  Iâll  never  suffer  it.ä

ãYouâre sure of yourself, arenât you?ä

ãDamned sure,ä Salsbury said.

ãIt makes no difference,  you know, that Iâm a general in the United States
Army or  that Leonard is a  loyal and trusted citizen.  Youâve still broken
the  pledge. Maybe  they canât put  you away  for treason when  youâve only
talked to the likes  of us÷ but they can at  least give you eighteen months
for   declassifying  information   without   the  authority   to  do   so.ä

Salsbury glanced at Dawson.

Leaning forward in his  chair, Dawson patted the generalâs knee. ãLet Ogden
finish.ä

Klinger said, ãThis could be a setup.ä

ãA what?ä

ãA setup. A trap.ä

ãTo get you?ä Dawson asked.

ãCould be.ä

ãWhy would I want to set you up?ä Dawson asked. He seemed genuinely hurt by
the suggestion.

In spite  of the  fact, Salsbury thought,  that he has probably  set up and
destroyed hundreds of men over the last thirty years.

Klinger  seemed to  be thinking  the same  thing, although he  shrugged and
pretended that he had no answer to Dawsonâs question.

ãThatâs not the way  I operate,ä Dawson said, either unable or unwilling to
conceal his bruised pride.  ãYou know me better than that. My whole career,
my whole life, is based on Christian principles.ä

ãI donât know anyone  well enough to risk a charge of treason,ä the general
said gruffly.

Feigning exasperation÷it  was a  bit too obvious  to be real÷  Dawson said,
ãOld  friend, weâve  made a  great deal  of money  together. But all  of it
amounts  to pocket  change when  compared to  the money  we can make  if we
cooperate with Ogden.

There is literally unlimited wealth here÷for all of us.ä He watched the
general for a moment, and when he could get no reaction he said, ãErnst, I
have never misled you. Never. Not once.ä

Unconvinced, Klinger said, ãAll you ever did before was pay me for advice÷ä

ãFor your influence.ä

ãFor my advice,ä Klinger insisted. ãAnd even if I did sell my
influence÷which I didnât÷thatâs a long way from treason.ä

They stared at each other.

Salsbury felt as if he were not in the room with them, as if he were
watching them from the eyepiece of a mile-long telescope.

With less of an edge to his voice than there had been a minute ago, Klinger
finally said, ãLeonard, I suppose you realize that I could be setting you
up.ä

ãOf course.ä

ãI could agree to hear your man out, listen to everything he has to
say÷only to get evidence against you and him.ä

ãString us along.ä

ãGive you enough rope to hang yourselves,ä Klinger said. ãI only warn you
because youâre a friend. I like you. I donât want to see you in trouble.ä

Dawson settled back in his chair. ãWell, Iâve an offer to make you, and I
need your cooperation. So Iâll just have to take that risk, wonât I?ä

ãThatâs your choice.ä

Smiling, apparently pleased with the general, Dawson raised his brandy
glass and silently proposed a toast.

Grinning broadly, Klinger raised his own glass.

What in the hell is going on here? Salsbury wondered.

When he had sniffed and sipped his brandy, Dawson looked at Salsbury for
the first time in several minutes and said, ãYou may proceed, Ogden.ä

Suddenly, Salsbury grasped the underlying purpose of the conversation to
which he had just listened. In the unlikely event that Dawson actually was
setting a trap for an old friend,

on  the off  chance that the  meeting was  being taped, Klinger  had deftly
provided  himself  with  at  least   some   protection  against  successful
prosecution.  He  was now  on  record  as having  warned  Dawson about  the
consequences of  his actions. In  court or before a  military review board,
the general  could argue that he  had only been playing  along with them in
order to collect evidence against them; and even if no one believed him, he
more  than likely  would manage to  retain both  his freedom and  his rank.

Ogden got  up, leaving his brandy glass behind him,  went to the window and
stood with his back  to the darkening lake. He was too nervous to sit still
while he  talked. Indeed, for a few seconds he was  too nervous to speak at
all.

Like a  pair of  lizards perched half  in warm sunlight and  half in chilly
shadows,  waiting  for  the  light  balance  to change  enough  to  warrant
movement, Dawson  and Klinger  watched him. They were  sitting in identical
high-backed black  leather easy  chairs with burnished  silvery buttons and
studs. A small round cocktail table with a dark oak top stood between them.
The only light in  the richly furnished room came from two floor lamps that
flanked the fireplace, twenty  feet away. The right side of each manâs face
was softened  and somewhat  concealed by shadows,  while the left  side was
starkly  detailed  by amber  light;  and  their eyes  blinked with  saurian
patience.

Whether or not the  scheme was a success, Salsbury thought, both Dawson and
Klinger would  come through  it unscathed. They both  wore effective armor:
Dawson his  wealth; Klinger  his ruthlessness, cleverness,  and experience.

However,  Salsbury didnât  possess  any armor  of his  own. He  hadnât even
realized÷as  Klinger had when  he protected  himself with that  spiel about
secrecy pledges and treason÷that  he might need it. He had assumed that his
discovery would  generate enough  money and power  to satisfy all  three of
them, but he had  just begun to understand that greed could not be sated as
easily as a hearty  appetite or a demanding thirst. If he had any defensive
weapon at  all, it was his intelligence, his  lightning quick mind; but his
intellect had been directed for so long into

narrow channels  of specialized  scientific inquiry that it  now served him
far less well in  the common matters of life than it did in the laboratory.

Be cautious,  suspicious, and watchful, he  reminded himself for the second
time that  day. With men as aggressive as these,  caution was a damned thin
armor, but it was the only one he had.

He said, ãFor ten  years the Brockert Institute has been fully devoted to a
Pentagon study of subliminal advertising. We havenât been interested in the
technical, theoretical,  or sociological aspects of  it; that work is being
done elsewhere. Weâve been  concerned solely with the biological mechanisms
of subliminal  perception. From the start we have  been trying to develop a
drug that  will Îprimeâ the brain  for subception, a drug  that will make a
man obey without question  every subliminal directive thatâs given to him.ä
Scientists at another CDA  laboratory in northern California were trying to
engineer a viral or  bacterial agent for the same purpose. But they were on
the wrong track. He  knew that for a fact because he  was on the right one.
ãCurrently, itâs  possible to use subliminals  to influence people who have
no  unshakable opinions  about  a particular  subject or  product.  But the
Pentagon  wants  to  be  able  to  use  subliminal messages  to  alter  the
fundamental attitudes  of people who  do have very  strong, stubbornly held
opinions.ä

ãMind control,ä Klinger said matter-of-factly.

Dawson took another sip from his brandy glass.

ãIf such  a drug  can be synthesized,ä  Salsbury said, ãit  will change the
course of history. Thatâs  no exaggeration. For one thing, there will never
again be war, not  in the traditional sense. We will simply contaminate our
enemiesâ water  supplies with  the drug, then inundate  them, through their
own. media÷television,  radio, motion pictures,  newspapers, and magazines÷
with  a continuing  series  of carefully  structured subliminals  that will
convince them  to see things  our way. Gradually, subtly,  we can transform
our enemies into our  allies÷and let them think that the transformation was
their own idea.ä

They   were   silent   for   perhaps   a   minute,   thinking   about   it.

Klinger  lit a  cheroot. Then  he said,  ãThere would  also be a  number of
domestic uses for a drug like that.ä

ãOf course,ä Salsbury said.

ãAt long  last,ä Dawson  said almost wistfully, ãwe  could achieve national
unity, put an end  to all the bickering and protest and disagreement thatâs
holding back this great country.ä

Ogden turned away from  them and stared through the window. Night had fully
claimed the lake. He  could hear the water lapping at the boat dock pilings
a few  feet below him, just  beyond the glass. He  listened and allowed the
rhythmic  sound  to  calm  him.  He  was  certain now  that  Klinger  would
cooperate, and he saw the incredible future that lay before him, and he was
so  excited  by  the  vision  that  he  did  not trust  himself  to  speak.

To his  back Klinger  said, ãYouâre primarily  the director of  research at
Brockert. But apparently youâre not just a desk man.ä

ãThere  are certain  lines  of study  Iâve reserved  for  myself,ä Salsbury
admitted.

ãAnd youâve discovered a  drug that works, a drug that primes the brain for
subception.ä

ãThree months ago,ä Ogden said to the glass.

ãWho knows about it?ä

ãThe three of us.ä

ãNo one at Brockert?ä

ãNo one.ä

ãEven if  you have, as you say, reserved some  lines of study for yourself,
you must have a lab assistant.ä

ãHeâs not  all that  bright,ä Salsbury said.  ãThatâs why I  chose him. Six
years ago.ä

Klinger said,  ãYou were  thinking about taking the  discovery for yourself
all that long ago?ä

ãYes.ä

ãYouâve doctored your daily work record? The forms that go to Washington at
the end of every week?ä

ãI  only  had  to   falsify  them  for  a  few  days.  As  soon  as  I  saw

what  I had  come upon,  I stopped working  on it  at once and  changed the
entire direction of my research.ä

ãAnd your assistant didnât figure the switch?ä

ãHe thought  Iâd given up on  that avenue of research  and was ready to try
another. I told you, heâs not terribly clever.ä

Dawson said, ãOgden hasnât perfected this drug of his, Ernst. Thereâs still
a great deal of work to be done.ä

ãHow much work?ä the general asked.

Turning  from  the  window, Salsbury  said,  ãIâm  not absolutely  certain.
Perhaps  as  little  as six  months÷or  as  much as  a  year  and a  half.ä

ãHe canât  work on it at Brockert,ä Dawson  said. ãHe couldnât possibly get
away with falsifying his  records for such a length of time. Therefore, Iâm
putting together  a completely equipped  laboratory for him in  my house in
Greenwich, forty minutes from the Brockert Institute.ä

Raising his eyebrows, Klinger said, ãYouâve got a house so big you can turn
it into a lab?ä

ãOgden doesnât  need a great deal of room,  really. A thousand square feet.
Eleven  hundred at  the outside.  And most  of that  will be taken  up with
computers. Hideously  expensive computers,  I might add.  Iâm backing Ogden
with nearly two million of my own money, Ernst. Thatâs an indication of the
tremendous faith I have in him.ä

ãYou  really  think he  can  develop,  test, and  perfect  this  drug in  a
jerry-built lab?ä

ãTwo million  is hardly  jerry-built,ä Dawson said. ãAnd  donât forget that
billions of  dollarsâ worth  of preliminary research has  already been paid
for   by   the   government.  Iâm   financing   just   the  final   stage.ä

ãHow can you possibly maintain secrecy?ä

ãThere  are  thousands  of  uses  for  the  computer system.  We  wonât  be
incriminating ourselves  just by purchasing it.  Furthermore, weâll arrange
for it  through one  of Futurexâs subsidiaries.  There wonât be  any record
that it  was sold to us. There wonât be  any questions asked,ä Dawson said.

ãYouâll need lab technicians, assistants, clerks÷ä

ãNo,ä Dawson said. ãSo  long as Ogden has the computer÷ and a complete data
file of  his past research÷he can handle  everything himself. For ten years
heâs had a full lab staff to do the drudgery; but most of that kind of work
is behind him now.,â

ãIf  he quits  at  Brockert,ä Klinger  said, ãthere  will be  an exhaustive
security investigation.  Theyâll want to know  why he quit÷and theyâll find
out.ä

They were talking about Salsbury as if he were somewhere else and unable to
hear them, and he didnât like that. He moved away from the window, took two
steps  toward  the  general  and said,  ãIâm  not  leaving  my position  at
Brockert. Iâll  report for  work as usual,  five days a week,  from nine to
four. While Iâm there Iâll labor diligently on a useless research project.ä

ãWhen will you find time to work at this lab Leonardâs setting up for you?ä

ãIn  the evenings,ä  Salsbury said.  ãAnd on  weekends. Besides  that, Iâve
accumulated a lot of sick leave and vacation time. Iâll take most of it÷but
Iâll spread it out evenly over the next year or so.ä

Klinger stood  up and went to the elegant copper and  glass bar cart that a
servant had left a  few feet from the easy chairs. His thick and hairy arms
made the  crystal decanters look more delicate  than they actually were. As
he poured  another double  shot of brandy  for himself, he  said, ãAnd what
role do you see me playing in all of this?ä

Salsbury said,  ãLeonard can get the  computer system I need.  But he canât
provide me with a  magnetic tape file of all the research Iâve done for CDA
or  a set of master program tapes designed for  my research. Iâll need both
of those  before Leonardâs  computers are worth  a penny to  me. Now, given
three or  four weeks,  I could make  duplicates of those  tapes at Brockert
without  much risk  of being  caught. But  once Iâve  got eighty  or ninety
cumbersome mag  tapes and  five-hundred-yard print-outs, how do  I get them
out  of Brockert? Thereâs  just no  way. Security procedures,  entering and
leaving, are tight, too tight for my purpose. Unless . .

ãI see,ä  Klinger said. He returned to his chair  and sipped at his brandy.

Sliding forward  to the edge of  his seat, Dawson said,  ãErnst, youâre the
ultimate  authority for  security  at Brockert.  You know  more  about that
system than  anyone else. If thereâs a weak  spot in their security, youâre
the man to find it÷or make it.ä

Studying Salsbury  as if he  were assessing the danger  and questioning the
wisdom  of  being  associated  with  someone  of  such  obviously  inferior
character, Klinger  said, ãIâm supposed  to let you smuggle  out nearly one
hundred magnetic  tapes full of top-secret  data and sophisticated computer
programs?ä

Ogden nodded slowly.

ãCan you do it?ä Dawson asked.

ãProbably.ä

ãThatâs all you can say?ä

ãThereâs a better than even chance it can be done.ä

ãThatâs not sufficient, Ernst.ä

ãAll right,ä Klinger said, slightly exasperated. ãI can do it. I can find a
way.ä

Smiling, Dawson said, ãI knew you could.ä

ãBut  if I   did  find a  way  and was  caught either  during or  after the
operation÷Iâd be  dumped into Leavenworth and left to rot.  Earlier, when I
used   the  word   Îtreason,â   I  wasnât   tossing  it   around  lightly.ä

ãI didnât  suppose you  were,ä Dawson said.  ãBut you wouldnât  be required
ever to  see these  mag tapes, let alone  touch them. That would  be a risk
that only Ogden would  have to take. They could convict you of nothing more
serious than negligence for permitting or overlooking the gap in security.ä

ãEven so, Iâd be forced into early retirement or drummed out of the service
with only a partial pension.ä

Amazed, Dawson  shook his head and  said, ãIâm offering him  one-third of a
partnership  that  will  earn  millions,  and  Ernst is  worrying  about  a
government pension.ä

Salsbury was perspiring heavily.  The back of his shirt was soaked and felt
like a cold compress against his skin. To Klinger

he  said, ãYouâve  told us  that you  can do  it. But  the big  question is
whether you will do it.ä

Klinger stared into his brandy glass for a while, then finally looked up at
Salsbury and said, ãOnce  youâve perfected the drug÷whatâs our first step?ä

Getting to  his feet, Dawson said, ãWeâll  establish a front corporation in
Liechtenstein.ä

ãWhy there?ä

Liechtenstein  did not  require that  a corporation  list its  true owners.
Dawson  could  hire  lawyers   in  Vaduz  and  appoint  them  as  corporate
officers÷and they  could not be forced  by law to reveal  the identities of
their clients.

ãFurthermore,ä Dawson said, ãI  will acquire for each of us a set of forged
papers,  complete with  passports, so  that we  can travel and  do business
under assumed names. If the lawyers in Vadnz are forced by extralegal means
to reveal the names  of their clients, they still wonât endanger us because
they wonât know our real names.ä

Dawsonâs  caution was  not excessive.  The corporation would  quite rapidly
become an  incredibly successful  venture, so successful that  a great many
powerful people in both  business and government would eventually be prying
at  it quietly, trying  to find out  who lay  behind the phony  officers in
Vaduz. With Salsburyâs drug  and extensive programs of carefully structured
subliminals,  the  three  of  them  could  establish  a  hundred  different
businesses and literally demand that customers, associates, and even rivals
produce a substantial profit  for them. Every dollar they earned would seem
to be spotlessly clean,  produced by a legitimate form of commerce. But, of
course, a great many people would feel that it was not at all legitimate to
manipulate the competition and the buying public by means of a powerful new
drug. In  the event that the corporation  got caught using the drug÷stolen,
as it  was, from a U.S. weapons research  project÷what had once appeared to
be   excessive   caution  might   well   prove  no   more  than   adequate.

ãAnd once weâve got the corporation?ä Klinger asked.

Money and business arrangements were Dawsonâs vocation

and his  avocation. He began to  declaim almost in the  manner of a Baptist
preacher,  full of  vigor and  fierce intent, thoroughly  enjoying himself.
ãThe  corporation will  purchase a  walled estate  somewhere in  Germany or
France. At least one  hundred acres. On the surface it will appear to be an
executive retreat. But in reality it will be used for the indoctrination of
mercenary soldiers.ä

ãMercenaries?ä  Klingerâs  hard,  broad  face expressed  the  institutional
soldierâs disdain for the free-lancer.

The corporation,  Dawson explained, would hire perhaps  a dozen of the very
best mercenaries  available, men  who had fought  in Asia and  Africa. They
would be  brought to the company estate, ostensibly  to be briefed on their
assignments and  to meet their superiors. The  water supply and all bottled
beverages on  the estate would be  used as media for  the drug. Twenty-four
hours after  the mercenaries  had taken their  first few drinks,  when they
were  primed for total  subliminal brainwashing,  they would be  shown four
hours  of films  on each  of three successive  days÷travelogues, industrial
studies,  and technical  documentaries detailing  the use  of a  variety of
weapons  and  electronic  devices÷which  would be  presented  as  essential
background  material for  their assignments.  Unknowingly, of  course, they
would be watching twelve hours of sophisticated subliminals telling them to
obey without question any order prefaced by a certain code phrase; and when
those three days had  passed, all twelve men would cease to be merely hired
hands   and  would   become   something  quite   like  programmed   robots.

Outwardly,  they would  not  appear to  have changed.  They would  look and
behave as they always  had done. Nevertheless, they would obey any order to
lie, steal, or kill  anyone, obey without hesitation, so long as that order
was preceded by the proper code phrase.

ãAs mercenary soldiers, they  would be professional killers to begin with,ä
Klinger said.

ãThatâs  true,ä Dawson said.  ãBut the  glory lies in  their unconditional,
unquestioning obedience. As hired mercenaries, they would be able to reject
any order or assignment that they

didnât like. But as  our programmed staff, they will do precisely what they
are told to do.ä

ãThere are other advantages,  too,ä Salsbury said, not unaware that Dawson,
now that  he was  in a proselytizing  mood, resented being  nudged from the
pulpit. ãFor one  thing, you can order a man to kill  and then to erase all
memory  of the  murder from  both his  conscious and subconscious  mind. He
would never  be able to testify against the  corporation or against us; and
he would pass any polygraph examination.ä

Klingerâs Neanderthal face brightened  a bit. He appreciated the importance
of  what  Salsbury had  said.  ãEven  if they  used  pentothal or  hypnotic
regression÷he still couldnât remember?ä

ãSodium pentothal  is much overrated as a  truth serum,ä Salsbury said. ãAs
for the other.  . - Well, they could put him in a trance and regress him to
the time  of the murder. But  he would only draw a  blank. Once he has been
told to  erase the  event from his  mind, it is  beyond his  recall just as
surely as obsolete data is beyond the recall of a computer that has had its
memory banks wiped clean.ä

Having finished  his second brandy, Klinger returned  to the bar cart. This
time   he   filled  a   twelve-ounce   tumbler  with   ice  and   Seven-Up.

Salsbury thought,  Heâs right about that: any man  who doesnât keep a clear
head here, tonight, is plainly suicidal.

To Dawson,  Klinger said, ãOnce weâve got these  twelve Îrobotsâ what do we
do with them?ä

Because he had spent the last three months thinking about that while he and
Saisbury worked  out the details  of their approach to  the general, Dawson
had a quick answer. ãWe can do anything we want with them. Anything at all.
But as a first  step÷I thought we might use them to introduce the drug into
the water  supplies of every major  city in Kuwait. Then  we could saturate
that country with a multimedia subliminal campaign specially structured for
the Arab psyche, and  within a month we could quietly seize control without
anyone,  even   the  government  of  Kuwait,   knowing  what  weâve  done.ä

ãTake over an entire country as a first step?ä Klinger asked incredulously.

Preaching again, striding back  and forth between Salsbury and the general,
gesturing expansively, Dawson said,  ãThe population of Kuwait is less than
eight hundred thousand. The  greatest part of that is concentrated in a few
urban areas,  chiefly in Hawaii and  the capital city. Furthermore,  all of
the members  of the government and  virtually all of the  wealthy reside in
those  metropolitan centers.  The  handful of  super-rich families  who own
desert  enclaves get  their water by  truck from  the cities. In  short, we
could take control of  everyone of influence within the country÷giving us a
behind-the-scenes  managerial dictatorship  over  the Kuwait  oil reserves,
which compose twenty percent  of the entire world supply. That done, Kuwait
would  become our  base of  operations, from  which we could  subvert Saudi
Arabia, Iraq, Yemen, and every other oil-exporting nation in the Mid-East.ä

ãWe   could   smash   the   OPEC  cartel,ä   Klinger   said   thoughtfully.

ãOr strengthen  it,ä Dawson said. ãOr  alternately weaken and strengthen it
in order to cause major fluctuations in the value of oil stocks. Indeed, we
could  affect the  entire stock  market. And  because weâd know  about each
fluctuation well  in advance, we could take rare  advantage of it. Within a
year of  assuming control of a  half-dozen Mid-Eastern countries, we should
be able  to siphon one and  a half billion dollars  into the corporation in
Liechtenstein. Thereafter, it will  be a matter of no more than five or six
years  until    everything,    quite  literally   everything,    is  ours.ä

ãIt sounds÷crazy, mad,ä Klinger said.

Dawson frowned. ãMad?ä

ãIncredible,  unbelievable, impossible,ä  the general said,  clarifying his
first statement when he saw that it disturbed Dawson.

ãThere was a time when heavier-than-air flight seemed impossible,ä Salsbury
said. ãThe nuclear bomb  seemed incredible to many people even after it was
dropped  on Japan.  And in  1961,  when  Kennedy launched the  Apollo Space
Program,  very few  Americans believed that  a man  would ever walk  on the
moon.ä

They stared at one another.

The silence in the room was so perfect that each tiny wave breaking against
the boat  dock, although  it was little  more than a gentle  ripple and was
muffled  by the  window, sounded  like an  ocean surf.  At least it  did to
Salsbury;    it   reverberated    within    his   nearly    fevered   mind.

Finally Dawson  said, ãErnst? Will  you help us get  those magnetic tapes?ä

Klinger looked  at Dawson  for a long  moment, then at  Salsbury. A shudder
either of fear or pleasure; Ogden could not be certain which÷passed through
him. He said, ãIâll help.ä

Ogden sighed.

ãChampagne?ä Dawson  asked. ãItâs a  bit crude after brandy.  But I believe
that  we  should  raise  a  toast  to  one  another and  to  the  project.ä

Fifteen minutes later, after a servant had brought a chilled bottle of Mo‘t
et  Chandon and he  had uncorked it,  after the  three of them  had toasted
success, Klinger smiled at  Dawson and said, ãWhat if Iâd been terrified of
this drug?  What if Iâd thought  your offer was more  than I could handle?ä

ãI know you well, Ernst,ä Dawson said. ãPerhaps better than you think I do.
Iâd  be  surprised  if  there  was  anything  that  you  couldnât  handle.ä

ãBut suppose  Iâd balked, for  whatever reason. Suppose I  hadnât wanted to
come in with you.ä

Dawson rolled  some champagne  over his tongue,  swallowed, inhaled through
his mouth  to savor the aftertaste, and said,  ãThen you wouldnât have left
this  estate  alive,  Ernst.  Iâm  afraid  youâd  have  had  an  accident.ä

ãWhich you arranged for a week ago.ä ãNearly that.ä

ãI knew you wouldnât disappoint me.ä

ãYou   came  with   a  gun?ä   Dawson  asked.  ãA   thirty-two  automatic.ä

ãIt doesnât show.ä

ãItâs taped to the small of my back.ä

ãYouâve practiced drawing it?ä

ãI can have it in my hand in less than five seconds.ä

Dawson nodded approval. ãAnd you would have used me as a shield to get off
the estate.ä

ãI would have tried.ä

They both laughed and regarded each other with something very near to
affection. They were delighted with themselves.

Jesus Christ! Salsbury thought. He nervously sipped his champagne.

5

Friday, August 19, 1977

PAUL AND MARK SAT cross-legged, side by side on the dew-damp mountain
grass. They were as still as stones. Even Mark, who loathed inactivity and
to whom patience was an irritant rather than a virtue, did no more than
blink his eyes.

Around them  lay a  breath-taking panorama of virtually  unspoiled land. On
three  sides  of their  clearing,  a dense,  purple-green, almost  primeval
forest rose like walls. To their right the clearing opened at the head of a
narrow valley; and the  town of Black River, two miles away, shimmered like
a patch  of opalescent  fungus on the  emerald quilt of the  wild land. The
only other  scar of civilization was  the Big Union mill,  which was barely
visible, three  miles on the other side of Black  River. Even so, from this
distance the huge buildings  did not resemble millworks so much as they did
the  ramparts,  gates, and  towers  of  castles. The  planned forests  that
supplied Big Union, and  which were less attractive than the natural woods,
were out of sight  beyond the next mountain. Blue sky and fast-moving white
clouds overhung  what could have passed  for a scene of  Eden in a biblical
film.

Paul and Mark were not interested in the scenery. Their attention was fixed
on a small, red-brown squirrel.

For the past five  days they had been putting out food for the squirrel÷dry
roasted  peanuts and sectioned  apples÷hoping to  make friends with  it and
gradually to domesticate it. Day by

day it  crept closer to the food, and yesterday it  took a few bites before
succumbing to fear and scampering away.

Now, as they watched,  it came forth from the perimeter of the woods, three
or  four quick yet  cautious steps at  a time,  pausing again and  again to
study the  man and  boy. When it finally  reached the food, it  picked up a
piece of the apple  in its tiny forepaws and, sitting back on its haunches,
began to eat.

When the animal finished  the first slice and picked up another, Mark said,
ãHe wonât take his eyes off us. Not even for a second.ä

As the  boy spoke  the squirrel became  suddenly as still as  they were. It
cocked its head and fixed them with one large brown eye.

Paul had  said they could whisper,  breaking their rule of  silence, if the
squirrel had gained courage since yesterday and managed to stay at the food
for more  than a  few seconds. If  they were to domesticate  it, the animal
would have to become accustomed to their voices.

ãPlease donât be scared,ä  Mark said softly. Paul had promised that, if the
squirrel could  be tamed, Mark would be allowed to take  it home and make a
pet of it. ãPlease, donât run away.ä

Not  yet prepared  to trust them,  it dropped  the slice of  apple, turned,
bounded into  the forest,  and scrambled to  the upper branches  of a maple
tree.

Mark jumped  up. ãAh, heck! We wouldnât have  hurt you, you dumb squirrel!ä
Disappointment lined his face.

ãStay  calm.  Heâll  be  back again  tomorrow,ä  Paul  said.  He stood  and
stretched his stiff muscles.

ãHeâll never trust us.ä

ãYes, he will. Little by little.ä

ãWe'll never tame him.ä

ãLittle by  little,ä Paul said. ãHe canât be  converted in one week. Youâve
got to be patient.ä

ãIâm not very good at being patient.ä

ãI know. But youâll learn.ä

ãLittle by little?ä

ãThatâs right,ä  Paul said.  He bent over,  picked up the  apple slices and
peanuts, and dropped them into a plastic bag.

ãHey,ä Mark  said, ãmaybe  heâs mad at  us because we always  take the food
when we leave.ä

Paul laughed.  ãMaybe so. But if  he got in the  habit of sneaking back and
eating  after weâve  gone, he wouldnât  have any  reason to come  out while
weâre here.ä

As  they  started  back toward  camp,  which  lay at  the  far  end of  the
two-hundred-yard-long mountain meadow, Paul gradually became aware again of
the beautiful  day as if it were a mosaic for  all the senses, falling into
place around  him, piece  by piece. The  warm summer breeze.  White daisies
gleaming in  the grass, and here  and there a buttercup.  The odor of grass
and earth  and wild flowers. The  constant rustle of leaves  and the gentle
soughing  of the  breeze in  the pine  boughs. The  trilling of  birds. The
solemn shadows  of the forest. High  above, a hawk wheeled  into sight, the
last piece of the mosaic; its shrill cry seemed filled with pride, as if it
knew that it had  capped the scene, as if it thought it had pulled down the
sky with its wings.

The time had come for their weekly trip into town to replenish their supply
of perishable goods÷but for  a moment he didnât want to leave the mountain.
Even Black  River÷small, nearly  isolated from the  modem world, singularly
peaceful÷ would  seem raucous when compared to  the serenity of the forest.

But of  course Black River offered more than  fresh eggs, milk, butter, and
other groceries: Jenny was there.

As  they drew  near the  camp, Mark ran  ahead. He  pushed aside a  pair of
yellow canvas flaps and peered into the large tent that they had erected in
the  shadow of  several eighty-foot  hemlocks and  firs. A second  later he
turned away from the  tent, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted,
ãRya! Hey, Rya!ä

ãHere,ä she said, coming out from behind the tent.

For an  instant Paul couldnât believe  what he saw: a  small young squirrel
perched on her right arm, its claws hooked

through the  sleeve of  her corduroy jacket.  It was chewing on  a piece of
apple, and she was petting it gently.

ãHow did you do it?ä he asked.

ãChocolate.ä

ãChocolate?ä

She grinned.  ãI started out trying  to lure it with  the same bait you and
Mark have  been using. But then I figured that  a squirrel can probably get
nuts and apples on his own. But he canât get chocolate. I figured the smell
would  be  irresistible÷ and  it  was!  He was  eating  out of  my hand  by
Wednesday, but  I didnât want you  to know about him  until I was sure heâd
gotten over the worst of his fear of humans.ä

ãHeâs not eating chocolate now.ä

ãToo much of it wouldnât be good for him.ä

The  squirrel raised  its  head and  looked  quizzically at  Paul. Then  it
continued gnawing on the piece of apple in its forepaws.

ãDo you  like him,  Mark?ä Rya asked. As  she spoke her grin  melted into a
frown.

Paul  saw why:  the boy  was close to  tears. He  wanted a squirrel  of his
own÷but he knew  they couldnât take two of the  animals home with them. His
lower   lip   quivered;   however,   he   was  determined   not   to   cry.

Rya recovered  quickly. Smiling,  she said, ãWell,  Mark? Do you  like him?
Iâll be  upset if you donât.  I went to an awful lot  of trouble to get him
for you.ä

You little sweetheart, Paul thought.

Blinking back tears, Mark said, ãFor me?ä

ãOf course,ä she said.

ãYou mean youâre giving him to me?ä

She feigned surprise. ãWho else?ä

I thought he was yours.ä .

Now what would I  want with a pet squirrel? she asked. ãHeâll be a good pet
for a boy. But he would be all wrong for a girl.ä She put the animal on the
ground and hunkered down beside it. Fishing a piece of candy from a pocket,
she said,  ãCome on.  Youâve got to  feed him some chocolate  if you really
want to make friends with him.ä

The squirrel plucked the candy from Markâs hand and nibbled it with obvious
pleasure. The  boy was also in ecstasy as he  gently stroked its flanks and
long tail.  When the chocolate was  gone, the animal sniffed  first at Mark
and then at Rya;  and when it realized there would be no more treats today,
it   slipped  out  from   between  them   and  dashed  toward   the  trees.

ãHey!ä Mark said. He ran after it until he saw that it was much faster than
he.

ãDonât worry,ä Rya said. ãHeâll come back tomorrow, so long as we have some
chocolate for him.ä

ãIf  we  tame him,ä  Mark  said,  ãcan I  take  him into  town next  week?ä

ãWeâll see,ä  Paul said. He looked  at his watch. ãIf  weâre going to spend
today in town, weâd better get moving.ä

The station wagon was  parked half a mile away, at the end of a weed-choked
dirt  lane  that was  used  by hunters  in  late autumn  and early  winter.

True to  form, Mark shouted, ãLast  one to the earâs  a dope!ä He ran ahead
along the path that  snaked down through the woods, and in a few seconds he
was out of sight.

Rya walked at Paulâs side.

ãThat was a very nice thing you did,ä he said.

She pretended not to know what he meant. ãGetting the squirrel for Mark? It
was fun.ä

ãYou didnât get it for Mark.ä

ãSure I did. Who else would I get it for?ä

ãYourself,ä Paul said. ãBut when you saw how much it meant to him to have a
squirrel of his own, you gave it up.ä

She  grimaced. ãYou  must think  Iâm a  saint or  something! If  Iâd really
wanted  that squirrel,  I wouldnât have  given him  away. Not in  a million
years.ä

ãYouâre not a good liar,ä he said affectionately.

Exasperated,   she  said,   ãFathers!ä  Hoping   he  wouldnât   notice  her
embarrassment, she  ran ahead, shouting to Mark, and  was soon out of sight
beyond a dense patch of mountain laurel.

ãChildren!ä he said aloud. But there was no exasperation in his voice, only
love.

Since Annieâs death he  had spent more time with the children than he might
have done  if she  had lived÷partly because  there was something  of her in
Mark and  Rya, and  he felt that he  was keeping in touch  with her through
them. He had learned  that each of them was quite different from the other,
each  with  his  unique  outlook  and  abilities, and  he  cherished  their
individuality. Rya would always know more about life, people, and the rules
of the game than  Mark would. Curious, probing, patient, seeking knowledge,
she would  enjoy life  from an intellectual  vantage point. She  would know
that  especially intense  passion÷sexual, emotional, mental÷which  none but
the very  bright ever  experience. On the  other hand, although  Mark would
face life  with far less understanding  than Rya, he was  not to be pitied.
Not for a moment!  Brimming with enthusiasm, quick to laugh, overwhelmingly
optimistic,  he would  live every  one of  his days  with gusto. If  he was
denied complex pleasures and satisfactions÷well, to compensate for that, he
would ever  be in  tune with the  simple joys of  life in  which Rya, while
understanding them,  would never  be able to indulge  herself fully without
some  self-consciousness. Paul  knew  that, in  days to  come, each  of his
children would bring him a special kind of happiness and pride÷unless death
took them from him.

As if he had  walked into an invisible barrier, he stopped in the middle of
the trail and swayed slightly from side to side.

That last thought had taken him completely by surprise. When he lost Annie,
he had thought  for a time that he had lost all  that was worth having. Her
death  made him  painfully aware  that everything÷even deeply  felt, strong
personal  relationships that  nothing  in life  could twist  or destroy÷was
temporary, pawned to the grave. For the past three and a half years, in the
back of  his mind,  a small voice had  been telling him to  be prepared for
death, to expect it, and not to let the loss of Mark or Rya or anyone else,
if it came, shatter him as Annieâs death had nearly done. But until now the
voice had been almost  subconscious, an urgent counsel of which he was only
vaguely aware.  This was the first  time that he had  let it pop loose from
the subconscious. As it rose to the surface, it startled

him. A  shiver passed through him from head to foot.  He had an eerie sense
of  precognition.   Then  it   was  gone  as   quickly  as  it   had  come.

An animal moved in the underbrush.

Overhead, above the canopy of trees, a hawk screamed.

Suddenly  the summer  forest  seemed much  too dark,  too dense,  too wild:
sinister.

Youâre  being foolish,  he  thought. Youâre  no fortune  teller.  Youâre no
clairvoyant.

Nevertheless, he  hurried along the winding path,  anxious to catch up with
Mark and Rya.

At 11:15 that morning,  Dr. Walter Troutman was at the big mahogany desk in
his surgery.  He was eating an  early lunch÷ two roast  beef sandwiches, an
orange,  a banana,  an apple,  a cup  of butterscotch pudding,  and several
glasses of iced tea÷ and reading a medical journal.

As  the only  physician in  Black River,  he felt  that he had  two primary
responsibilities to  the people  in the area.  The first was  to be certain
that,  in the  event of  a catastrophe  at the  mill or some  other medical
crisis, he would never find himself undernourished and in want of energy to
fulfill  his duties.  The second  was to  be aware  of all  developments in
medical techniques  and theory,  so that the  people who came  to him would
receive the most modern  treatment available. Scores of satisfied patients÷
and  the  reverence  and  affection  with  which the  whole  town  regarded
him÷testified to  his success in meeting  his second responsibility. As for
the first, he stood five eleven and weighed two hundred and seventy pounds.

When an overweight patient,  in the middle of one of the doctorâs lectures,
had the  temerity to mention Troutmanâs own  excess poundage, he was always
countered  with the  same joke.  ãObese? Me?ä  Troutman would  ask, clearly
astonished. ãThis  isnât fat Iâm carrying. Itâs  stored energy, ready to be
tapped  if  thereâs ever  a  catastrophe up  at  the mill.ä  Then he  would
continue his lecture.

In truth, of course,  he was an almost compulsive eater and had been all of
his life. By the time he was thirty, he had given

up dieting  and psychotherapy as  truly lost causes. The  same year, having
been guaranteed a handsome  stipend by the Big Union Supply Company, he had
come to  Black River where the  people were so pleased  to have a doctor of
their  own that  they didnât  care if  he was  fat, thin, white,  black, or
green.  For twenty  years now,  he had  been accommodating  his compulsion,
stuffing himself  with cakes and cookies  and pies and five  square meals a
day; and in sum  he felt that his life held more enjoyment than that of any
other man he knew.

As he  was about  to enjoy it  even more, as  he was picking  up the second
roast beef  sandwich, the  telephone rang. He considered  not answering it.
But he  was the kind of  doctor who went out on house  calls at any hour of
the day or night.  Even lunch had to be put aside if a patient needed help.
He picked up the receiver. ãHello?ä

ãDr. Troutman?ä

ãYes.ä

The voice on the  other end of the line was cold and  sharp. ãI am the key,
Dr. Troutman.ä

ãI am the lock,ä Troutman said without hesitation.

ãAre you alone in the house?ä

ãYes.ä

ãWhere is your nurse, Miss MacDonald?ä

ãI donât know. At home, I suppose.ä

ãWhen will she be coming to work?ä

ãHalf an hour before the office opens.ä

ãAnd the office opens at one thirty?ä

ãThatâs correct,ä Troutman said.

ãAre you expecting anyone else before one oâclock?ä

ãNo. No one.ä

The stranger was silent for a moment.

Troutman listened  to his desk clock  ticking. He glanced at  the food laid
out on a  linen napkin in front of him, picked a  Sliver of roast beef from
the   sandwich,  and   ate   it  quickly   like  a   fish  taking   a  fly.

When the man  on the other end of the line had  decided on his approach, he
said, ãIâm  going to ask you  a number of important  questions, doctor. You
will   give  me   complete   answers  to   the  best   of   your  ability.ä

ãYes, of course.ä

ãHave  you  recently  had   an  epidemic  of  any  sort  in  Black  River?ä

ãYes, we have.ä

ãOf what?ä

ãNight chills.ä

ãExplain what you mean by that term, doctor.ä

ãSevere chills, cold sweats,  nausea but without vomiting-and the resultant
insomnia.ä

ãWhen were the first cases reported to you?ä

ãWednesday, the tenth of this month. Nine days ago.ä

ãDid any of your patients mention nightmares?ä

ãEvery  one  of  them  said  heâd  been  awakened  by  a  terrible  dream.ä

ãCould any of them remember what it was?ä

ãNo. None of them.ä

ãWhat treatment did you provide?ä

ãI gave placebos to the first few. But when I suffered the chills myself on
Wednesday night,  and when  there were scores  of new cases  on Thursday, I
began to prescribe a low-grade antibiotic.ä

ãThat had no effect, of course.ä

ãNone whatsoever.ä

ãDid you refer any patients to another physician?ä

ãNo.  The nearest  other doctor is  sixty miles  away÷and heâs in  his late
seventies.  However, I  did request  an investigation  by the  State Health
Authority.ä

The stranger  was silent for a  moment. Then: ãYou did  that merely because
there was an epidemic of rather mild influenza?ä

ãIt was mild,ä Troutman said, ãbut decidedly unusual. No fever. No swelling
of the  glands. And  yet, for as mild  as it was, it  spread throughout the
town and  the mill within twenty-four  hours. Everyone had it.  Of course I
wondered if  it might not be influenza at all  but some sort of poisoning.ä

ãPoisoning?ä

ãYes. Of a common food or water supply.ä

ãWhen did you contact the Health Authority?ä

ãFriday the twelfth, late in the afternoon.ä

ãAnd they sent a man?ä

ãNot until Monday.ä

ãWas there still an epidemic at that time?ä

ãNo,ä Troutman said. ãEveryone in town had the chills, the cold sweats, and
the nausea again Saturday  night. But no one was ill Sunday night. Whatever
it was, it disappeared even more suddenly than it came.ä

ãDid  the  State Health  Authority  still run  an investigation?ä  Intently
studying the  food on the napkin,  Troutman shifted in his  chair and said,
ãOh, yes. Dr. Evans, one of their junior field men, spent all of Monday and
most of Tuesday interviewing people and taking tests.ä

ãTests? You mean of food and water?ä

ãYes. Blood and urine samples too.ä

ãDid he take water samples from the reservoir?ä

ãYes. He filled at least twenty vials and bottles.ä

ãHas he filed his report yet?ä

Troutman licked his lips  and said, ãYes. He called me last evening to give
me the results of the tests.ä

ãI suppose he found nothing?ä

ãThatâs correct. All the tests were negative.ä

ãDoes he  have any theories?ä the stranger asked,  a vague trace of anxiety
in his voice.

That bothered Troutman. The  key should not be anxious. The key had all the
answers.  ãHe  believes  that   weâve  experienced  a  rare  case  of  mass
psychological illness.ä

ãAn epidemic of formulated hysteria?ä

ãYes. Exactly.ä

ãThen heâs making no recommendations?ä

ãNone that I know of.ä

ãHe has terminated the investigation?ä

ãThatâs what he told me.ä

The   stranger  sighed   softly.   ãDoctor,  earlier   you  told   me  that

everyone in town and at the mill had experienced the night chills. Were you
speaking figuratively or literally?ä

ãFiguratively,ä  Troutman  said.  ãThere  were exceptions.  Perhaps  twenty
children, all under eight  years of age. And two adults. Sam Edison and his
daughter, Jenny.ä

ãThe   people    who   run   the   general    store?ä   ãThatâs   correct.ä

ãThey   didnât   suffer  from   the   chills   at  all?ä   ãNot  at   all.ä

ãAre they connected to the townâs water supply?ä

ãEveryone in town is.ä

ãAll right. What about the lumbermen who work in the planned forests beyond
the mill?  Some of them virtually live out  there. Were they all affected?ä

ãYes. That was something  Dr. Evans wanted to know too,ä Troutman said. ãHe
interviewed all of them.ä

The stranger  said, ãIâve  no more questions,  Dr. Troutman, but  I do have
some orders  for you.  When you hang  up your receiver,  you will instantly
wipe all  memory of  our conversation from  your mind. Do  you understand?ä

ãYes. Perfectly.ä

ãYouâll forget  every word  weâve exchanged. Youâll erase  this memory from
both your  conscious and subconscious, so that it  can never be recalled no
matter   how   much   you   might   wish   to   recall   it.   Understood?ä

Troutman nodded somberly. ãYes.ä

ãWhen  you hang  up your receiver,  you will  remember only that  the phone
rang÷and that it was a wrong number. Is that clear?ä

ãA wrong number. Yes, thatâs clear.ä

ãVery well. Hang up, doctor.ä

Carelessness,  Troutman  thought,  a  bit irritably,  as  he  put down  the
receiver. If  people paid attention to what  they were doing, they wouldnât
dial so  many wrong  numbers or make  one tenth of the  other mistakes that
peppered  their lives.  How  many patients,  badly  cut or  burned, had  he
treated who had been  injured only because they were inattentive, careless?

Scores.  Hundreds. Thousands!  Sometimes, when  he opened  the door  of his
waiting room and peered  inside, he had the feeling that he had just pulled
a pan from the oven and was staring not at people but at a row of wall-eyed
trout with  gaping mouths. And now,  tying up a doctorâs  line with a wrong
number, even  for half a minute  or so÷well, that could  be damned serious.

He  shook his  head,  dismayed by  the ineptitude  and inefficiency  of his
fellow citizens.

Then he grabbed the  roast beef sandwich and took an enormous bite from it.

At 11:45 Paul Annendale stepped into Sam Edisonâs study on the second floor
of  the house,  just above  the general  store. ãSquire  Edison, I  wish to
arrange to take your daughter to lunch.ä

Sam was  standing in  front of a bookcase.  A large volume lay  open in his
left hand, and he was paging through it with his right. ãSit down, vassal,ä
he said without looking up. ãThe squire will be with you in just a minute.ä

If Sam  had chosen  to refer to this  place as his library  rather than his
study,  he  would  have  been  justified. Two  lushly  cushioned,  somewhat
tattered armchairs  and two matching footstools stood  in the center of the
room,  facing the only  window. Two  yellow-shaded floor lamps,  one behind
each chair,  provided adequate  but restful light, and  a small rectangular
table lay between the  chairs. A pipe was turned upside down in a large ash
tray on the table,  and the air was redolent with the cherry scent of Samâs
tobacco.  The room  was only twelve  feet by  fifteen feet; but  two entire
walls,  from floor  to  ceiling, were  lined  with thousands  of books  and
hundreds of issues of various psychology journals.

Paul sat down and put his feet up on a stool.

He  didnât know  the title  of the  volume that  the other man  was looking
through,  but he  did know that  ninety percent  of these books  dealt with
Hitler, Nazism,  and anything else  that was even remotely  related to that
philosophical-political night-

mare.  Samâs interest  in the  subject had  been unwavering  for thirty-two
years.

In April  of 1945, as a  member of an American  intelligence unit, Sam went
into Berlin less than  twenty-four hours behind the first Allied troops. He
was  shocked by  the extent  of the  destruction. In  addition to  the ruin
caused by Allied bombers, mortars, and tank fire, there was damage directly
attributable to the FŸhrerâs  scorch-the-earth policy. In the final days of
the war,  the madman had decreed that the victors  must be allowed to seize
nothing of  value, that Germany must be transformed  into a barren plain of
rubble,  that not  even  one house  could be  left  standing to  come under
foreign domination. Of course,  most Germans were not prepared to take this
final step into oblivion÷although  many of them were. It seemed to Sam that
the Germans  he saw in the devastated streets  were survivors not merely of
the  war   but  also  of   the  frenzied  suicide  of   an  entire  nation.

On  May  8, 1945,  he  was transferred  to  an intelligence  unit that  was
collecting data on the Nazi death camps. As the full story of the holocaust
became  known, as  it was  discovered that  millions of  men and  women and
children had passed through the gas chambers and that hundreds of thousands
of others  had been shot in the back and buried  in trenches, Sam Edison, a
young man from the  backwoods of Maine, found nothing within his experience
to  explain  such  mind-numbing  horror.  Why had  so  many  once-rational,
basically good people committed themselves to fulfilling the evil fantasies
of an  obvious lunatic and a handful of subordinate  madmen? Why had one of
the most  professional armies in the world  disgraced itself by fighting to
protect the  SS murderers? Why had  millions of people gone  with so little
protest to the concentration  camps and gas chambers? What did Adolf Hitler
know about the psychology of the masses that had helped him to achieve such
absolute  power? The  ruin of  the German  cities and  the death  camp data
raised  all  of these  questions  but  provided answers  to  none of  them.

He   was  sent   back  to  the   States  and   mustered  out  of   the  ser

vice in October of  1945, and as soon as he  was home he began to buy books
about Hitler,  the Nazis, and the war. He read  everything of value that he
could find. Bits and  pieces of explanations, theories and arguments seemed
valid to him. But the complete answer that he sought eluded him; therefore,
he   extended  his   area   of  study   and  began   collecting   books  on
totalitarianism,  militarism, war  games, battle strategy,  German history,
German  philosophy,  bigotry, racism,  paranoia,  mob psychology,  behavior
modification, and mind control.  His undiminishable fascination with Hitler
did not have its roots in morbid curiosity, but came instead from a fearful
certainty that  the German people were  not at all unique  and that his own
neighbors in Maine, given  the right set of circumstances, would be capable
of the same atrocities.

Sam suddenly  closed the book through  which heâd been paging  for the past
few minutes  and returned  it to the  shelf. ãDam-mit, I  know theyâre here
somewhere.ä

From his armchair Paul said, ãWhat are you looking for?ä

His head tilted slightly  to the right, Sam continued to read the titles on
the bindings. ãWeâve got  a sociologist doing research in town. I know Iâve
got several  of his articles in my collection, but Iâll  be damned if I can
find them.ä

ãSociologist? What sort of research?ä

ãI  donât know  exactly. He  came into  the store  early this  morning. Had
dozens of questions to  ask. Said he was a sociologist, come all the way up
from Washington, and was  making a study of Black River. Said heâd rented a
room at  Pauline Vickerâs  place and would  be here for three  weeks or so.
According to him, Black Riverâs pretty special.ä

ãIn what way?ä

ãFor one thing, itâs a prosperous company town in an age when company towns
have supposedly fallen into decay or vanished altogether. And because weâre
geographically isolated, itâll be  easier for him to analyze the effects of
television on  our social patterns. Oh,  he had at least  half a dozen good
reasons  why weâre  ripe material  for sociological  research, but  I donât
think  he   got  around   to  explaining  his  main   thesis,  whatever  it

is heâs trying to  prove or disprove.ä He took another book from the shelf,
opened it  to the table of  contents, closed it almost  at once, and put it
back where heâd gotten it.

ãDo you know his name?ä

ãIntroduced himself as Albert  Deighton,ä Sam said. ãThe name didnât ring a
bell.  But the face  did. Meek-looking  man. Thin lips.  Receding hairline.
Glasses as thick as  the lenses on a telescope. Those glasses make his eyes
look  like theyâre  popping right out  of his head.  I  know Iâve  seen his
picture  several  times  in books  or  magazines,  alongside articles  heâs
written.ä He sighed and turned away from the bookshelves for the first time
since Paul  came into the room. With one hand  he smoothed his white beard.
ãI can spend all evening up here picking through these books. Right now you
want me  to take over the counter downstairs so  you can escort my daughter
to the elegant, incomparable Ultmanâs Cafe for lunch.ä

Paul laughed. ãJenny tells  me thereâs no more flu in town. So the worst we
can get at Ultmanâs is food poisoning.ä

ãWhat about the kids?ä

ãMarkâs spending  the afternoon with Bob Thorpâs  boy. Heâs been invited to
lunch, and heâll spend it mooning over Emma.ä

ãStill has a crush on her, does he?ä

ãHe thinks heâs in love, but heâd never admit it.ä

Samâs craggy face was softened by a smile. ãAnd Rya?ä

ãEmma  asked her to  come along with  Mark. But  if you donât  mind looking
after her, sheâd rather stay here with you.ä

ãMind? Donât be ridiculous.ä

As he got  up from the armchair, Paul said, ãWhy donât  you put her to work
after lunch? She could  come up here and pore through these books until she
found Deightonâs name on a table of contents.ä

ãWhat a dull bit of work for a peppy girl like her!ä

ãRya wouldnât  be bored,ä Paul said. ãItâs right  down her alley. She likes
working with books÷and sheâd enjoy doing you a favor.ä

Sam hesitated, then shrugged  and said, ãMaybe Iâll ask her. When Iâve read
what Deightonâs written, Iâll know where his

interests lie, and Iâll have a better idea of what heâs up to now. You know
me÷as curious  as the day is  long. Once Iâve got a  bee in my bonnet, Iâve
just got  to take  it out and see  whether itâs a worker,  drone, queen, or
maybe even a wasp.ä

Ultmanâs Cafe stood on the southwest corner of the town square, shaded by a
pair of  enormous black oak trees. The restaurant  was eighty feet long, an
aluminum and  glass structure meant to  look like an old-fashioned railroad
passenger car.  It bad one narrow  window row that ran  around three sides;
and tacked on the front was an entrance foyer that spoiled the railroad-car
effect.

Inside, booths  upholstered in  blue plastic stood beside  the windows. The
table at each booth  held an ash tray, a cylindrical glass sugar dispenser,
salt  and  pepper shakers,  a  napkin  dispenser, and  a  selector for  the
jukebox. An aisle separated the booths from the counter that ran the length
of the restaurant.

Ogden Salsbury was in the corner booth at the north end of the cafe. He was
drinking  a  second  cup  of  coffee  and  watching  the  other  customers.

At 1:50 in the  afternoon, most of the lunch-hour rush had passed. Ultmanâs
was  nearly deserted.  In  a booth  near the  door,  an elderly  couple was
reading  the weekly  newspaper,  eating roast  beef and  French  fries, and
quietly arguing politics. The chief of police, Bob Thorp, was on a stool at
the counter,  finishing his lunch and  joking with the gray-haired waitress
named  Bess. At  the far  end of the  room, Jenny  Edison was in  the other
corner booth with a  good-looking man in his late thirties; Salsbury didnât
know  him  but assumed  he  worked  at the  mill  or in  the logging  camp.

Of  the  five  other  customers, Jenny  was  of  the  greatest interest  to
Salsbury. A few hours  ago, when he talked to Dr. Troutman, he learned that
neither Jenny  nor her father had complained of  the night chills. The fact
that a  number of children had  also escaped them did  not disturb him. The
effect  of the  subliminals  was, in  part, directly  proportionate  to the
subjectâs  language skills and  reading ability;  and he had  expected that
some children would be  unaffected. But Sam and Jenny were adults, and they
should not have gone untouched.

Possibly they hadnât consumed  any of the drug. If that was true, then they
hadnât drunk  any water  from the town  system, hadnât used it  to make ice
cubes,  and  hadnât  cooked  with  it.  That was  marginally  possible,  he
supposed.  Marginally.  However, the  drug  had also  been introduced  into
fourteen products  at a food wholesalerâs  warehouse in Bangor before those
products  were shipped  to Black  River, and  it was  difficult for  him to
believe  that they  could have  been so  fortunate as  to have  avoided, by
chance, every contaminated substance.

There  was  a  second  possibility.  It was  conceivable,  although  highly
improbable,  that the  Edisons  had taken  the  drug but  hadnât come  into
contact with any of  the sophisticated subliminal programming that had been
designed  with  such care  for  the  Black River  experiment  and that  had
inundated the town through half a dozen forms of print and electronic media
for a period of seven days.

Salsbury was nearly certain that neither of these explanations was correct,
and that the truth was both complex and technical. Even the most beneficial
drugs did  not have a benign effect on everyone;  any drug could be counted
upon to  sicken or kill at least a tiny percentage  of those people to whom
it was  administered. Moreover,  for virtually every drug,  there were some
people, another  extremely small group, who  were either minimally affected
or utterly untouched by  it, owing to differences in metabolisms, variances
in body  chemistries, and unknown factors. More  likely than not, Jenny and
Sam Edison had taken the subliminal primer in water or food but hadnât been
altered  by  it÷either not  at  all or  not  as they  should have  been÷and
subsequently were  unimpressed by the subliminals  because they hadnât been
made ready for them.

Eventually he  would have to give the two of  them a series of examinations
and tests  at a fully equipped medical clinic, with  the hope that he could
find  what it was  that made them  impervious to  the drug. But  that could
wait.  During  the next  three  weeks  he would  be  quietly recording  and
studying the  effects that the  drug and subliminals produced  in the other
people of Black River.

Although Salsbury  was more  interested in Jenny  than in any  of the other
customers, most  of the  time his attention  was focused on  the younger of
Ultmanâs two waitresses. She  was a lean, lithe brunette with dark eyes and
a honey  complexion. Perhaps twenty-five years  old. A captivating smile. A
rich,  throaty  voice  perfect  for the  bedroom.  To  Salsbury, her  every
movement was filled with  sexual innuendo and an all but open invitation to
violation.

More important,  however, the waitress reminded him  of Miriam, the wife he
had divorced  twenty-seven years ago. Like  Miriam, she had small, high-set
breasts  and  very  beautiful, supple  legs.  Her  throaty voice  resembled
Miriamâs. And  she had Miriamâs walk: an unstudied  grace in every step, an
unconscious  and sinuous  rolling of  the hips  that took his  breath away.

He wanted her.

But he  would never take her  because she reminded him  too much of Miriam,
reminded him of the frustrations, angers, and disappointments of that awful
five-year marriage. She stirred  his lust÷but she also stirred his somewhat
suppressed, long-nurtured  hatred of Miriam and,  by extension, of women in
general. He knew that,  in the act, as he achieved penetration and began to
move,   her    resemblance   to   Miriam   would    leave   him   impotent.

When she brought the check for his lunch, flashing that dazzling smile that
had  begun to  seem smug  and superior  to him,  he said,  ãI am  the key.ä

He was  taking an unwarranted risk. He couldnât  defend it even to himself.
Until he  was certain that everyone  in town, other than  the Edisons and a
handful of children, was properly programmed, he should restrict the use of
the  command phrase to  telephone conversations,  as with Troutman,  and to
situations  wherein he  was alone with  the subject  and free from  fear of
interruption. Only after three  weeks of observation and individual Contact
could he  even begin to assume there was no risk  involved; and now, on one
level, he was a bit disturbed that he

was conducting  himself irresponsibly on  his first day in  town. He didnât
particularly  mind if  absolute power  corrupted him absolutely÷just  so it
didnât make  him overconfident and careless. On the  other hand, so long as
they  kept their  voices low, there  was little  chance that they  would be
overheard.  The elderly  couple  in the  booth by  the  door was  nearer to
Salsbury  than anyone else  in the cafe,  and they  were half a  room away.
Besides, unwarranted risk or not, he couldnât resist taking control of this
woman. His  emotions had unseated his reason, and  he was riding with them.

ãI am the lock,ä she said.

ãKeep your voice low.ä ãYes, sir.ä

ãWhatâs your name?ä ãAlice.ä

ãHow old are you?ä ãTwenty-six.ä

ãYouâre lovely,ä he said.

She said nothing.

ãSmile for me, Alice.ä

She smiled.  She didnât look the  least bit dazed. Even  her big, dark eyes
held  no   hint  of   a  trance.  Yet  she   was  unhesitatingly  obedient.

He said, ãYouâve got a nice body.ä

ãThank you.ä

ãDo you like sex?ä

ãYeah.ä

ãDo you like it very much?ä

ãYeah. I like it.ä

ãWhen youâre in  bed with a man, is there anything you  wonât let him do to
you?ä

ãYeah. Greek.ä

ãYou wonât let him take you in the ass?ä

She blushed and said, ãYeah. I donât like that.ä

ãIf I wanted you, I could have you.ä

She stared at him.

ãCouldnât I?ä

ãYeah.ä

ãIf I wanted you, I could have you right now, right here, on top of this
table.ä

ãYeah.ä

ãIf I wanted to take you Greek-style, I could.ä

She resisted the idea but finally said, ãIs that what you want?ä

ãIf I did want it, I could have it. Youâd let me.ä

ãYeah.ä

It was his turn to smile. He glanced around the cafe. No one was looking at
them; no one had heard. ãAre you married, Alice?ä

ãNo. Divorced.ä

ãWhy did you get a divorce?ä

ãHe couldnât hold a job.ä

ãYour husband couldnât?ä

ãYeah, him.ä

ãWas he good in bed?ä

ãNot very.ä

She was even more like Miriam than he had thought. After all these years he
could still remember what Miriam had said to him the day she left. Youâre
not just bad in bed, Ogden. Youâre terrible. And youâve no inclination to
learn. But you know, I could live with that if there were compensations. If
you had money and could buy me things, maybe I could live with your
fumbling sex. When I said Iâd marry you, I thought you were going to make
lots of money. Jesus Christ, you were at the top of your class at Harvard!
When you completed your doctorate, everyone wanted to hire you. If you had
any ambition whatsoever, youâd have already gotten your hands on a decent
piece of money. You know what, Ogden? I think youâre as inept and
unimaginative in your research as you are in bed. Youâre never going to get
anywhere, but I am. Iâm getting out. What a bitch she had been. Just
thinking about her, he began to tremble and perspire.

Alice was still smiling at him.

ãStop smiling,ä he said softly. ãI donât like it.ä

She did as she was told.

ãWhat am I, Alice?ä

ãYouâre the key.ä

ãAnd what are you?ä

ãThe lock.ä

ãNow that Iâve opened you, youâll do whatever I tell you to do. Isnât that
true?ä

ãYeah.ä

He took three one-dollar bills from his wallet and put them on top of the
lunch check. ãIâm going to test you, Alice. Iâm going to see just how
obedient you are.ä

She waited docilely.

ãWhen you leave this table,ä he said, ãyouâll take the check and money to
the cash register. Youâll ring up the sale and take your tip from
whateverâs left of the three dollars. Is that clear?ä

ãYeah.ä

ãThen you will go to the kitchen. Is there anyone back there?ä

ãNo. Randy went to the bank.ä

ãRandy Ultman?ä

ãYeah.ä

ãThatâs good,ä Salsbury said. ãNow, when you go to the kitchen, youâll pick
up a meat fork, a cookâs fork. One of those big, two-pronged forks. Is
there one of those in the kitchen?ä

ãYeah. Several.ä

ãYouâll pick one of them up and stab yourself with it, run it all the way
through your left hand.ä

She didnât even blink.

ãIs that understood, Alice?ä

ãYeah. I understand.ä

ãWhen you turn away from this table, youâll forget everything weâve said to
each other. Understood?ä

ãYeah.ä

ãWhen you run the fork through your hand, youâll think it was an accident.
A freak accident. Wonât you, Alice?ä

ãSure. An accident.ä

ãGo away, then.ä

She turned and walked to the half-door at the end of the

lunch counter, her smooth hips rolling provocatively.

When she reached the  cash register and began to ring up the sale, Salsbury
slid out of the booth and started toward the door.

She dropped her tip  into a pocket of her uniform, closed the cash register
drawer, and went into the kitchen.

At the entrance Salsbury stopped and put a quarter in the newspaper vending
machine.

Bob Thorp laughed loudly  at some joke, and the waitress named Bess giggled
like a young girl.

Salsbury took a copy of the Black River Bulletin from the wire rack, folded
it, put  it under  his arm, and  opened the door  to the  foyer. He stepped
across the  sill and began to  pull the door shut  behind him, thinking all
the while: Come on, you bitch, come on! His heart was pounding, and he felt
slightly dizzy.

Alice began to scream.

Grinning, Salsbury  closed the  first door, pushed through  the outer door,
went down the steps,  and walked east on Main Street, as if he were unaware
of the uproar in the cafe.

The day was bright and warm. The sky was cloudless.

He had never been happier.

Paul  shouldered past  Bob Thorp  and stepped  into the kitchen.  The young
waitress  was standing  at  a counter  that  lay between  two upright  food
freezers. Her  left hand was palm down on a  wooden cutting board. With her
right hand  she gripped  an eighteen-inch-long meat fork.  The two wickedly
sharp prongs appeared to have been driven all the way through her left hand
and into the wood  beneath. Blood spotted her light blue uniform, glistened
on  the cutting  board,  and dripped  from the  edge of  the Formica-topped
counter. She  was screaming and gasping for  breath between the screams and
shaking and trying to wrench the fork loose.

Turning back to Bob  Thorp, who stood transfixed in the doorway, Paul said,
ãGet Doc Troutman.ä

Thorp didnât have to be told again. He hurried away.

Taking   hold   of   the   womanâs  right   hand,   Paul   said,  ãLet   go

of the fork. I  want you to let go of the fork. Youâre doing more harm than
good.ä

She raised  her head and seemed to look straight  through him. Her face was
chalky  beneath  her  dark  complexion; she  was  obviously  in shock.  She
couldnât stop  screaming÷an ululating  wail more animal  than human÷and she
probably didnât even know that he had spoken to her.

He had to pry her fingers from the handle of the fork.

At his side Jenny said, ãOh, my God!ä

ãHold   her  for   me,ä   he  said.   ãDonât  let   her  grab   the  fork.ä

Jenny gripped  the womanâs right wrist. She said, ãI  think Iâm going to be
sick.ä

Paul  wouldnât have  blamed  her if  she had  been just  that. In  the tiny
restaurant kitchen,  with the ceiling only a  few inches above their heads,
the screams  were deafening. The sight  of that slender hand  with the fork
embedded in  it was horrifying, the stuff of  nightmares. The air was thick
with the stale odors of baked ham, roast beef, fried onions, grease÷and the
fresh, metallic  tang of  blood. It was  enough to nauseate  anyone. But he
said, ãYou wonât be sick. Youâre a tough lady.ä

She bit her lower lip and nodded.

Quickly, as if he had been prepared and waiting for exactly this emergency,
Paul took  a dishcloth from the towel rack and tore  it into two strips. He
threw one of these  aside. With the other length of cloth and a long wooden
tasting spoon,  he fashioned a  tourniquet for the waitressâs  left arm. He
twisted the wooden spoon  with his right hand and covered the handle of the
meat fork  with his left. To Jenny he said, ãCome  around here and take the
tourniquet.ä

As soon as her right hand was free, the waitress tried to get to the handle
of the fork. She clawed at Paulâs fist.

Jenny took hold of the spoon.

Pressing down  on the waitressâs wounded hand, Paul  jerked up on the fork,
which  was sunk  into the  wood perhaps  half an  inch past her  flesh, and
pulled the  tines from  her in one  sudden, clean movement.  He dropped the
fork and slipped an arm

around her waist to keep her from falling. Her knees had begun to buckle;
he had thought they might.

As he stretched the woman out on the floor, Jenny said, ãShe must be in
awful pain.ä

Those words seemed to shatter the waitressâs terror. She stopped screaming
and began to cry.

ãI donât see how she did it,ä Paul said as he tended to her. ãShe put that
fork through her hand with incredible force. She was pinned to the board.ä

Weeping, trembling, the waitress said, ãAccident.ä She gasped and groaned
and shook her head. ãTerrible . . . accident.ä

6

Fourteen Months Earlier:

Thursday, June 10, 1976

NAKED, THE  DEAD MAN lay on  his back in the  center of the slightly tilted
autopsy table, framed by blood gutters on all sides.

ãWho was he?ä Klinger asked.

Salsbury said, ãHe worked for Leonard.ä

The room in which the three men stood was illuminated only in the center by
two  hooded lamps  above  the autopsy  table. Three  walls were  lined with
computer housings, consoles, and monitor boards; and the tiny systems bulbs
and glowing  scopes made ghostly  patches of green, blue,  yellow, and pale
red light  in the surrounding shadows.  Nine TV display screens÷cathode-ray
tubes÷were set  high on three walls, and  four other screens were suspended
from  the ceiling;  and  all of  them  emitted a  thin bluish-green  light.

In that eerie glow the corpse looked less like a real body than like a prop
in a horror film.

Somber, almost  reverent, Dawson said, ãHis name  was Brian Kingman. He was
on my personal staff.ä

ãFor very long?ä Klinger asked.

ãFive years.ä

The  dead man had  been in his  late twenties  and in good  condition. Now,
circulation having  ceased seven hours ago, lividity  had set in; the blood
had settled into his calves, the backs of

his thighs, his buttocks, and his lower back, and in these places the flesh
was purple  and a bit distended.  His face was white  and deeply lined. His
hands   were   at  his   sides,   his   palms  up,   the  fingers   curled.

ãWas he married?ä Klinger asked.

Dawson shook his head: no.

ãFamily?ä

ãGrandparents  dead. No  brother or  sisters. His  mother died when  he was
born,  and  his  father   was  killed  in  an  auto  accident  last  year.ä

ãAunts and uncles?ä

ãNone close.ä

ãGirl friends?ä

ãNone that  he was  serious about or  that were serious  about him,ä Dawson
said. ãThatâs why we chose him. If he disappears, thereâs no one to waste a
lot of time and energy looking for him.ä

Klinger considered that for  a few seconds. Then he said, ãYou expected the
experiment to kill him?ä

ãWe thought there was a chance of it,ä Ogden said.

Smiling grimly, Klinger said, ãYou were right.ä

Something about  the generalâs tone angered  Salsbury. ãYou knew the stakes
when you came in with Leonard and me.ä

ãOf course I did,ä Klinger said.

ãThen  donât act  as if  Kingmanâs death  is entirely  my fault.  The blame
belongs to all of us.ä

Frowning, the  general said, ãOgden, you  misunderstand me. I donât believe
that  you and  Leonard and  I are  to blame  for anything.  This man  was a
machine that  broke down. Nothing more. We  can always get another machine.
Youâre too sensitive, Ogden.ä

ãPoor boy,ä  Dawson said, regarding  the corpse sadly. ãHe  would have done
anything for me.ä

ãHe  did,ä  the general  said.  He  stared thoughtfully  at  the dead  man.
ãLeonard, youâve  got seven  servants in this  house. Did any  of them know
Kingman was here?ä

ãThatâs highly unlikely. We brought him in secretly.ä

For thirteen  months, this wing of the Greenwich  house had been sealed off
from  the other  twenty  rooms. It  had been  provided  with a  new private
entrance, and  all of  the locks had  been changed. The  servants were told
that  experiments,  none of  them  dangerous,  were being  conducted for  a
subsidiary  of Futurex, and  that the  security precautions were  needed to
protect the  operationâs files  and discoveries from  industrial espionage.

ãIs the  household staff  still curious about  what goes on  here?ä Klinger
asked.

ãNo,ä Dawson said. ãSo  far as they can see, nothingâs happened in the past
year. The sealed wing has lost its mystery.ä

ãThen I think we  can bury Kingman on the estate without too much risk.ä He
faced Salsbury. ãWhat happened? How did he die?ä

Salsbury  sat on  a high,  white stool  at the  head of the  autopsy table,
hooked  his heels around  one of its  rungs, and  spoke to them  across the
corpse. ãWe  brought Kingman here for the first  time in early February. He
thought  he  was  helping  us  with  some sociological  research  that  had
important  business  applications  for   Futurex.  During  forty  hours  of
interviews with him, I  learned everything I wanted to know about the manâs
likes, dislikes, prejudices, personality quirks, desires, and basic thought
processes. Later, at the end of February, I went through the transcripts of
those interviews and selected five test points, five of Kingmanâs attitudes
and/or opinions that I  would try to reverse with a series of subliminals.ä

He had chosen three simple test points and two complex ones. Kingman craved
chocolate  candy, chocolate  cake,  chocolate in  every form;  and Salsbury
wanted to  make him  ill at the  first taste of chocolate.  He couldnât and
wouldnât eat broccoli; but Salsbury wanted to make him like it. Kingman had
an ingrained fear of dogs; an attempt to transform that fear into affection
would constitute  the third  of the simple  test points. The  remaining two
indices presented  Salsbury with  a far greater  chance of failure,  for to
deal  with them  he  would have  to design  subliminal commands  that bored
especially deeply into King-

manâs psyche.  First of all, Kingman  was an atheist, a  fact he had hidden
successfully  from  Dawson  for  five  years. Secondly,  he  was  extremely
prejudiced against blacks. Making him over into a God-loving, prayer-saying
champion of  the Negro would be far more  difficult than twisting his taste
for chocolate into a loathing of it.

By  the second week  of April,  Salsbury completed the  subliminal program.

Kingman was  brought back to the  Greenwich house on the  fifteenth of that
month÷ostensibly  to participate  in  additional sociological  research for
Futurex. Although he wasnât  aware of it, he was fed the subliminal primer,
the drug, on April 15. Salsbury put him under close medical observation and
ran tests  on him  for three days,  but he could  find no  indications of a
temporary  toxic  state,  permanent   tissue  damage,  a  change  in  blood
chemistry,  noticeable  psychological  damage,  or  any  other  deleterious
side-effects attributable to the drug.

At the  end of  those three days,  on April 19, still  in excellent health,
Kingman  took  part  in  what  he  thought  was  an  experiment  in  visual
perception.  He  was  shown  two  feature-length  motion  pictures  in  one
afternoon, and  at the conclusion of each film he  was required to answer a
hundred questions  that dealt with what he had  just seen. His answers were
unimportant,  and they  were filed  only because Salsbury  habitually filed
every scrap  of paper in  his laboratory. The experiment  actually had only
one purpose: while Kingman  was watching the films, he was also unwittingly
absorbing three  hours of  subliminal programming that was  meant to change
five of his attitudes.

The  events of  the following  day, April  20, proved the  effectiveness of
Salsburyâs drug and subliminal programs. At breakfast, Kingman tried to eat
a chocolate  doughnut, dropped  it after one bite,  quickly excused himself
from the table, went to the nearest bathroom, and threw up. At lunch he ate
four  portions  of broccoli  in  butter  sauce with  his  pork chops.  That
afternoon,  when Dawson  took him on  a tour  of the estate,  Kingman spent
fifteen minutes playing with several of the guard dogs in the kennel. After
dinner, when Ogden and Dawson

began to discuss the  continuing efforts to integrate the public schools in
the North, Kingman came  on like a life-long liberal, an ardent advocate of
equal  rights.  And finally,  unaware  of  the two  videotape cameras  that
monitored his  bedroom in the sealed  wing, he had said  his prayers before
going to sleep.

Standing  now  beside  the corpse,  smiling  beatifically,  Dawson said  to
Klinger, ãYou should have  seen it, Ernst! It was terribly inspiring. Ogden
took an atheist, a soul condemned to burn in Hell, and converted him into a
faithful disciple of Jesus. And all on one day!ä

Salsbury was  uneasy. He shifted on the  stool. Ignoring Dawson, staring at
the middle of the  generalâs forehead, he said, ãKingman left the estate on
April twenty-first. I set to work immediately to design the ultimate series
of  subliminals, the  one  we three  have  discussed a  hundred times,  the
program that  would give  me total and  permanent control of  the subjectâs
mind through the use  of a code phrase. I finished it on the fifth of June.
We   brought   Kingman  back   here   on   the  eighth,   two  days   ago.ä

ãHe wasnât  suspicious?ä Klinger asked. ãOr upset  about all of this travel
he was asked to do?ä

ãTo the  contrary,ä Dawson said. ãHe  was pleased that I  was using him for
such a special project,  even if he didnât fully understand what it was. He
saw  it as  a sign  of my  faith in him.  And he  thought that, if  he made
himself available  for Ogdenâs work, he would  be promoted much sooner than
he might have been otherwise. His behavior wasnât peculiar. Iâve seen it in
every ambitious  young executive  and management trainee  Iâve ever known.ä

Tired  of  standing, the  general  went  to the  nearest computer  console,
swiveled the  command chair  away from the  keyboard, and sat  down. He was
almost entirely  in the shadows.  Green light from a  display screen washed
across his right shoulder  and that side of his brutal face. He looked like
a troll. ãOkay. You finished the program on the fifth. Kingman came up here
again on the eighth. You fed him the primer֊

ãNo,ä   Salsbury    said.   ãOnce   the   drug    has   been   administered

to a  subject, thereâs no need  to give him a  booster dose, not even years
later. When Kingman arrived, I began at once with the subliminal program. I
ran  two films  for him during  the evening.  That night, the  night before
last,  he had  a very bad  dream. He  woke up, sweating,  chilled, shaking,
dazed, and nauseated. He  had trouble getting his breath. He vomited beside
the bed.ä

ãFever?ä Klinger asked.

ãDo you  think he  had a delayed  reaction to the  drug÷a month  and a half
delayed?ä

ãMaybe,ä Salsbury said. But he obviously didnât think that was the case. He
got off the stool,  went to his desk in a dark corner of the room, and came
back  with a  computer  print-out. ãThis  is  a record  of Kingmanâs  sleep
patterns  between one oâclock  and three  oâclock this morning.  Thatâs the
crucial period.ä  He handed it to Dawson.  ãYesterday, I showed Kingman two
more  films.  That  completed  the program.  Last  night÷he  died in  bed.ä

The general joined Dawson  and Salsbury in the oval of light at the autopsy
table  and  began  to  read  the  two-yard-long sheet  of  computer  paper.

PARTIAL RECAPITULATION

MEDICAL MONITORING PROGRAM:

BK/OB REP 14

RECORDED: 6/10/76

THIS PRINT: 6/1O/76

PRINT





HOURS MIN SEC READING

0100 00 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 01 00 EEG-÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 02 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 03 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 04 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

Klinger  said, ãYou had  Kingman hooked up  to a  lot of machines  while he
slept?ä

ãNearly every night he  was here, right from the beginning,ä Salsbury said.
ãThe first few times there really wasnât any reason for it. But by the time
it was  necessary for me to keep a close watch on him, he was accustomed to
the machines  and had  learned to sleep  tangled up with  all those wires.ä

Indicating the  print-out, the general  said, ãIâm not quite  sure what Iâm
reading here.ä

ãLikewise,ä Dawson said.

Salsbury  suppressed a  smile.  Months ago  he  had decided  that his  best
defense against  these two sharks was  his highly specialized education. He
never missed an opportunity to display it for them÷and to impress them with
the fact  that, if they should dispose of him,  neither of them could carry
on  his research  and  development or  deal with  an  unexpected scientific
crisis after the research and development was finished.

Pointing to the first  several lines of the print-out, he said, ãThe fourth
stage  of sleep  is  the deepest.  It tends  to occur  early in  the night.
Kingman went  to bed at midnight and fell asleep  at twenty minutes of one.
As  you can  see  here, he  achieved  the fourth  level twenty-two  minutes
later.ä

ãWhatâs the importance of that?ä Dawson asked.

ãThe  fourth level  is more  like a  coma than  any other stage  of sleep,ä
Salsbury  said. ãThe  electroencephalogram shows  irregular large  waves of
just a  few cycles per second.  There is no bodily  movement on the part of
the sleeper. Itâs in stage four, with the outer mind virtually comatose and
with all  sensory input  shut down tight,  that the inner  mind becomes the
only truly operative part of the mind. Remember, unlike the conscious mind,
it  never   sleeps.  But  because  there   isnât  any  sensory  input,  the
subconscious  canât do anything  during stage  four sleep except  play with
itself.  Now, Kingmanâs  subconscious had  something unique to  play with.ä

The general said, ãThe  key-lock program you implanted in him yesterday and
the day before.ä

ãThatâs right,ä Salsbury said. ãAnd look here, farther down the print-out.ä

0100 08 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 09 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 10 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 11 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

ãAll  night long,ä  Salsbury  said, ãwe  rise and  fall  and rise  and fall
through the stages of sleep. Almost without exception, we descend into deep
sleep in  Steps and ascend from it in steps as  well, spending some time at
each level along the way. In this case, however, Kingman soared straight up
from deep  sleep to light sleep÷as  if a noise in  the bedroom had startled
him.ä

ãWas there a noise?ä Dawson asked.

ãWhatâs this REM?ä Klinger asked.

Salsbury said,  ãThat means  rapid eye movement  is taking place  under the
eyelids÷which is a highly  reliable indication that Kingman was dreaming in
stage one.ä

ãDreaming?ä Dawson asked. ãAbout what?ä

ãThereâs no way of telling.ä

The general scratched the shadow of a beard that shaded his blunt chin even
when he was freshly shaved. ãBut you think that the dream was caused by his
subconscious playing around with the key-lock implant.ä

ãYes.ä

ãAnd   that   the   dream  might   have   been   about  the   subliminals.ä

ãYes. I canât come  up with an explanation that makes more sense. Something
about  the  key-lock  program  so  shocked  his subconscious  that  he  was
propelled straight up into a dream.ä

ãA nightmare?ä

ãAt  this point,  just  a dream.  But over  the  next two  hours  his sleep
patterns became increasingly unusual, erratic.ä

0100 12 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 13 00 EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0100 14 00 EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

ãThe alpha waves mean Kingman was awake here for two minutes,ä Salsbury
said. ãNot wide awake. His eyes were probably still closed. He was hovering
on the edge of the first level of sleep.ä

ãThe dream woke him,ä Klinger said.

ãProbably.ä

0100 15 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 16 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP

0100 17 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP

0100 18 00 EEG-÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0100 19 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0100 20 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 21 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 22 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 23 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 24 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 25 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 26 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 27 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 28 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 29 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 30 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

ãThe first time he entered deep sleep,ä Salsbury said, ãhe stayed there for
eight minutes. This time it lasted only six minutes. Thatâs the start of an
interesting pattern.ä

0100 31 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 32 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 33 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 34 00 EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0100 35 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 36 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 37 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0100 38 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0100 39 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0100 40 00 EEC÷-STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 41 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 42 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 43 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 44 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 45 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 46 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 47 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0100 48 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 49 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 50 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0100 51 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

ãHe was  only in  deep sleep three  minutes that time,ä  Klinger said. ãThe
cycle is accelerating, at least on the down side.ä

Dawson said,  ãBut why?  Ernst apparently understands,  but Iâm not  sure I
do.ä

ãSomethingâs  happening  in  his  subconscious  mind  during  deep  sleep,ä
Salsbury said. ãSomething so  unsettling that it causes him to leap up into
stage one  sleep and  dream. That subconscious experience,  whatever it may
be, is getting ever more intense÷or, if it isnât getting mere intense, then
his ability  to withstand it is dwindling.  Perhaps both. On each occasion,
heâs able to tolerate  it for a shorter period of time than he did before.ä

ãYou mean heâs in pain in stage four?ä Dawson asked.

ãPain is a condition of the flesh,ä Salsbury said. ãItâs not the right word
for this situation.ä

ãWhat is the right word.ä

ãAnxiety, perhaps. Or fear.ä

0100 52 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 53 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 54 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 55 00 EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0100 56 00EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0100 57 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 58 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0100 59 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP/REM

0200 00 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0200 01 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0200 02 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0200 03 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 04 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 05 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 06 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 07 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 4 SLEEP

0200 08 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

ãOne minute that time,ä Klinger said.

ãBy now heâs extremely agitated,ä Salsbury said, speaking of the dead man
as if he were still alive. ãThe pattern becomes increasingly unusual and
erratic. At two twenty he gets back to the third level. Look what happens
to him after that:ä

0200 20 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 21 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 22 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 23 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 24 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 25 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

Klinger was as fascinated by the print-out of Brian Kingmanâs
disintegration as he possibly could have been by the sight of the real
event. ãHe didnât even reach the fourth level that time before he popped up
to stage one again.ä

ãHeâs having an acute subconscious anxiety attack,ä Salsbury said.

Dawson said, ãIs there such a thing?ä

ãThere is now. His mind is wildly turbulent at this point÷ yet in such a
way that it doesnât wake him up altogether. And it gets worse.ä

0200 26 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 27 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 28 00 EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 29 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 30 00 EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 31 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 32 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 33 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0200 34 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0200 35 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0200 36 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 3 SLEEP

0200 37 00 EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

ãHe was frightened awake at two thirty-seven, wasnât he?ä Dawson asked.

Salsbury said, ãThatâs right. Not wide awake. But beyond the first level of
sleep, into alpha wave territory. Youâre learning to read it now.ä

0200 38 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 39 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 40 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 41 00 EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 42 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 43 00 EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 44 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 45 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 46 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0200 47 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 2 SLEEP

0200 46 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 49 00 EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 50 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 51 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 52 00 EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 53 00 EEC÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 54 00EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 55 00EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 56 00 EEG÷÷STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM

0200 5? 00 EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 55 00 EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0200 59 00 EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0300 00 00 EEG÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0300 01 00 EEC÷÷ALPHA WAVES

0300 02 00 EEG÷÷NO READING

0300 03 00 EEC÷÷NO READING

0300 04 00 EEC÷÷NO READING

0300 05 00 EEC÷÷NO READING

LIFE SIGNS NEGATIVE

LIFE SIGNS NEGATIVE

LIFE SIGNS NEGATIVE

PATIENT DECEASED





                                 END PRINT

END PROGRAM ::STOP::

Dawson let out his breath somewhat explosively, as if he had been holding
it for the past minute. ãHe was a good man. May he rest in peace.ä

ãThere at the end,ä the general said, ãthere were five consecutive alpha
wave readings. Does that mean he was fully awake for five minutes before he
died?ä

ãFully awake,ä Salsbury said. ãBut not rational.ä

ãI thought you said he died in his sleep.ä

ãNo. I said he died in bed.ä

"What happened in those five minutes?ä

ãIâll show you,ä Salsbury said. He went to the nearest computer console and
briefly used the keyboard.

All but two of the overhead scanners went dark. One of these was an
ordinary television screen controlled by the computer on

a  closed-circuit arrangement.  The other  was a cathode-ray  readout tube.

Getting up from the  keyboard, Salsbury said, ãThe screen on the right will
run a  videotape of the last six minutes of  King-manâs life. The screen on
the left  will provide  a synchronized read-out  of some of  his vital life
signs, updating them every thirty seconds.ä

Dawson and Klinger moved closer.

The right-hand screen flickered.  A sharply focused black-and-white picture
appeared on  it: Brian Kingman lying  atop his covers, on  his back, twelve
data-gathering patches cemented to  his head and torso, wires trailing from
the patches to two  machines at the side of the bed. A sphygmomanometer was
attached  to  his right  arm  and  wired directly  to  the  smaller of  the
machines. Kingman glistened with  perspiration. He was trembling. Every few
seconds one of his arms would jerk up defensively, or one of his legs would
kick out  at the air. In spite of this movement,  his eyes were closed, and
he was asleep.

ãHeâs in stage one now,ä Salsbury said.

ãDreaming,ä Dawson said.

ãObviously.ä

At the  top of  the left-hand screen  there was a digital  clock that broke
down the time count into hours, minutes, seconds, and tenths of seconds. On
the  soft  green  background  below  the  clock,  white  computer-generated
characters  reported  on  four  of  Kingmanâs most  important  life  signs.

BK/OB REP 14, ONGOING, AS FOLLOWS:

TEST NORMAL FOR THIS SUBJECT VALUE

TEMPERATURE 98.6 98.6

RESPIRATION 18 PER MIN 22 PER MIN

PULSE 70 PER MIN 90 PER MIN

BLOOD PRESSURE

SYSTOLIC 100÷120 110

DIASTOLIC 60÷70 70

ãHeâs  still asleep,ä Salsbury  said. ãBut  his respiration and  pulse have
picked up approximately twenty-five  percent. He appears to be having a bad
dream. His thrashing about  gets worse in just a moment. Heâs ready to come
out of it now. Ready to wake up. Watch closely. There!ä

On the  black-and-white screen, Kingman suddenly  drew up his knees, kicked
out with both feet, drew up his knees again, and kept them drawn up, almost
to his chest. He  gripped his head with both hands, rolled his eyes, opened
his mouth.

ãHeâs  screaming  now,ä  Salsbury  said.  ãIâm  sorry  thereâs  no  audio.ä

ãWhatâs he  screaming at?ä  Dawson asked. ãHeâs awake  now. The nightmareâs
over.ä

ãWait,ä Salsbury said.

ãHis respiration and pulse are soaring,ä Klinger said.

Kingman screamed soundlessly.

0200 58 00

ãLook how his chest is heaving,ä Dawson said. ãGood God, his lungs will
burst!ä

Writhing continuously but a degree less violently than he had been a moment
ago, Kingman began to chew on his lower lip. In seconds his chin was
covered with blood.

ãAn epileptic seizure?ä the general asked.

Salsbury said, ãNo.ä

At 2:59, the left-hand screen began a new line print from the top of the
tube:

TEST NORMAL FOR THIS SUBJECT VALUE

TEMPERATURE 98.6 98.8

RESPIRATION 18 PER MIN 48 PER MIN

PULSE 70 PER MIN 190 PER MIN

BLOOD PRESSURE

SYSTOLIC CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL

CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL

On the black-and-white screen, Kingman convulsed and was almost perfectly
still. His feet twitched, and his right hand

opened and closed, opened and closed; but otherwise he was motionless. Even
his eyes had stopped rolling; they were squeezed tightly shut.

The read-out screen went blank, then an instant later flashed an emergency
message.

0200 59 12

MASSIVE MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION

MASSIVE MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION

ãHeart attack,ä Salsbury said.

Kingmanâs left arm was bent in a V across his chest and seemed to be
paralyzed. His left hand was fisted and unmoving against his neck.

0300 00 00

PULSE IRREGULAR

RESPIRATION IRREGULAR

Kingmanâs eyes were open now. He was staring at the ceiling.

ãHeâs screaming again,ä Klinger said.

ãTrying to scream,ä Salsbury said. ãI doubt if he could manage more than a
croak in his present state.ä

0300 01 00

PULSE ERRATIC

RESPIRATION ERRATIC

EEC WAVES DETERIORATING TO DELTA

Kingmanâs feet stopped kicking. His right hand stopped opening and closing.
He stopped trying to scream.

ãItâs over,ä Salsbury said. Simultaneously, the two screens went blank.
Brian Kingman had died again.

ãBut what killed him?ä Dawsonâs handsome face was the Color of dusting
powder. ãThe drug?ä

ãNot the drug,ä Salsbury said. ãFear.ä

Klinger returned to the autopsy table to have a look at the body. ãFear. I
thought thatâs what you were going to say.ä

ãSudden, powerful fear  can kill,ä Salsbury said. ãAnd in this case, thatâs
where all the evidence points. Of course, Iâll do a thorough autopsy. But I
donât  believe Iâll  find any  physiological cause  for the  heart attack.ä

Squeezing Saisburyâs shoulder, Dawson said, ãDo you mean Brian realized, in
his sleep, that we  were on the verge of taking control of him? And that he
was  so  terrified  of  being  controlled  that the  thought  killed  him?ä

ãSomething like that.ä

ãThen even if the drug works÷the subliminals donât.ä

ãOh, theyâll  work,ä Salsbury said. ãIâve just  got to refine the program.ä

ãRefine?ä

ãIâll put it  in lay terms as best I can. You  see, to implant the key-lock
subliminals,  Iâve  got to÷to  bore  a hole  through  the id  and the  ego.
Apparently, the first program was too crude. It didnât just bore a hole. It
shattered the  id and  ego altogether, or  very nearly did. Iâve  got to be
more  subtle  the  next  time,  preface  the  commands  with  some  careful
persuasion.ä He pushed a wheeled instrument cart to the side of the autopsy
table.

Not wholly satisfied with Salsburyâs explanation, Dawson said, ãBut what if
you donât refine it quite enough? ÎWhat if the next test subject dies? Itâs
conceivable that  one member of my  personal staff might walk  off his job,
vanish without a trace. But two? Or three? Impossible!ä

Salsbury opened a drawer in the cart. He took out a thick white linen towel
and spread  it across the top  of the cart. ãWe  wonât use anyone from your
staff for the second test.ä

ãWhere else are we going to get a test subject?ä

Salsbury  took surgical  instruments, one  at a  time, from the  drawer and
lined them up on the linen. ãI think the time has come to put together that
corporation  in Liechtenstein.  Hire three  mercenaries, give them  sets of
forged  papers, and  bring them  here from  Europe under their  new names.ä

ãTo this house?ä Dawson asked.

ãThatâs right.  We wonât  need the walled  estate in Germany  or France for
some time yet. ÎWeâll give the drug to all three of

them  the  first day  theyâre  here. The  second  day, Iâll  start the  new
key-lock program with one of them. If it works with him, if it doesnât kill
him, then  Iâll use it on  the other two. Eventually,  weâll be running the
field test  in this country. ÎWhen the time comes  for that, weâll be happy
to  have two  or  three well-trained,  submissive  men so  close at  hand.ä

Scowling,  Dawson   said,  ãHiring  lawyers  in   Vaduz,  establishing  the
corporation,  buying the  forged papers,  hiring the  mercenaries, bringing
them here . .  . these are expenditures I didnât want to make until we were
certain the drug and subliminals will work as you say.ä

ãThey will.ä

ãWe arenât yet certain.ä

Holding  a scalpel  to the  light, studying  the silhouette of  its razored
edge, Salsbury  said, ãIâm  sure the money  wonât come out  of your pocket,
Leonard. Youâll find some way to squeeze it from the corporation.ä

ãItâs not  is easy as all that, I assure you.  Futurex isnât a private game
park, you  know. Itâs  a public corporation.  I canât raid  the treasury at
will.ä

ãYouâre  supposed  to  be  a billionaire,ä  Salsbury  said.  ãIn the  great
tradition  of Onassis,  Getty, Hughes .  . .  Futurex isnât the  only thing
youâve got your hand in. Somewhere, you found more than two million dollars
to set up  this lab. And every month you manage to  come up with the eighty
thousand dollars needed to  maintain it. By comparison, this new expense is
a trifle.ä

ãI agree,ä the general said.

ãItâs not your money  thatâs going down a rat hole,ä Dawson said irritably.

ãIf you  think the  projectâs a rat  hole,ä Salsbury said,  ãthen we Should
call it off right now.ä

Dawson started  to pace,  stopped after a  few steps, put his  hands in his
trouser pockets, and took  them right out again. Itâs these men that bother
me.ä

ãWhat men?ä

ãThese mercenaries.ä

ãWhat about them?ä

ãTheyâre nothing but killers.ä

ãOf course.ä

ãProfessional  killers.  They  earn their  living by÷by  murdering people.ä

ãIâve never  had much of  anything good to say  about freelancers,ä Klinger
said. ãBut thatâs a simplification, Leonard.ä

ãItâs essentially true.ä

Impatiently, Salsbury said, ãSo what if it is?ä

ãWell, I  donât like the idea of having them in  my home,ä Dawson said. His
tone was almost prissy.

You hypocritical ass, Salsbury thought. He didnât have the nerve to say it.
His confidence had increased over the past year

÷but not enough to  enable him to speak so frankly to Dawson. Klinger said,
ãLeonard, how in the hell do you think weâd

fare with  the police and the  courts if they found  out how King-man died?
Would they just pat us on the head and send us away with a scolding? Do you
think that  just because  we didnât strangle  or shoot or  stab him, theyâd
hesitate to  call us killers? Do you think  weâd get off scot-free because,
although   weâre   killers,   we  donât   earn   our   living  that   way?ä

For  an instant  Dawsonâs black  eyes, like  onyx mirrors, caught  the cold
fluorescent  light  and gleamed  unnaturally.  Then  he turned  his head  a
fraction of  an inch,  and the effect  was lost. However,  something of the
same frigid, alien quality remained in his voice. ãI never touched Brian. I
never  laid  a  finger  on him.  I  never  said  an  unkind  word to  him.ä

Neither Salsbury nor Klinger responded.

ãI didnât want him to die.ä

They waited.

Dawson  wiped one  hand across  his face.  ãVery well.  Iâll move  ahead in
Liechtenstein.    Iâll   get    those    three   mercenaries    for   you.ä

ãHow Soon?ä Salsbury asked.

ãIf  Iâm to  maintain  secrecy every  step of  the way÷three  months. Maybe
four.ä

Salsbury  nodded  and continued  laying  out surgical  instruments for  the
autopsy.

7

Monday, August 22, 1977

AT NINE 0â CL 0 C K Monday morning, Jenny came to visit the Annendale camp,
and she brought with her a sturdy, yard-high canary cage.

Mark laughed when he saw her carrying it out of the woods. ãWhatâs that
for?ä

ãA guest should always bring a gift,ä she said.

ãWhat will we do with it?ä

She put it in the boyâs hands as Paul kissed her on the cheek. Mark grinned
at her through the slender, gilded bars. ãYou said you wanted to bring your
squirrel to town this coming Friday. Well, you canât let him loose in the
car. This will be his travel cage.ä

ãHe wonât like being penned up.ä

ãNot at first. But heâll get used to it.ä

ãHeâll have to get used to it sooner or later if heâs going to be your
pet,ä Paul said.

Rya nudged her brother and said, ãFor Godâs sake, Mark, arenât you going to
say thank you? Jenny probably looked all over town for that.ä

The boy blushed. ãOh, sure. Thanks. Thanks a lot, Jenny.ä

ãRya, youâll notice thereâs a small brown bag in the bottom of the cage.
Thatâs for you.ä

The girl tore open the bag and smiled when she saw the three paperback
books. ãSome of my favorite authors. And I donât have any of these! Thanks,
Jenny.ä

Most eleven-year-old  girls liked  to read nurse  novels, romances, perhaps
Barbara  Cartland or  Mary Roberts  Rinehart. But  Jenny would have  made a
serious mistake if she  had brought anything of that sort for Rya. Instead:
one  Louis  LâAmour western,  one  collection  of horror  stories, and  one
adventure novel  by Alistair  MacLean. Rya wasnât a  classic tomboy÷but she
sure  as  hell  wasnât  like  most  other  eleven-year-old  girls,  either.

Both  of these  children were special.  That was  why, although she  had no
particular affection  for children in  general, she had fallen  for them so
quickly.  She   loved  them   every  bit  as   much  as  she   loved  Paul.

Oh,  yeah? she  thought,  catching herself  in the  admission.  Youâre just
brimming with love for Paul, are you?

Enough of that.

Love, is it? Then why donât you accept his proposal?

Enough.

Why wonât you marry him?

Well, because÷ She forced herself to stop arguing with herself. People who

indulged in  extended interior dialogues, she  thought, were candidates for
schizophrenia.

For a while the four of them fed the squirrel, which Mark had named Buster,
and watched  its antics. The boy  regaled them with his  plans for training
the animal. He intended to teach Buster to roll over and play dead, to heel
when told,  to beg  for his supper,  and to fetch  a stick. No  one had the
heart to tell him how unlikely it was that a squirrel could ever be made to
do any of those  things. Jenny wanted to laugh and grab him and hug him÷but
she  only nodded  and agreed with  him whenever  he asked for  her opinion.

Later  they  played  a   game  of  tag  and  several  games  of  badminton.

At eleven  oâclock Rya said, ãIâve got an announcement  to make. Mark and I
planned  lunch. Weâre  going to  do all  of the  cooking ourselves.  And we
really   have   some   special   dishes   to   make.   Donât   we,   Mark?ä

ãYeah, we sure do. My favorite is÷ä

ãMark!ä Rya said quickly. ãItâs a surprise.ä

ãYeah,ä he said, as if he hadnât almost given away everything. ãThatâs
right. Itâs a surprise.ä

Tucking her long black hair behind her ears, Rya turned to her father and
said, ãWhy donât you and Jenny take a nice long walk up the mountain? There
are lots and lots of easy deer trails. You should work up an appetite.ä

ãIâve already worked one up by playing badminton,ä Paul said.

Rya made a face. ãI donât want you to see what weâre cooking.ä

ãOkay. Weâll sit over there with our backs to you.ä Rya shook her head: no.
She was adamant. ãYouâll still smell it cooking. There wonât be any
surprise.ä

ãThe wind isnât blowing that way,ä Paul said. ãCooking odors wonât carry
far.ä

Anxiously twisting her badminton racket in her hands, Rya glanced at Jenny.

What a lot of schemes and calculations are whirling around behind those
innocent blue eyes of yours, Jenny thought. She was beginning to understand
what the girl wanted.

With characteristic bluntness, Mark said, ãYou got to go for a walk with
Jenny, Dad. We know the two of you want to be alone.ä

ãMark, for Godâs sake!ä Rya was aghast.

ãWell,ä the boy said defensively, ãthatâs why weâre making lunch, isnât it?
To give them a chance to be alone?ä

Jenny laughed.

ãIâll be damned,ä Paul said.

Rya said, ãI think Iâll cook squirrel for lunch.ä

A look of horror passed across Markâs face. ãThatâs a terrible, rotten
thing to say!ä

ãI didnât mean it.ä

ãItâs still rotten.ä

ãI apologize.ä

Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he were trying to assess
her sincerity, Mark finally said, ãWell, okay.ä

Taking Paulâs hand, Jenny said, ãIf we donât go for a walk, your daughterâs
going  to be  very upset.  And when  your daughter  is very upset,  sheâs a
dangerous girl.ä

Grinning, Rya said, ãThatâs true. Iâm a terror.ä

ãJenny and  I are going for a walk,ä Paul said.  He leaned toward Rya. ãBut
tonight Iâll tell you  the shocking story of the hideous fate that befell a
conniving child.ä

ãOh, good!ä Rya said.  ãI like bedtime stories. Lunch will be served at one
oâclock.ä She turned away and, as if she sensed Paul swinging his badminton
racket  at  her  backside,  jumped to  the  left  and  ran  into the  tent.

The stream gushed noisily around a boulder, surged between banks lined with
scrub birch and laurel, descended several rocky shelves, and formed a wide,
deep pool at the  end of the hollow before racing on to spill down the next
step of the mountain. There were fish in the pool: darker shapes gliding in
dark water.  The surrounding  clearing was sheltered  by full-sized birches
and  one gargantuan  oak with  exposed and  twisted roots,  like tentacles,
thrusting into the leaf  mulch and black earth. The ground between the base
of  the oak  and the pool  was covered with  moss so  thick that it  made a
comfortable mattress for lovers.

Half an hour above the camp and the meadow where they had played badminton,
they stopped  beside the pool to  rest. She stretched out  on her back, her
hands behind her head. He lay beside her.

She  didnât  know quite  how  it  had happened,  but  the conversation  had
eventually given way to  a gentle exchange of kisses. Caresses. Murmurs. He
held  her to  him, his  hands on her  buttocks, his  face in her  hair, and
licked lightly at her earlobe.

Suddenly she  became the bolder of the two. She  rubbed one hand across the
crotch   of   his   jeans,   felt   him   swelling   beneath   the   denim.

ãI want that,ä she said.

ãI want you.ä

ãThen we can both have what we want.ä

When  they  were  naked,  he began  to  kiss  her  breasts.  He licked  her
stiffening nipples.

ãI want you  now,ä she said. ãQuickly. We can take longer the second time.ä

They  responded  to  each  other  with  a  powerful,  unique,  and  utterly
unexpected sensitivity that neither of them had ever quite achieved before.
The pleasure  was more  than intense. It  was very nearly  excruciating for
her, and she could  see that it was much the same for him. Perhaps this was
because they  had wanted each other  so fiercely but had  not been together
for  so long,  since March.  If absence  makes the  heart grow  fonder, she
thought,  does it  also  make the  genitals grow  randier? Or  perhaps this
electrifying pleasure  was a  response to the  setting, to the  wild landâs
sounds  and  odors  and   textures.  Whatever  the  reason,  he  needed  no
lubrication to penetrate her. He slid deep with one fluid thrust and rocked
in and  out of  her, down and  down, filling her, tight  within her, moving
her. She was transfixed  by the sight of his arms: the muscles bulged, each
well  defined,  as he  supported  himself  over her.  She  reached for  his
buttocks,  hard  as  stone,  and pulled  him  farther  into  her with  each
galvanizing stroke. Although she  rapidly came into her climax, she coasted
down from  it so slowly that  she wondered if there would  be an end to it.
Abruptly, when the sensations in her had subsided, he grew still, pinned by
the power of his own orgasm. He softly said her name.

Shrinking within her, he  kissed her breasts and lips and forehead. Then he
rolled off her, onto his side.

She  moved  against him,  belly  to belly,  and  put her  lips against  the
throbbing artery in his neck.

He held her, and  she held him. The act that they had just Completed seemed
to   bind  them;   the   memory  of   joy  was   an   invisible  umbilical.

For a few minutes  she was not at all aware of the world beyond his shadow.
She couldnât  hear anything except the beat of her  own heart and the heavy
drawing of  breath from  both of them.  In time the voices  of the mountain
filtered back to her:

leaves  rustling overhead,  the stream  splashing down  the slope  into the
pool, birds  calling to  one another in  the trees. Likewise,  at first she
couldnât feel  anything but  the slight ache  in her chest  and Paulâs warm
semen trickling out of her. Gradually,

however, she realized that the day was hot and humid, and that their
embrace had become less romantic than sticky.

Reluctantly, she disentangled herself from him and rolled onto her back. A
sheen of perspiration filmed her breasts and stomach.

She said, ãIncredible.ä

ãIncredible.ä

Neither of them was ready to say more than that.

The breeze had almost dried them when he finally raised up on one elbow and
looked down at her. ãYou know something?ä

ãWhatâs that?ä

ãIâve never known another woman who was able to enjoy herself as thoroughly
as you do.ä

ãSex, you mean?ä

ãSex, I mean.ä

ãAnnie enjoyed it.ä

ãSure. We had a fine marriage. But she didnât enjoy it quite like you do.
You put everything youâve got into it. Youâre not aware of anything but
your body and mine when we make love. Youâre consumed by it.ä

ãI canât help it if Iâm horny.ä

ãYouâre more than horny.ä

ãOversexed, then.ä

ãItâs not just sex,ä he said.

ãYouâre not going to tell me that you like my mind too.ä

ãThatâs precisely what Iâm going to tell you. You enjoy everything. Iâve
seen you savor a glass of water like some people do good wine.ä He drew a
finger down the line between her breasts. ãYouâve got a lust for life.ä

ãMe and Van Gogh.ä

ãIâm serious.ä

She thought about it. ãA friend at college used to say the same thing.ä

ãYou see?ä

ãIf itâs true,ä she said, ãthe credit belongs to my father.ä

ãOh?ä

ãHe gave me such a happy childhood.ä

ãYour mother died when you were a child.ä

She nodded. ãBut she went in her sleep. A cerebral hemorrhage. One day she
was there÷gone the next. I never saw her in pain, and that makes a
difference to a child.ä

ãYou grieved. Iâm sure you did.ä

ãFor a while. But my father worked hard to bring me out of it. He was full
of jokes and games and stories and presents, twenty-four hours a day, seven
days a week. He worked just like you did to make your kids forget Annieâs
death.ä

ãIf I could have been as successful at that as Sam evidently was with you÷ä

ãMaybe he was too successful,ä she said.

ãHow could that be?ä

Sighing, she said, ãSometimes I think he should have spent less time making
my childhood happy and more time preparing me for the real world.ä

ãOh, I donât know about that. Happiness is a rare commodity in this life.
Donât knock it. Grab every minute of it thatâs offered to you, and donât
look back.ä

She shook her head, unconvinced. ãI was too na•ve. A regular Pollyanna.
Right up through my wedding day.ä

ãA bad marriage can happen to anybody, wise or innocent.ä

ãCertainly. But the wise arenât shattered by it.ä

His hand moved in lazy circles on her belly.

She liked the way he touched her. Already, she wanted him again.

He said, ãIf you can analyze yourself this way, you can overcome your
hang-ups. You can forget the past.ä

ãOh, I can forget him all right. My husband. No trouble, given time. And
not much time at that.ä

ãWell then?ä

ãIâm not innocent anymore. God knows, Iâm not. But na•ve? Iâm not sure a
person can become a cynic overnight. Or even a realist.ä

ãWeâd be perfect together,ä he said, touching her breasts. ãIâm certain of
it.ä

ãAt times Iâm certain of it too. And thatâs what I distrust about it÷the
certainty.ä

ãMarry me,ä he said.

ãHow did we get around to this again?ä

ãI asked you to marry me.ä

ãI donât want to be set up for another fall.ä

ãIâm not setting you up.ä

ãNot intentionally.ä

ãYou canât live without taking risks.ä

ãI can try.ä

ãItâll be a lonely life.ä

She made a face at him. ãLetâs not spoil the day.ä

ãItâs not spoiled for me.ä

ãWell, it will be for me soon; if we donât change the subject.ä

ãWhat could we talk about thatâs more important than this?ä She grinned.
ãYou seem fascinated with my tits. Want to talk about those?ä

ãJenny, be serious.ä

ãI am being serious. I think my tits are fascinating. I could spend hours
talking about them.ä

ãYouâre impossible.ä

ãOkay, okay. If you donât want to talk about my tits, we wonât talk about
them, lovely as they are. Instead÷weâll talk about your prick.ä

ãJenny÷ä

ãIâd like to taste it.ä

As she spoke the soft center of him swelled and grew hard.

ãDefeated by biology,ä she said. ãYouâre a minx.ä

She laughed and started to sit up. He pushed her back.

ãI want to taste it,ä she said. ãLater.ä

ãNow.ä

ãI want to get you off first.ä ãAnd do you always get your way?ä ãI will
this time. Iâm bigger than you.ä ãMale chauvinist.ä

ãIf you say so.ä He kissed her nipples, shoulders, hands, her

navel and thighs. He  rubbed his nose gently back and forth in the crinkled
hair at the base of her belly.

A shiver  passed through her. She said, ãYouâre  right. A woman should have
her pleasure first.ä

He  lifted his head  and smiled at  her. He  had a charming,  almost boyish
smile. His eyes were so clear, so blue, and so warm that she felt as if she
were being absorbed by them.

What a  delightful man you are,  she thought as the  voices of the mountain
faded away and her  heartbeat replaced them. So beautiful, so desirable, so
tender for a man. So very tender.

The house was on  Union Road, one block from the town square. A white frame
bungalow.  Nicely kept.  Windows trimmed  in green with  matching shutters.
Railed  front porch  with bench  swing and  glider and bright  green floor.
Latticework festooned  with ivy  at one end  of the porch, a  wall of lilac
bushes at  the other end. Brick  walkway with borders of  marigolds on each
side. A white ceramic  birdbath ringed with petunias. According to the sign
that  hung on  a  decorative lamppost  at the  end of  the walk,  the house
belonged to ãThe Macklins.ä

At  one oâclock  that afternoon,  Salsbury climbed  the three steps  to the
porch. He  was carrying a clipboard  with a dozen sheets  of paper fixed to
it. He rang the bell.

Bees hummed in the lilac leaves.

The woman who opened the door surprised him. Perhaps because of the flowers
that had  been planted everywhere and because  of the pristine condition of
the  property that  seemed the work  of a  singularly fussy person,  he had
expected the  Macklins to be an elderly couple. A  skinny pair who liked to
putter in their gardens, who had no grandchildren to spend their time with,
who  would stare  suspiciously  at him  over  the rims  of their  bifocals.
However,  the woman  who answered the  bell was  in her middle  twenties, a
slender  blonde  with  the  kind  of  face  that looked  good  in  magazine
advertisements  for  cosmetics.  She  was tall,  five  eight  or nine,  not
delicate but feminine, as leggy as a chorus girl. She was wearing dark blue
shorts and a blue-and-

white polka-dot halter top. Even through the screen door, he could see that
her body  was well  proportioned, firm, resilient,  better than any  he had
ever touched.

As usual,  confronted with  a woman like  one of those who  had peopled his
fantasies all  of his  adult life, he  was unsettled. He stared  at her and
licked  his   lips  and   couldnât  think  of   a  damned  thing   to  say.

ãCan I help you?ä

He cleared his throat.  ãMy nameâs÷Albert Deighton. Iâve been in town since
last Friday. I donât know if you heard .

Iâm  doing  some  research. Sociological  research.  Iâve  been talking  to
people֊

ãI  know,ä  she  said.  ãYou were  next  door  at  the Solomansâ  yesterday
afternoon.ä

ãThatâs  right.ä Although  the sun  was hot  and the  air heavy,  he hadnât
perspired during  any of the first three interviews of  the day; but now he
felt beads  of sweat spring up on his forehead. ãIâd  like to talk with you
and Mr.  Mackin, if  you can spare  me the time.  Half an hour  ought to be
enough. There are about a hundred questions֊

ãIâm sorry,ä  she said. ãMy husband isnât home. He works  up at the mill on
the day shift. He wonât be home till five thirty.ä

He looked  at his  clipboard for something  to do. ãI can  always catch him
some other  time. If I could  interview you and the  children now, get that
out of the way֊

ãOh,   weâve   only  been   married   a   year.  We   havenât  any   kids.ä

ãNewlyweds.ä

ãJust about.ä She smiled. She had dimples.

He felt  as if  he were being  dragged along in a  dangerous current, swept
inexorably toward a decision  that could destroy him. ãIs there anyone else
living here? A relative?ä

ãJust Richie and me.ä

ãRichieâs your husband?ä

ãThatâs right.ä

Last Friday, in Ultmanâs Cafe, he had risked exposing the entire project by
using the code phrase to play with that waitress who looked like Miriam. He
had gotten away with it, but he

knew he  was a  fool to allow his  emotions to overwhelm him  like that. As
penance for  his behavior, he was far more  cautious on Saturday and Sunday
than he needed to be. He used the code phrase two dozen times, interviewing
the subjects  in detail, searching  for weak spots in  their obedient mode;
but he  never approached  one of them  if there was the  slimmest chance of
discovery. Some  of the women had  been attractive, and he  could have used
them any way he  wanted. But he had restrained himself. Having tasted total
dominance when he opened  Alice, that bitch waitress, with the code, he was
anxious to  make one of them undress and get down  on the floor before him.
Damned anxious.  And this one, standing there  in shorts and halter, seemed
to radiate  heat that evaporated his will power  and his caution. He wanted
to believe  that, unlike the episode at  the cafŽ, this situation contained
no  threat; and  wanting to  believe was  the first step  toward convincing
himself.

ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

Relieved, he wiped his brow. ãAre you alone?ä

ãYes.ä

He began to tremble,  not with fear but with excitement. ãAre you expecting
anyone?ä

ãNo. No one.ä

ãIs   anyone   expecting  you?   Were   you  planning   to  go   visiting?ä

ãNo.ä

ãLet me in.ä

She pushed open the screen door.

He  stepped past  her  into the  air-conditioned foyer.  There was  an oval
mirror and accessory table on the right, a small painting of a storm-tossed
sailing ship on his left. ãClose the door. And lock it.ä

She did as she was told.

A short corridor, containing  two more paintings of sailing ships, led from
the foyer to the kitchen.

On the  left the living room opened to the hail  through an archway. It was
neatly  furnished.  An oriental  carpet.  Two  Crushed velvet  sofas and  a
slate-topped coffee table arranged to

form  a conversation  corner. Matching  crushed-velvet drapes at  the three
windows. A magazine rack.  A gun case. Two Stiffel lamps. To harmonize with
the carpet,  the paintings were of Western  sailing ships docked in Chinese
harbors.

ãDraw the drapes,ä he said.

She went  from window to window, then came back to  the center of the room.
She stood with her  hands at her sides, staring at him, a half-smile on her
face.

She was  waiting. ÎWaiting for orders. His orders.  She was his puppet, his
slave.

For more  than a minute he stood in the archway,  unable to move, unable to
decide what  he should do next. Immobilized  by fear, anticipation, and the
grip  of  lust  that  made  his  groin  ache almost  unpleasantly,  he  was
nevertheless sweating as if he had just run the mile. She was his. Entirely
his:  her mouth,  breasts, ass,  legs, cunt,  every inch  and fold  of her.
Better than  that, there was no need for him to  worry about whether or not
he pleased her. The only consideration was his own pleasure. If he told her
that  she  loved  it,  she  would  love  it. No  complaints  afterward.  No
recriminations. Just the act÷and then to hell with her. Here, ready for the
first time to  use a woman exactly as he wanted,  he found the reality more
exhilarating  than the  dreams heâd  had so  many years to  elaborate upon.

She regarded him quizzically. ãIs that all?ä

ãNo.ä His voice was hoarse.

ãWhat do you want?ä

He went  to the nearest  lamp, switched it on,  and sat down on  one of the
sofas. ãYou stand where you are,ä he said. ãAnswer my questions and do what
I say.ä

ãAll right.ä

ãWhatâs your name?ä

ãBrenda.ä

ãHow old are you, Brenda?ä

ãTwenty-six.ä

He took his handkerchief  from his hip pocket, wiped his face. He looked at
the   paintings  of   sailing   ships.  ãYour   husband  likes   the  sea?ä

ãThen he likes paintings of the sea.ä

ãNo. He doesnât care for them.ä

He had  only been  talking to pass time  while he decided how  he wanted to
proceed with  her. Now, her  unexpected answer confused him.  ãThen why the
hell do you have all these paintings?ä

ãI was born and raised in Cape Cod. I love the sea.ä

ãBut he  doesnât care for it. Why does he let  you hang these damned things
everywhere?ä

ãHe knows I like them,ä she said.

He wiped  his face again, put  the handkerchief away. ãHe  knows if he took
them  off the  wall, youâd freeze  him out  in bed. Wouldnât  you, Brenda?ä

ãOf course not.ä

ãYou know  you would, you little bitch. Youâre  a pretty little piece. Heâd
do anything  to keep you happy. Any man would. Men  have been running to do
your bidding since you  were old enough to fuck. You snap your fingers, and
they dance. Donât they?ä

Puzzled, she shook her head. ãDance? No.ä

He laughed  bitterly. ãA game of  semantics. You know I  didnât really mean
Îdance.â   Youâre  like   all   the  others.   Youâre  a   bitch,  Brenda.ä

She squinted. Frowned.

ãI  say   youâre  a  bitch.  Am  I   right?ä  Her  frown  vanished.  ãYes.ä

ãIâm  always   right.  Isnât  that  true?ä   ãYes.  Youâre  always  right.ä

ãWhat am I?ä

ãYouâre the key.ä

ãWhat are you?ä

ãIâm the lock.ä

He was  feeling better by the  minute. Not so tense as  he had been. Not so
jittery. Calm. In control.  As heâd never been. He pushed his glasses up on
his nose.  ãYouâd like  me to strip  you naked and screw  you. Wouldnât you
like that, Brenda?ä

She hesitated.

ãYouâd like it,ä he said.

ãIâd like it.ä

ãYouâd love it.ä

ãIâd love it.ä

ãTake off your halter.ä

Reaching behind  her back,  she slipped the  knot, and the  polka-dot cloth
fell to her feet. The flesh beneath was white, in stark and erotic contrast
to her dark tan.  Her breasts were neither large nor small, but exquisitely
curved, upthrust.  A few  freckles. Pink nipples  not much darker  than her
untanned skin. She kicked the halter out of her way.

ãTouch them,ä he said.

ãMy breasts?ä

ãSqueeze them.  Pull on the  nipples.ä He watched, found  her movements too
mechanical, and  said, ãYouâre  horny, Brenda. You  want to be  fucked. You
canât wait  to have  me. You need  it. You want  it. You want  it more than
youâve ever  wanted it in your  life. Youâre almost sick  with wanting it.ä

As she continued to caress herself, her nipples swelled and turned a darker
shade of pink. She was breathing heavily.

He giggled.  He couldnât suppress it. He  felt terrific. So terrific. ãTake
off your shorts.ä

She did.

ãAnd your  panties. Youâre a real blonde, I see.  Now, put one hand between
those pretty  legs. Finger yourself. Thatâs it.  Thatâs good. Thatâs a good
girl.ä

Standing, her feet wide  apart, masturbating, she was a stunning sight. She
threw back  her head, golden hair trailing like  a banner, mouth open, face
slack. She was gasping  for breath. Shivering. Twitching. Moaning. With her
free hand, she was still caressing her breasts.

The power. Good God, the power he had over them now, would always have over
them, from  this day  forward! He could  come into their  homes, into their
most sacred and private  places, and once inside do whatever he wished with
them. And not  just with the women. Men too. If he  ordered it of them, the
men

would mewl and crawl to him on their hands and knees. They would beg him to
screw their  wives. Theyâd  give him their daughters,  their girl children.
They wouldnât  deny him any experience,  however extravagant or outrageous.
He would  demand every thrill, and he would enjoy each  of them. But on the
whole,  he would  be a  benign ruler,  a benevolent  dictator, more  like a
father than a jailer.  No jackboots in their faces. He laughed at that last
thought.  Ten years  ago, when  he was  still conducting lecture  tours and
writing about the future  of behavior modification and mind control, he was
subjected to extensive ridicule and vehement condemnation from some members
of the  academic community. In lecture halls,  all but forcibly detained at
the end of his  speeches, he had listened to countless self-righteous bores
droning through homilies about  invasion of privacy and the sanctity of the
human  mind,  They  quoted  hundreds of  great  thinkers,  epigrams by  the
score÷some  of which  he remembered to  this day.  There was one  about the
future of  mankind amounting  to little more  than a jackboot  in the face.
Well,  that was  crap. Jackboots,  and the  cruel authoritarian  state they
symbolized, were only a  means of keeping the masses in line. Now, with his
drug and the key-lock  program, jackboots had become obsolete. No one would
have a  jackboot pushed in his face. Of course,  for selected women, he had
something  else  to push  in  their  faces. Massaging  himself through  his
trousers, he laughed. The power. The sweet, sweet power.

ãBrenda.ä

Shuddering, gasping, her knees  bending slightly, she climaxed as her index
finger worked industriously between her legs.

ãBrenda.ä

At last  she looked up at him. She was beginning  to perspire. Her hair was
dark and damp at the brow.

He said, ãGo to that sofa. Kneel on it with your back to me, and brace your
arms against the pillows.ä

When she was in  position, her white butt thrust up at him, she looked over
her shoulder. ãHurry. Please.ä

Laughing, he  shoved the coffee table  out of the way,  sent it sliding off
the carpet, across the hardwood floor and into the

magazine  rack.  He  stood   behind  her,  dropped  his  trousers  and  his
yellow-striped  shorts. He  was ready,  the veins  about to burst,  hard as
iron, bigger  than heâd ever been,  big as a stallionâs  gun, a horse cock.
And red. So red  it looked as if it had been smeared with blood. He ran one
hand over her buttocks,  over the golden hairs on her back, along her side,
under  to the  swinging  breast, pinched  the nipple,  smoothed  her flank,
pinched her ass, slipped  his fingers between her thighs, to her pubes. She
was wet,  dripping, far  more ready then  he was. He could  even smell her.
Giggling, he said, ãYouâre  a bitch in more ways than one. A regular little
bitch dog. A little animal. Arenât you, Brenda?ä

ãYes.ä

ãSay  youâre a  little animal.ä  ãI am.  Iâm a  little animal.ä  The power.

ãWhat do you want, Brenda?ä

ãI want you to screw me.ä

ãDo you?ä

ãYes.ä

ãHow bad do you want it?ä

ãReal bad.ä

Sweet, sweet power.

ãWhat do you want?ä

ãYou know!ä

ãDo I?ä

ãI already said!ä

ãSay it again.ä

ãYouâre humiliating me.ä

ãI havenât even begun.ä

ãOh, God.ä

ãListen to me, Brenda.ä

"What?"

ãYour cuntâs getting hotter.ä

She groaned softly. Shuddered. ãFeel it, Brenda?ä

ãYes.ä

ãHotter and hotter.ä

ãI donât÷ I canât÷ä

ãYou canât stand it?ä

ãSo hot. Almost hurts.ä

He  smiled.   ãNow  what  do  you   want?ä  ãI  want  you   to  screw  me.ä

See, Miriam? I am somebody.

ãWhat are you, Brenda?ä

ãI am the lock.ä

ãWhat else are you?ä ãA bitch.ä

ãI canât hear it often enough.ä

ãA bitch.ä

ãIn heat?ä

ãYes, yes. Please!ä

Poised to  enter her,  dizzy with excitement, demoniac,  electrified by the
power he  held, Salsbury had no illusions that  his orgasm, deep within the
silken regions  of this woman, was  the most important aspect  of the rape.
The  spasmed  outpouring of  a  tablespoon or  two  of semen  was only  the
punctuation  at  the  end  of  the  sentence,  at  the  conclusion  of  his
declaration  of independence.  During  the past  half hour,  he  had proved
himself, had freed himself from the dozens of bitches who had messed in his
life all  the way back to and including  his mother, especially his mother,
that goddess of bitches,  that empress of ball-breakers. After her came the
girls who  were frigid and the  girls who laughed at  him and the girls who
whined  about  his poor  technique  and  the girls  who  rejected him  with
unconcealed distaste and Miriam  and the contemptible whores to whom he had
been forced  to resort in later years. Brenda  Macklin was only a metaphor,
written into his life  by chance. If it hadnât been her, it would have been
someone else this afternoon  or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. She was
the  voodoo doll,  the totem  with which  he would  exorcise some  of those
bitches from his past.  Each inch of prick he jammed into her was a blow to
the  Brendas of  years  gone by.  Each stroke÷the  more  brutal it  was the
better÷was an announcement of  his triumph. He would pound her. Bruise her.
Use her until she was raw. Hurt her.

With every  blade of pain he sent through her, he  would be cutting each of
those  hated  women.  By  mounting this  lean  blond  animal, by  battering
relentlessly  into  her,  tearing  her  apart,  he  would  be  proving  his
superiority to all of them.

He seized  her hips and leaned  close. But as the  tip of his shaft touched
her  vagina, even  before the head  of it  slipped into her,  he ejaculated
uncontrollably.  His   legs  gave   way.  Crying  out,  he   fell  on  her.

She collapsed against the pillows.

Panic took  him. Memories  of past failures.  The sour looks  they gave him
afterwards. The  contempt with which they treated him.  The shame of it. He
held Brenda  down, weighed her down.  Desperately, he said, ãYouâre coming,
girl. Youâre climaxing. Do you hear me? Do you understand? Iâm telling you.
Youâre coming.ä

She made a noise, muffled by pillows. ãFeel it?ä

ãMmmmm.ä

ãDo you feel it?ä

Raising  her head  she  said, ãGod,  yes!ä  ãYouâve never  had it  better.ä

ãNot ever. Never.ä She was gasping.

ãFeel it?ä

ãFeel it.ä

ãIs it hot?ä

ãSo hot. Oh!ä

ãCoasting  now.  Youâre  coming down.ä  She  stopped  squirming under  him.

ãDrifting down. Itâs almost over.ä

ãSo good . . .ä Softly.

ãYou little animal.ä

With that the tension drained out of her.

The doorbell rang.

ãWhat the hell?ä

She didnât react.

Pushing away from her, he swayed to his feet, tried to take a step with his
trousers around his ankles and almost fell.

He grabbed  his shorts,  jerked them up,  then his trousers.  ãYou said you
werenât expecting anyone.ä

ãWasnât.ä

ãThen whoâs that?ä

She rolled onto her back. She looked sated.

ãWhoâs that?ä he asked again.

ãDonât know.ä

ãFor Godâs sake, get dressed.ä

She rose dreamily from the couch. ãQuickly, damn you!ä

Obediently, she scuttled after her clothes.

At one  of the front windows,  he parted the drapes  a fraction of an inch,
just enough  to see  the porch. A  woman was standing at  the door, unaware
that  she   was  under  observation.  In   sandals,  white  shorts,  and  a
scoop-necked  orange  sweater,  she  was even  better-looking  than  Brenda
Macklin.

Brenda said, ãIâm dressed.ä

The doorbell rang again.

Letting go of the  drapery, Salsbury said, ãItâs a woman. You better answer
it.  But  get  rid  of  her.  Whatever  you  do,  donât  let  her  inside.ä

ãWhat should I say?ä

ãIf itâs someone youâve never seen before, you donât have to say anything.ä

ãOtherwise?ä

ãTell her  youâve got  a headache. A  terrible migraine headache.  Now go.ä

She went out of the room.

ÎWhen he  heard her open the door in the foyer,  he parted the velvet again
in time to  see a smile touch the face of the  woman in the orange sweater.
She said  something, and  Brenda replied, and  the smile was  replaced by a
look of concern. Filtered  through the walls and windows, their voices were
hardly  more than  whispers. He  couldnât follow  the conversation,  but it
Seemed to go on forever.

Maybe you should have  let her come inside, he thought. Use the code phrase
on her. Then screw them both.

But what if you  let her come in and then discover sheâs got a weak spot in
her program?

Not much chance of that.

Or what  if sheâs from out of town? A  relative from Bexford, perhaps. Then
what?

Then sheâd have to be killed.

And how would you dispose of the body?

Under his  breath he  said, ãCome on,  Brenda, you bitch. Get  rid of her.ä

Finally,  the stranger  turned  away from  the door.  Salsbury had  a brief
glimpse of green eyes, ripe lips, a superb profile, extremely deep cleavage
in the  scoop-necked sweater.  When she had  her back to him  and was going
down the  steps, he saw that her legs werenât  just sexy, as Brendaâs were,
but sexy  and elegant, even without  nylons. Long, taut, smooth, scissoring
legs, feminine muscles bunching  and twisting and stretching and compacting
and rippling  sinuously with  each step. An  animal. A healthy  animal. His
animal. Like all of  them now: his. At the end of the Macklin property, she
turned  left into  the searing  afternoon sun,  distorted by waves  of heat
rising from the concrete sidewalk, soon out of sight.

Brenda came back into the living room.

When she  started to  sit down, he  said, ãStand. The middle  of the room.ä

She did that, her hands at her sides.

Returning to the sofa, he said, ãWhat did you tell her?ä

ãThat I had a migraine headache.ä

ãShe believed you?ä

ãI guess so.ä

ãDid you know her?ä

ãYes.ä

ãWho was she?ä

ãMy sister-in-law.ä

ãShe lives in Black River?ä

ãHas most all her life.ä

ãQuite a looker.ä

ãShe was in the Miss USA contest.ä

ãOh? When was that?ä

ãTwelve, thirteen years ago.ä

ãStill looks twenty-two.ä

ãSheâs thirty-five.ä

ãShe win?ä

ãCame in third.ä

ãBig disappointment, Iâll bet.ä

ãFor Black River. She didnât mind.ä

ãShe didnât? Why not?ä

ãNothing bothers her.ä

ãIs that so?ä

ãSheâs that way. Always happy.ä ãWhatâs her name?ä ãEmma.ä

ãLast name?ä

ãThorp.ä

ãThorp? She married?ä ãYes.ä

He frowned. ãTo that cop?ä ãHeâs the chief of police.ä ãBob Thorp.ä

ãThatâs right.ä ãWhatâs she doing with him?ä She was baffled. She blinked
at him. Cute little animal. He swore he could still smell her. She said,
ãWhat do you mean?ä

What I said. What s she doing with him?

ãWell. .. theyâre married.ä

ãA woman like her with a big, dumb cop.ä

ãHeâs not dumb,ä she said.

ãLooks dumb to me.ä He thought about it for a moment, and then he smiled.
ãYour maiden nameâs Brenda Thorp.ä

ãYes.ä

ãBob Thorpâs your brother.ä

ãMy oldest brother.ä

ãPoor Bob.ä He leaned back in the sofa and folded his arms on his chest and
laughed. ãFirst I get to his kid sister÷then I get to his wife.ä

She smiled uncertainly. Nervously.

ãIâll have to be careful, wonât I?ä

ãCareful?ä she said.

ãBob maybe dumb, but heâs big as a bull.ä

ãHe isnât dumb,ä she insisted.

ãIn high school I dated a girl named Sophia.ä

She was silent. Confused.

ãSophia Brookman. God, I wanted her.ä

ãLoved her?ä

ãLoveâs a lie. A myth. Itâs bullshit. I just wanted to screw her. But she
dropped me after a few dates and started going with this other guy, Joey
Duncan. You know what Joey Duncan did after high school?ä

ãHow would I know?ä ãHe went to junior college.ä ãSo did I.ä

ãTook criminology for a year.ä ãI majored in history.ä

ãHe flunked out.ä ãNot me.ä

ãEnded up with the home town police.ä

ãJust like my brother.ä

ãI went to Harvard.ä

ãDid you really?ä

ãI was always a better dresser than Joey was. Besides that, he was as dull
as a post. I was much wittier than he was. Joey didnât read anything but
the jokes in Readerâs Digest. I read The New Yorker every week.ä

ãI donât like either one.ä

ãIn spite of all that, Sophia preferred him. But you know what?ä

ãWhat?ä

ãIt was in The New Yorker that I first saw something about subliminal
perception. Back in the fifties. An article, editorial,

maybe a little snippet  at the bottom of a column. I forget exactly what it
was.  But  thatâs what  got  me  started. Something  in   The New  Yorker.ä

Brenda sighed. Fidgeted.

ãTired of standing?ä ãA little.ä

ãAre you bored?ä

ãKind of.ä

ãBitch.ä

She looked at the floor.

ãGet your clothes off.ä

The  lovely power.  He was  filled with  it, brimming  with it÷ but  it had
changed. At first it had seemed to him like a steady, exhilarating current.
Part of  the time  it was still  like that, a  soft humming  inside of him,
perhaps imagined  but nevertheless electrifying, a  river of power on which
he sailed in complete  command. But occasionally now, for short periods, it
felt not  like a constant flow but like a  continuous and endless series of
short, sharp bursts. The power like a submachine gun:
tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat .  . . The rhythm of  it affected him. His mind
spun.  Thoughts adance,  no  thought finished,  leaping from  one  thing to
another:  Joey Duncan,  Harvard,  key-lock, Miriam,  his mother,  dark-eyed
Sophia,  breasts, sex,  Emma  Thorp, bitches,  Dawson, Brenda,  his growing
erection, his  mother, Klinger, Brenda, cunt,  the power, jackboots, Emmaâs
legs÷ ãWhat now?ä

She was naked.

He said, ãCome here.ä Little animal.

ãGet down.ä

ãOn the floor?ä

ãOn your knees.ä She got down.

ãBeautiful animal.ä ãYou like me?ä

ãYouâll do until.ä

ãUntil what?ä

ãUntil I get your sister-in-law.ä

ãEmma?ä

ãIâll make him watch.ä

ãWho?ä

ãThat dumb cop.ä

ãHe isnât dumb.ä

ãLovely ass. Youâre horny, Brenda.ä

ãIâm getting hot. Like before.ä

ãOf course you are. Hotter and hotter.ä

ãIâm shaking.ä

ãYou want me more than you did before.ä

ãDo it to me.ä

ãHotter and hotter.ä

ãIâm÷embarrassed.ä

ãNo. You arenât.ä

ãOh, God.ä

ãFeel good?ä

ãSo good.ä

ãYou donât look at all like Miriam.ä ãWhoâs Miriam?ä

ãThe old bastard should see me now.ä ãWho? Miriam?ä

ãHeâd be outraged. Quote the Bible.ä ãWho would?ä

ãDawson. Probably canât even get it up.ä ãIâm scared,ä she said suddenly.
ãOf what?ä

ãI donât know.ä

ãStop being scared. You arenât scared.ä ãOkay.ä

ãAre you scared?ä

She smiled. ãNo. You going to screw me?ä ãBatter the hell out of you. Hot,
arenât you?ä

ãYes. Burning up. Do it. Now.ä ãKlinger and his damned chorus girls.ä
ãKlinger?ä

ãProbably queer anyway.ä

ãAre you going to do it?ä

ãTear   you  up.   Big  as   a  horse.ä   ãYes.  I   want  it.   Iâm  hot.ä

ãI think maybe Miriam was queer.ä

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat .

At five  oâclock Monday  afternoon, Buddy Pellineri,  just out of  bed with
seven hours  to pass before he  had to report to work  at the mill, went to
Edisonâs store  to see if any new magazines had been  put on the racks. His
favorites were the ones that had a lot of pictures in them: People, Travel,
Nevada, Arizona Highways, Vermont  Life, a few of the photography journals.
He found two issues that he didnât have and took them to the counter to pay
for them.

Jenny was at the  cash register. She was wearing a white blouse with yellow
flowers on it. Her  long black hair looked freshly washed, thick and shiny.
ãYou look so pretty, Miss Jenny.ä

ãWhy, thank you, Buddy.ä

He blushed and wished he had said nothing. She said, ãIs the world treating
you right?ä

ãNo complaints.ä

ãIâm glad to hear it.ä

ãHow much I owe you?ä

ãDo you have two dollars?ä

He thrust  a hand  into his pocket,  came out with some  change and rumpled
bills. ãSure. Here.ä

ãYou get three quarters in change,ä she said.

ãI thought they cost more.ä

ãNow, you know you get a discount here.ä

ãIâll pay. Donât want special treatment.ä

ãYouâre a  close friend of the family,ä she said,  shaking a finger at him.
ãWe give  discounts to all close friends of the  family. Sam would be angry
if  you  didnât  accept  that. You  put  those  quarters  in your  pocket.ä

ãWell . . . thanks.ä

ãYouâre welcome, Buddy.ä

ãIs Sam here?ä

ÎShe  pointed to  the  curtained doorway.  ãUpstairs. Heâs  getting dinner.

ãI ought to tell him.ä

ãTell him what?ä she asked.

ãAbout this thing I saw.ä

ãCanât you tell me?ä

ãWell . . . Better him.ä

ãYou may go up and see him, if you like.ä

The invitation  frightened him. He was  never comfortable in other peopleâs
houses. ãYou have cats up there?ä

ãCats? No. No pets at all.ä

He  knew she  wouldnât  lie to  him÷but then,  cats turned  up in  the most
unexpected places.  Two weeks after his mother died,  he was asked to visit
the parsonage.  Reverend Potter and  Mrs. Potter had taken  him straight to
the parlor  where she had served homemade cakes and  cookies. He sat on the
divan, knees  together, hands in  his lap. Mrs. Potter  made hot chocolate.
Reverend Potter poured for  everyone. The two of them sat opposite Buddy in
a pair  of wing-backed chairs. For  a while everything was  so nice. He ate
the gingerbread and the little cookies with red and green sugar on them and
he drank  the cocoa  and smiled a  lot and talked  a little÷and  then a big
white furry  cat leaped over his  shoulder, onto his lap,  claws digging in
for an instant,  from his lap to the floor. He didnât  even know they had a
cat. Was  that fair?  Not to tell  him? It had  crept onto  the window sill
behind  the divan.  How  long had  it been  there?  All the  while  he ate?
Paralyzed with  fear, unable  to speak, wanting  to scream, he  spilled his
chocolate on  the carpet  and wet himself.  Peed in his pants  right on the
preacherâs  brocade divan.  What a stain.  It was  awful. An awful  day. He
never went  back there again, and he stopped going  to church as well, even
if he might go to hell for that.

ãBuddy?ä

She startled him. ãWhat?ä

ãDo you want to go upstairs and see Sam?ä

Picking up  his magazines, he said, ãNo. No. Iâll  tell him some time. Some
other time. Not now.ä He started toward the door.

ãBuddy?ä

He glanced back.

ãIs something wrong?ä she asked.

ãNo.ä  He forced  a  laugh. ãNo.  Nothing.  Worldâs treating  me okay.ä  He
hurried out of the store.

On the  other side of Main Street, back in  his two-room apartment, he went
to the bathroom and peed, opened a bottle of Coca-Cola, and sat down at the
kitchen table to look  at his magazines. First thing, he paged through both
of  them, search.  ing for  articles about  cats and  pictures of  cats and
advertisements  for cat  food.  He found  two pages  in each  magazine that
offended him,  and he tore them out at once, regardless  of what was on the
backs of  them. Methodically,  he ripped each  page. into hundreds  of tiny
pieces and threw the  resultant heap of confetti into the wastebasket. Only
then was he prepared to relax and look at the pictures.

Halfway through the first  magazine, he came across an article about a team
of skin  divers who  were, it seemed  to him, trying to  uncover an ancient
treasure ship.  He couldnât  read more than  two words out of  five, but he
studied the pictures with  great interest÷and suddenly was reminded of what
he had  seen in the woods  that night. Near the mill.  When he was taking a
pee. At  a quarter  of five in  the morning, on  the day  heâd so carefully
marked  on  his calendar.  Skin  divers.  Coming down  from the  reservoir.
Carrying  flashlights. And  guns. It  was such  a silly thing,  he couldnât
forget it. Such a  funny. . . such a scary  thing. They didnât belong where
he had seen them.  They hadnât been hunting for treasure, not at night, not
up in the reservoir.

What had they been doing?

Heâd thought about that  for ever so long, but he simply couldnât figure it
out. He  wanted to ask someone  to explain it, but  he knew theyâd laugh at
him.

Last week,  however, he realized that there was  someone in Black River who
would listen to him, who would believe him and wouldnât laugh no matter how
silly  the story was.  Sam. Sam always  had time  for him, even  before his
mother died.  Sam never made fun  of him or talked down  to him or hurt his
feel-

ings. Furthermore, so far as Buddy was concerned, Sam Edison was easily the
smartest person in town. He knew just about everything; or Buddy thought he
did. If there was  anyone who could explain to him what he had seen, it was
Sam.

On the other hand, he didnât want to look like a fool in Samâs eyes. He was
determined to give himself  every chance to work out the answer first. That
was  why he  had  delayed going  to Sam  since he  had remembered  him last
Wednesday.

A while  ago in the  store, he finally was  ready to let Sam  take over his
thinking for  him. But Sam was  upstairs, in rooms that  were unfamiliar to
Buddy, and that raised the question of cats.

Now he had more  time to puzzle it out on his own.  If Sam was in the store
the next time Buddy  went there, he would tell him the story. But not for a
few days  yet. He  sat in the  patterned late-afternoon sunlight  that came
through the curtain, drank Coca-Cola, and wondered.

8

Eight Months Earlier:

Saturday, December 18, 1976

IN THE  COMPUTER CENTER  of the sealed  wing of the  Greenwich house, seven
days before Christmas, the monitor boards and systems bulbs and cathode-ray
tubes and glowing scopes,  although they were mostly red and green, had not
reminded Salsbury of the holiday.

When he  entered the room, his  first time there in  months, Klinger looked
around at the lights and said, ãVery Christmasy.ä

Strangely enough, it was rather Christmasy.

However, because  he hadnât  perceived something which  had registered with
the general  in mere  seconds, Salsbury felt  uneasy. For almost  two years
now, day  and night, he had  been telling himself that  he must be quicker,
sharper,  more  cunning,  and  more  forward-thinking than  either  of  his
partners÷if he was to keep his partners from eventually putting a bullet in
his head  and burying  him at the  southern end of the  estate beside Brian
Kingman.  Which was  surely what  they had  in mind  for him. And  for each
other. Either  that or  slavery through the keylock  program. Therefore, it
was quite disturbing to  him that Klinger-hairy, flat-faced gorilla that he
was÷should make,  of all  things, an aesthetic  observation before Salsbury
himself had made it.

The   Only  way   he   could  deal   with   his  own   uneasiness  was   to

put the general off his stride as quickly as possible. ãYou canât smoke in
here. Put that out at once.ä

Rolling the cheroot from the center of his thick lips to one side, Klinger
said, ãOh, surely÷ä

ãThe delicate machinery,ä Salsbury said sharply, gesturing at the
Christmasy lights.

Klinger took the slender cigar from his mouth and appeared to be about to
drop it on the floor.

ãThe waste can.ä

When he had disposed of the cheroot, the general said, ãSorry.ä

Salsbury said, ãThatâs all right. Youâre not familiar with a place like
this, with computers and all of that. You couldnât be expected to know.ä

And he thought: Score one for me.

ãWhereâs Leonard?ä Klinger asked.

ãHe wonât be here.ä

ãFor such an important test?ä

ãHe wishes it werenât necessary.ä

ãPontius Pilate.ä

ãWhat?ä

Looking at the ceiling as if he could see through it, Klinger said, ãUp
there washing his hands.ä

Salsbury wasnât about to take part in any conversation meant to dissect or
analyze Dawson. He had taken every measure to protect himself from any
attempt on Dawsonâs part to plant bugs in his work area. He didnât believe
it was possible for anyone to spy on him while he was in here. But he
couldnât be positively, absolutely certain of that. Under the
circumstances, he felt that paranoia was a rational vantage point from
which to view the world.

ãWhat all have you got to show me?ä Klinger asked. ãFor a start, I thought
youâd want to see a few print-outs from the key-lock program.ä

ãIâm curious,ä the general admitted.

Picking up a sheet of computer paper that was folded like an accordion into
dozens of eighteen-inch-long sections, Salsbury said, ãAll three of our new
employees֊

ãThe mercenaries?ä

ãYes.  All three  of them were  given the drug  and then shown  a series of
films, ostensibly  as evening entertainment: The Exorcist,  Jaws, and Black
Sunday, on successive nights. These were, of course, very special copies of
the films.  Processed right here on the estate.  I did the work personally.
Printed each  of them  over a different  stage of the  subliminal program.ä

ãWhy those three movies in particular?ä

ãI  could have used  any I wanted,ä  Salsbury said.  ãI just chose  them at
random from  Leonardâs film library.  The movie is simply  the package, not
the content.  It merely establishes a  reason for the subjects  to stare at
the screen  for a couple of  hours while the subliminal  program is running
below  their recognition  threshold.ä He  handed the print-out  to Klinger.
ãThis is  a second-by-second verbal translation  of the images appearing on
the  screen in the  rheostatic film,  which begins simultaneously  with the
movie. Wherever the computer  prints ÎThis Legendâ it means that the visual
subliminals  have  been  interrupted  by  a  block-letter  message  on  the
rheostatic film, a direct command to the viewer.ä



SUBJECT CODED÷÷KEY LOCK

REVISED PROGRAM/STAGE ONE

STORAGE MATERIAL

PROGRAM STORED: 8/6/76

THIS PRINT: 12/18/76

PRINT



SECONDS SUBLIMINAL CONTENT

0001 NO CONTENT

0002 NO CONTENT

0003 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS BREASTS

0004 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN'S BREASTS

0005 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS BREASTS

0006 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS BREASTS

0007 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS BREASTS

0008 THIS LEGEND÷÷YOU WATCH

0009 THIS LEGEND÷÷YOU WATCH

0010 THIS LEGEND÷÷YOU WATCH

0011 THIS LEGEND÷÷YOU WATCH

0012 THIS LEGEND÷÷YOU WATCH THIS FILM

0013 THIS LEGEND÷÷YOU WATCH THIS FILM

0014 THIS LEGEND÷÷YOU WATCH THIS FILM

0015 VISUAL÷÷DETUMESCENT PENIS

0016 VISUAL÷÷DETUMESCENT PENIS

0017 VISUAL÷÷DETUMESCENT PENIS

0015 VISUAL÷÷PENIS IN WOMANâS HAND

0019 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN STROKING PENIS

0020 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN STROKING PENIS

0021 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN STROKING PENIS

0022 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN STROKING PENIS

0023 THIS LEGEND÷÷YOU WATCH THIS FILM

ãThe first  sixty seconds do nothing  but insure that the  subject will pay
close attention  to the rest of the  movie,ä Salsbury said. ãBeginning with
the  second  minute  and  continuing  throughout  the  movie,  he  is  very
carefully,  very gradually  primed  for stage  two of  the program  and for
eventual,    total   submission    to   the   key-lock    behavior   mode.ä

ãCarefully  and  slowly÷because of  what  happened to  Brian Kingman?ä  the
general asked.

ãBecause of what happened to Brian Kingman.ä

0061 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN FONDLING TESTICLES

0062 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN FONDLING TESTICLES

0063 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN STROKING PENIS

0064 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN STROKING PENIS

0065 VISUAL÷-WOMAN STROKING PENIS

0066 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0067 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0068 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0069 VISUAL÷÷ERECT PENIS

0070 VISUAL÷÷ERECT PENIS

0071 VISUAL÷÷ERECT PENIS

0072 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0073 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0074 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS

0075 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS

0076 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS

0077 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0078 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0079 VISUAL÷÷DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE

0060 VISUAL÷÷DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE

0081 VISUAL÷÷DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE

0082 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0083 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0084 VISUAL÷÷MALE DOMINANT INTERCOURSE

0085 VISUAL÷÷MALE DOMINANT INTERCOURSE

0086 VISUAL÷÷MALE DOMINANT INTERCOURSE

0087 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0088 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0089 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0090 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0091 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0052 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0093 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0094 VISUAL÷-EJACULATION ON WOMANâS PUBIC HAIR

0095 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0096 VISUAL÷÷EJACULATION ON WOMANâS PUBIC HAIR

0097 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0098 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0099 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0100 VISUAL÷÷EJACULATION ON WOMANâS PUBIC HAIR

Klinger said, ãThe penis doesnât become erect until the viewer is to]d that
obedience to the key equals satisfaction.ä

ãThatâs right.  And youâll notice  that both the manâs  and womanâs orgasms
are  represented.  This  program  would  be  effective  with  either  sex.ä

ãWas all this taken from some porno movie?ä

ãIt was shot especially for me by a professional pornographic-film maker in
New  York City,ä  Salsbury said,  pushing his  glasses up  on his  nose and
wiping  his  damp  forehead.  ãHe  was  instructed  to use  only  the  most
attractive performers. He shot everything at regular light intensity, but I
used a  special process  to print below  the recognition threshold.  Then I
intercut the sex footage  with the block-letter messages.ä He unfolded some
of the  print-out. ãThis  first sequence lasts another  forty seconds. Then
there is  a two-second pause, and another message  is presented in the same
fashion.ä

0143 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN FINGERING CLITORIS

0144 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN FINGERING CLITORIS

0145 VISUAL÷÷MAN STROKING DETUMESCENT PENIS

0146 VISUAL÷÷MAN STROKING DETUMESCENT PENIS

0147 VISUAL÷÷MAN STROKING DETUMESCENT PENIS

0148 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0149 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0150 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0151 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS

0152 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS

0153 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS

0154 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0155 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0156 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN DOMINANT INTERCOURSE

0157 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN DOMINANT INTERCOURSE

0155 VISUAL÷WOMAN DOMINANT INTERCOURSE

0159 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷ FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0160 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷ FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0161 VISUAL÷÷DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE

0162 VISUAL÷÷DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE

0163 VISUAL÷÷DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE

0164 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷ FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0165 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷ FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0166 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0167 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0168 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0169 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷ FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0170 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY ÷FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0171 VISUAL÷÷EJACULATION ON WOMANâS BUTTOCKS

0172 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷ FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0173 VISUAL÷÷EJACULATION ON WOMANâS BUTTOCKS

0174 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷ FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0175 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

ãI see the pattern,ä Klinger said. ãHow many of these Îlegendsâ were
there?ä

They were standing at one of the computer consoles. Saisburyâ leaned over
and used the keyboard.

One of the screens mounted on the wall began a line-print:

           KEY/LOCK STAGE ONE BLOCK÷LETTER MESSAGES, IN ORDER OF

                          APPEARANCE, AS FOLLOWS:

01 OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

02 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

03 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM FEAR

04 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM GUILT

05 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM WORRY

06 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM MORAL CODES

07 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM RESPONSIBILITY

08 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM DEPRESSION

09 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷FREEDOM FROM TENSION

10 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷CONTENTMENT

11 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷HAPPINESS

12 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷YOUR GREATEST DESIRE



Salsbury touched a tab on the console.

The screen went blank.

ãThe series was repeated three times through the film.ä

ãThe same thing the second night?ä Klinger asked. ãNo.ä He picked up
another folded print-out from the seat of the console chair and exchanged
it for the stage one analysis. ãThe first minute is spent securing the.
subjectsâ undivided attention, as it was in the first film. The difference
between stage one and stage two becomes evident starting with the second
minute.ä

0061 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN WEEPING

0062 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN WEEPING

0063 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN WEEPING

0064 VISUAL÷÷MAN WEEPING

0065 VISUAL÷÷MAN WEEPING

0066 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷PAIN

0067 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷PAIN

0065 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING

0069 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING

0070 THIS LEGEND-÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷PAIN

0071 THIS LEGEND-÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷PAIN

0072 VISUAL÷÷MAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING

0073 VISUAL÷÷MAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING

0074 THIS LEGEND-÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷PAIN

0075 THIS LEGEND-÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷PAIN

0076 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING

0077 VISUAL÷-MAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING

0076 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷PAIN

0079 THIS LEGEND-÷PAIN, PAIN, PAINi PAIN

0080 NO CONTENT

0081 NO CONTENT

0082 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS

ãThe second stage of the program alternates between negative reinforcement
and positive reinforcement,ä Salsbury said. ãThe next twenty-five seconds
are devoted to a sex reinforcement sequence much like those you saw on the
first print-out. Skip ahead just a bit.ä

0110 VISUAL÷÷WOLFâS FACE, SNARLING

0111 VISUAL÷÷WOLFâS FACE, SNARLING

0112 VISUAL÷÷SCORPION STINGING A MOUSE

0113 VISUAL÷÷SCORPION STINGING A MOUSE

0114 VISUAL÷÷COFFIN

0115 VISUAL÷÷COFFIN

0116 VISUAL÷÷COFFIN

0117 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷DEATH

0118 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷DEATH

0119 VISUAL÷÷HUMAN SKULL

0120 VISUAL÷÷HUMAN SKULL

0121 VISUAL÷÷ROTTING CORPSE

0122 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷DEATH

0123 VISUAL÷÷ROTTING CORPSE

0124 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷DEATH

Looking up from the  print-out, Klinger said, ãDo you mean that death is as
effective as sex in subliminal persuasion?ä

ãNearly so,  yes. In advertising, subliminals can  be used to establish the
same sort  of motivational  equation with death  as with sex.  According to
Wilson  Bryan  Key,  who  wrote  a  book  about the  nature  of  subceptive
manipulation a  few years  back, the first  use of death  images might have
come in  a Calvert  Whiskey ad that  appeared in a  number of  magazines in
1971.  Since then hundreds of  death symbols have become  standard tools of
the major ad agencies.ä

Putting down the second  print-out, the general said, ãWhat about the third
stage? What  was hidden  in the film  you showed them on  the third night?ä

Salsbury had another length  of computer paper. ãIn the beginning, this one
just reinforces  and strengthens the messages and  effects of the first two
films. Itâs  broken down into tenths  of seconds in some  places because by
this time  the subjects  are primed for faster  input, rapid-fire commands.
Like   the   others,   it   really   begins  with   the   second   minute.ä

0060 00 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0061 00 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0061 05 VISUAL÷÷PENIS EJACULATING

0062 00 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0062 05 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY÷SATISFACTION

0063 00 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN WEEPING

0063 03 VISUAL÷÷MAN WEEPING

0063 06 VISUAL÷÷WOLFâS FACE, SNARLING

0063 09 VISUAL÷÷SCORPION STINGING A MOUSE

0064 02 VISUAL÷÷COFFIN

0064 05 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷DEATH

0065 00 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN KISSING PENIS

0065 05 VISUAL÷÷PENIS SLIDING BETWEEN WOMANâS BREASTS

0065 08 VISUAL÷÷PENIS ENTERING VAGINA

0066 00 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷÷FREEDOM FROM FAILURE

0066 05 VISUAL÷÷SEVERED, BLOODY HUMAN ARM

0066 08 VISUAL÷÷ROTTING CORPSE

Farther on, both the tempo and the emotional impact of the images increased
drastically:

0800 00 VISUAL÷÷HUMAN HEAD WITH GUNSHOT WOUND

0800 02 VISUAL÷÷DEAD VIETNAMESE BABY

0800 04 VISUAL÷÷MAGGOTS IN PIECE OF BEEF

0800 06 VISUAL÷÷RATâS FACE, SNARLING

0800 07 VISUAL÷÷WOLFâS FACE, SNARLING

0800 08 VISUAL÷÷COFFIN

0600 09 VISUAL÷÷MAGGOTS IN PIECE OF BEEF

0801 00 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY÷DEATH

0801 02 VISUAL÷÷ERECT PENIS

0801 04 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

0801 06 VISUAL÷÷TONGUE ON CLITORIS

0801 08 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN KISSING PENIS

0801 09 VISUAL÷÷PENIS IN VAGINA

0802 00 VISUAL÷÷EJACULATION ON WOMANâS PUBIC HAIR

0802 01 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION TO THE KEY÷YOUR GREATEST DESIRE

Much farther on, faster and faster:

2400 00 VISUAL÷÷DEAD BABYâS FACE, CLOSE÷UP

2400 01 VISUAL÷-MAGGOTS IN HORSE MANURE

2400 02 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSE THE KEY: DEATH

2400 03 VISUAL÷÷MAN FINGERING CLITORIS

2400 04 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN LICKING PENIS

2400 05 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMIT TO THE KEY: HAPPINESS

2400 06 VISUAL÷÷STEAMING ENTRAILS OF COW

2400 07 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL: PAlN

2400 08 THIS LEGEND-÷REFUSAL: DEATH

2400 09 VISUAL÷÷EJACULATION INTO WOMANâS MOUTH

2401 00 VISUAL÷÷WOMANâS FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY

2401 01 THIS LEGEND_÷SUBMISSION: HAPPINESS

2401 02 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION: BLISS

Eventually, there was less  time given to the motivating images and more to
the direct commands:

3600 00 VISUAL÷÷MAGGOTS IN PIECE OF BEEF

3600 01 THIS LEGEND÷÷REFUSAL: DEATH

3600 02 VISUAL÷÷DEAD CAT

3600 03 THIS LEGEND-÷OBEY THE KEY

3600 04 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEY, OBEY, OBEY

3600 05 VISUAL÷÷WOMAN LICKING PENIS

3600 06 THIS LEGEND÷÷SUBMISSION: LIFE

3600 0? THIS LEGEND÷-OBEY THE KEY

3600 08 VISUAL÷÷EJACULATION ON WOMANâS THIGH

3600 09 THIS LEGEND÷÷OBEY THE KEY

3600 10 THIS LEGEND÷÷LIFE, LIFE, LIFE

ãThat pace is maintained straight through to the end of the film,ä Salsbury
said. ãDuring  the last  fifteen minutes, while  all of this  sex and death
input  continues,  the  concept  of  the  key-lock  code  phrases  is  also
introduced  and implanted  permanently  in the  viewerâs deep  subconscious
mind.ä

ãThatâs all there is to it?ä

ãThanks to  the drug that primes them for  the subliminals÷ yes, thatâs all
there is to it.ä

ãAnd they donât realize theyâve seen any of it.ä

ãIf they  did know,  the program would  have no effect  on them.  It has to
speak solely  to the  subconscious in order  to pass the  natural reasoning
ability of the conscious mind.ä

Klinger pulled  the command chair away  from the console and  sat down. His
left hand was  curled in his lap. It was so matted  with black hair that it
reminded Salsbury of a sewer rat. The general petted it with his other hand
while he considered the  print-outs he had just seen. At last he said, ãOur
three mercenaries. When did  they complete the third stage of the program?ä

ãThirty days ago. Iâve been observing them and testing their submissiveness
for the past few weeks.ä

ãAny of them react at all as Kingman did?ä

ãThey all had bad dreams,ä Saisbury said. ãProbably about what they had
seen on the rheostatic screen. None of them could recall. Furthermore, they
all had severe night chills and mild nausea. But they lived.ä

ãEncountered any other problems?ä

ãNone.ä

ãNo weak spots in the program? No moments when they refused to obey you?ä

ãNone at all, so far. In a few minutes, after weâve put them to the
ultimate test, weâll know whether or not we have absolute control of them.
If not, Iâll start over. If we do÷champagne.ä

Klinger sighed. ãI suppose this is something we have to know. I suppose
this last test is entirely necessary.ä

ãEntirely.ä

ãI donât like it.ä

ãWerenât you an officer in Vietnam?ä

ãWhatâs that got to do with this?ä

ãYouâve sent men to die before.ä

Grimacing, Klinger said, ãBut always with honor. Always with honor. And
thereâs sure as hell no honor in whatâs going to happen here.ä

Honor, Salsbury thought acidly. Youâre as big an idiot as Leonard. There
isnât any heaven, and thereâs no such thing as honor. All that counts is
getting what you want. You know that and I know that and even Leonard, when
heâs humbled Over his fruit cup at a White House prayer breakfast with
Billy Graham and the President, knows that÷but Iâm the only one of us who
will admit it to himself.

Getting to his feet, Klinger said, ãOkay. Letâs finish this. Where are
they?ä

ãIn the next room. Waiting.ä

ãThey know what theyâre going to do?ä

ãNo.ä Salsbury went to his desk, thumbed a button on the

intercom,  and spoke into  the wire  grid. ãRossner, Holbrook,  and Picard.
Come in now. Weâre ready for you.ä

A  few  seconds  later  the  door  opened,  and  three  men  filed  inside.

ãCo to the center of the room,ä Salsbury said.

They did as he directed.

ãYouâve  already  opened  them   with  the  code  phrase?ä  Klinger  asked.

ãBefore you came.ä

The first of them, in spite of the fact that he was in his late thirties or
early forties,  looked like  a dangerous street-corner punk.  Slim but hard
and wiry.  Five feet ten. Dark complexion.  Dark brown hair combed straight
back and graying at  the temples. A way of standing with his feet apart and
most of his  weight on his toes so that he was  always prepared to move and
move quickly. His face  was pinched, his eyes a bit too close together, his
lips thin and grayish-pink above a pointed chin.

ãThis is  Rossner,ä Salsbury  told Klinger. ãGlenn  Rossner. American. Heâs
been a free-lance soldier for sixteen years.ä

ãHello,ä Rossner said.

ãNone  of  you is  to  speak unless  spoken  to,ä Salsbury  said. ãIs  that
understood?ä

Three voices: ãYes.ä

The second  man was approximately the same age  as the first; otherwise, he
could  not  have  been  less  like  Rossner.  Six  feet  two.  Husky.  Fair
complexion.  Reddish-blond hair cropped  close to  his head. A  broad face.
Heavy jowls.  His stem expression had  been held for so  many years that it
seemed  graven in his  flesh. He looked  like the  sort of father  who made
arbitrary rules,  used corporal  punishment with a  child at least  twice a
week, talked  tough, acted  bullheaded, and turned sons  like Glenn Rossner
into street-corner punks.

Salsbury said, ãThis is Peter Holbrook. Heâs British. Heâs been a mercenary
for twenty years, ever since he was twenty-two.ä

The last man was no older than thirty, and he was the only one of the three
who could be called handsome. Six feet. Lean

and muscular. Thick brown hair. A broad brow. Peculiar green-gray eyes with
long lashes that any  woman would have been proud to have for her own. Very
rectangular  features  and  an  especially strong  jaw  line  and chin.  He
somewhat resembled the young Rex Harrison.

ãMichel Picard,ä Salsbury said. ãFrench. Speaks fluent English. Heâs been a
mercenary for four years.ä

ãWhich will it be?ä Klinger asked.

ãPicard, I think.ä

ãLetâs get on with it, then.ä

Saisbury turned  to Rossner and said, ãGlenn,  thereâs a folded canvas drop
cloth on my desk. Bring it here.ä

Rossner went to the desk, came back with the cloth.

ãPeter, you help him unfold it on the floor.ä

A  minute later  the nine-foot-square  canvas sheet  was spread out  in the
middle of the room.

ãMichel,  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  cloth.ä  The  Frenchman  obeyed.

ãMichel, what am I?ä

ãYou are the key.ä

ãAnd what are you?ä

ãI am the lock.ä

ãYou  will do  what  I tell  you to  do.ä  ãYes. Of  course,ä  Picard said.

ãRelax,   Michel.   You   are   very   relaxed.ä  ãYes.   I   feel   fine.ä

ãYou are very happy.ä

Picard smiled.

ãYou will  remain happy, regardless of what happens to  you in the next few
minutes. Is that understood?ä

ãYes.ä

ãYou will not attempt  to stop Peter and Glenn from carrying out the orders
I  give them,  regardless of  what those  orders are. Is  that understood?ä

"Yes."

Taking a  three-foot length of heavy nylon cord from  a pocket of his white
laboratory smock, Salsbury said, ãPeter, take this.

Slip it about Michelâs neck as if you were going to strangle him÷but
proceed no further than that.ä

Holbrook stepped behind the Frenchman and looped the cord around his
throat.

ãMichel, are you relaxed?ä

ãOh, yes. Quite relaxed.ä

ãYour hands are at your sides now. You will keep them at your sides until I
tell you to move them.ä

Still smiling, Picard said, ãAll right.ä

ãYou will smile as long as you are able to smile.ä

ãYes.ä

ãAnd even when you are no longer able to smile, youâll know this is for the
best.ä

Picard smiled.

ãGlenn, you will observe. You will not become involved in the little drama
these two are about to act out.ä

ãI wonât become involved,ä Rossner said.

ãPeter, you will do what I tell you.ä The big man nodded. ãWithout
hesitation.ä ãWithout hesitation.ä ãStrangle Michel.ä

If the Frenchmanâs smile slipped, it was only by the slightest fraction.

Then Holbrook jerked on both ends of the cord.

Picardâs mouth flew open. He seemed to be trying to scream, but he had no
voice. He began to gag.

Although Holbrook was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, Salsbury could see the
muscles bunching and straining in his thick arms.

Each desperate breath that Picard drew produced a thin, rattling wheeze.
His eyes bulged. His face was flushed.

ãPull tighter,ä Salsbury told Holbrook.

The Englishman obliged. A fierce grin, not of humor but of effort, seemed
to transform his face into a deathâs head.

Picard fell against Holbrook.

Holbrook stepped back.

Picard went to his knees.

His hands were still at his sides. He was making no effort to save himself.

ãJesus jump to hell,ä Klinger said, amazed, numbed, unable to speak above a
whisper.

Shuddering, convulsing, Picard lost control of his bladder and bowels.

Salsbury was pleased that he had thought to provide the canvas dropcloth.

Seconds later Holbrook stepped away from Picard, his task completed. The
garrote had made deep, angry red impressions in the palms of his hands.

Salsbury took another length of cord from another pocket in his smock and
gave it to Rossner. ãDo you know what that is, Glenn?ä

ãYes.ä He had watched impassively as Holbrook murdered the Frenchman.

ãGlenn, I want you to give the cord to Peter.ä Without even pausing to
think about it, Rossner placed the second garrote in the Englishmanâs
hands.

ãNow turn your back to Peter.ä

Rossner turned.

ãAre you relaxed, Glenn?ä

ãRelax. Be calm. Donât worry about anything at all. Thatâs an order.ä

The lines in Rossnerâs face softened.

ãHow do you feel, Glenn?ä

ãRelaxed.ä

ãGood. You wonât try to keep Peter from obeying the orders I give him,
regardless of what those orders are.ä

ãI wonât interfere,ä Rossner said.

Salsbury turned to the Englishman. ãLoop that cord around Glennâs neck as
you did with Michel.ä

With an expert flip and twist of the garrote, Holbrook was in position. He
waited for orders.

ãGlenn,ä Salsbury said, ãare you tense?ä

ãNo. Iâm relaxed.ä

ãThatâs fine. Just fine. You will continue to be relaxed. Now, Iâm going to
tell Peter to kill  you÷and you are going to permit him to do that. Is that
clear?ä

"Yes. I understand.ä His placid expression didnât waver.

Don t you want to live?

ãYes. Yes, I want to live.ä

ãThen why are you willing to die?ä

ãI÷I÷ä He looked confused.

ãYou  are willing to  die because refusal  to obey  the key means  pain and
death anyway. Isnât that right,, Glenn?ä

ãThatâs right.ä

Salsbury watched  the two men closely for signs  of panic. There were none.
Nor even any of stress.

The  stench from Michel  Picardâs fouled  body was nearly  overpowering and
getting worse.

Rossner surely  knew what  was about to  happen to him. He  had seen Michel
die, had  been told  he would die in  the same way. Yet  he stood unmoving,
apparently unafraid.

He was  willing to commit what amounted to  suicide rather than disobey the
key.   In   fact  disobedience   was   literally   inconceivable  to   him.

ãTotal  control,ä  the general said.  ãYet they  donât look or  behave like
zombies.ä

ãBecause  they  arenât. Thereâs  nothing  supernatural  involved. Just  the
ultimate in behavior modification techniques.ä Salsbury was elated. ãPeter,
give me  the cord. Thank you. You have  both done well. Exceptionally well.
Now, I want you to wrap Michelâs body in the canvas and move it to the next
room.   Wait   there   until   I   have   additional   orders   for   you.ä

As if  they were  a pair of ordinary  laborers talking about how  to move a
load of  bricks from here to there,  Rossner and Holbrook quickly discussed
the job  at hand. When they  had decided on the best  way to roll and carry
the corpse, they set to work.

ãCongratulations,ä Klinger said. He  was perspiring. Cool, dry, steady-eyed
Ernst Klinger was sweating like a pig.

What do you think of the computer lights now? Salsbury

wondered.  Do  they  look  as  Christmasy  as  they did  ten  minutes  ago?

The computer room smelled  of lemons. Salsbury had used an aerosol spray to
get rid of the odor of feces and urine.

He took a bottle  of whiskey from his desk drawer and poured himself a shot
to celebrate.

Klinger had a double  shot to steady his nerves. When he had tossed it back
he said, ãAnd now what?ä

ãThe field test.ä

ãYouâve  mentioned that  before. But why?  Why canât  we go ahead  with the
Middle East plan as  Leonard outlined it in Tahoe, nearly two years ago? We
know  the  drug  works,  donât  we?  And  we know  the  subliminals  work.ä

ãI achieved  the desired results with  Holbrook, Rossner, and poor Picard,ä
Salsbury said, sipping his whiskey. ãBut it doesnât necessarily follow that
everyone will react as they have. I canât possibly have complete confidence
in the  program until  Iâve treated and  observed and tested  a few hundred
subjects of both sexes  and of all ages. Furthermore, our three mercenaries
were treated and responded in controlled lab situations. Before we can take
the  extraordinary  risks  involved with  something  like  the Middle  East
plan÷where weâve got to  create a new subliminal series for another culture
and in another language÷. weâve simply got to know what the results will be
in the field.ä

Klinger poured  himself another shot of whiskey. As  he lifted the glass to
his lips, a look  of fear flitted across his face. It lasted no more than a
second or two. Pretending to be thinking about the field test, he stared at
the liquor  in his  glass and then  at the bottle  on the desk  and then at
Salsburyâs glass.

Laughing, Salsbury said, ãDonât worry, Ernst. I wouldnât slip the drug into
my own  Jack Daniels.  Besides, youâre not  a potential subject.  Youâre my
partner.ä

Klinger  nodded. Nevertheless, he  put his  glass down without  tasting the
whiskey. ãWhere would you run a field test like this?ä

ãBlack  River,  Maine.  Itâs  a  small  town  near  the  Canadian  border.ä

ãWhy there?ä

Salsbury went to the  nearest programming console and typed out an order to
the computer.  As he typed  he said, ãTwo months  ago I drew a  list of the
basic requirements for the ideal test site.ä

All   of   the   screens   began   to   present   the   same   information:

KEY/LOCK FIELD TEST DATA, AS FOLLOWS:

1A. SITE  SHOULD BE SMALL  TOWN, YET PROVIDE SUFFICIENT  NUMBER OF SUBJECTS
FOR STATISTICAL ACCURACY

1B.  BLACK   RIVER,  MAINE÷÷POPULATION  402   LUMBER  CAMP÷÷POPULATION  188

ADDITIONAL POPULATION WITHIN 5 MILES÷÷NONE

ãLumber camp?ä Klinger asked.

ãItâs a  company town for Big Union Supply.  Nearly everyone in Black River
works for Big Union  or services the people who do. The company maintains a
full-scale  camp÷barracks,  mess  hail,  recreation facilities,  the  whole
works÷near their planned forests for unmarried loggers who donât want to go
to  the  expense  of  renting a  room  or  an  apartment  in the  village.ä

2A.  SITE SHOULD  BE  GEOGRAPHICALLY ISOLATED  BY CURRENT  SOCIAL STANDARDS

2B. FIRST NEAREST TOWN TO BLACK RIVER÷÷30 MILES

SECOND NEAREST TOWN TO BLACK RIVER÷÷62 MILES

LAND ROUTES TO BLACK RIVER÷÷1 STATE HIGHWAY, 2÷LANE

÷÷1 RAILROAD LINE, ONLY INDUSTRIAL TRAFFIC

RIVER  ROUTES   TO  BLACK   RIVER÷÷RIVER  NAVIGABLE,  NO   REGULAR  TRAFFIC

AIRFIELD FACILITIES AT BLACK RIVER÷÷NONE

3A.  SITE  SHOULD BE  WITHIN  RECEPTION  RANGE OF  ONE  OR MORE  TELEVISION
STATIONS

3B. STATIONS RECEIVED IN BLACK RIVER÷÷1 AMERICAN

1 CANADIAN

ãThereâs an  interesting bit of  additional data that goes  with that one,ä
Salsbury said.  ãThe American station is owned  by a subsidiary of Futurex.
It plays a lot of old movies at night and on weekends. Weâll be able to get
copies of  the stationâs program schedules well  in advance. We can prepare
subliminally  augmented prints  of  the movies  theyâre going  to  show and
switch  those  for the  original  prints  in the  stationâs film  library.ä

ãThatâs a bit of luck.ä

ãSaves us  some time. Otherwise, Futurex  would have had to  acquire one of
the stations, and that could take years.ä

ãBut  how can you  be certain the  people in  Black River will  watch these
movies youâve doctored?ä

ãTheyâre going to be  inundated with subliminals in a variety of media that
will  command  them  to  watch. For  instance,  the  Dawson Foundation  for
Christian Ethics will run  dozens of public service commercials on both the
Canadian and American stations,  two days in advance of the movies. Each of
these commercials will harbor very strong subliminal commands directing the
people in town and  in the lumber camp to tune in at  the right time on the
right  channel.  Weâll  also  do direct  mail  advertising  for several  of
Leonardâs companies÷as a means  of getting even more subceptive messages to
them. Everyone  in town  will receive ads  in the mail and  some free gifts
like soap  samples, shampoo  samples, and free rolls  of photographic film.
The advertisements  and the  samples will be  packaged in wrappers  rich in
subliminal  commands to watch  .a certain  television station at  a certain
hour on  a certain day. Even  if the subject throws  the piece of mail away
without opening  it, heâll be affected, because  the envelopes will also be
printed over  with subliminal messages. The  major magazines and newspapers
entering Black  River during the period of  programming will carry ads full
of subceptive commands that  direct the people to watch the movies.ä He was
getting a  bit breathless in  his recital. ãA motion  picture theater could
not ordinarily  prosper in  a town the  size of Black River.  But Big Union
runs one as a service to the town. During the summer, every day but Sunday,
thereâs a matinee show for children. The prints of the films shown at those
matinees will be our  prints, with subliminals urging the children to watch
the  television movies that  will contain  the key-lock program.  All radio
stations  reaching the  area  will carryâ  special thirty-second  spot ads,
hundreds of  them, with subaudial subliminal  directives. These account for
only  half  our  methods.  By the  time  all  of  this  washes through  the
community,  everyone will  be in  front of  a television  set at  the right
time.ä

ãWhat  about the  people who  donât have  television sets?ä  Klinger asked.

ãThereâs not  much to do in  a place as isolated  as Black River,ä Salsbury
said. ãThe recreation hall  in the camp has ten sets. Virtually everyone in
town owns  a set.  Those who donât will  be directed, by the  first wave of
preliminary subliminals, to watch the movies at a friendâs house. Or with a
relative or neighbor.ä

For the first time,  Klinger looked at Salsbury with respect. ãIncredible.ä

ãThank you.ä

ãWhat about the drug? How will that be introduced?ä

Salsbury  finished his  whiskey.  He felt  wonderful. ãThere  are  only two
sources of food and  beverage within the site. The lumber camp men get what
they want  from the mess hall. In town  everyone buys from Edisonâs General
Store. Edison  has no competition. He even  supplies the townâs only diner.
Now, both the mess  hall and the general store receive their goods from the
same food wholesaler in Augusta.ä

ãAhhh,ä the general said. He smiled.

ãItâs a perfect commando operation for Holbrook and Rossner. They can break
into the  wholesalerâs warehouse  at night and  quickly contaminate several
different items  set aside for shipment to Black  River.ä He pointed to the
cathode-ray  tubes where  the list  of requirements  for an ideal  site was
being reprinted. ãNumber four.ä

Klinger looked at the screen to his left.

4A. SITE SHOULD HAVE RESERVOIR THAT SERVES NO LESS THAN

90 PERCENT OF TOTAL POPULATION

4B.   BLACK  RIVER   RESERVOIR  SERVES÷÷100   PERCENT  OF   TOWN  RESIDENTS

÷÷100 PERCENT OF LUMBER

CAMP RESIDENTS



ãOrdinarily, in a backwoods  village like this,ä Salsbury said, ãeach house
would have  its own  fresh-water well. But  the mill needs  a reservoir for
industrial purposes, so the town benefits.ä

ãHow did  you choose Black River?  Where did you learn  all of this stuff?ä

Salsbury  depressed  a tab  on  the  programming keyboard  and cleared  the
screen. ãIn  1960, Leonard bankrolled a  company named Statistical Profiles
Incorporated.   It  does   all  the   marketing  research  for   his  other
companies÷and for companies he doesnât own. It pays for a trunk line to the
Census Bureau data banks. \Ve used Statistical Profiles to run a search for
the ideal test site.  Of course, they didnât know why we were interested in
a town that met these particular requirements.ä

Frowning, the  general said, ãHow many  people at Statistical Profiles were
involved in the search?ä

ãTwo,ä Salsbury  said. ãI  know what youâre thinking.  Donât worry. Theyâre
both scheduled  to die in accidents  well before we begin  the field test.ä

ãI suppose  weâll send Rossner and  Holbrook to contaminate the reservoir.ä

ãThen we get rid of them.ä

The general raised his bushy eyebrows. ãKill them?ä

ãOr order them to commit suicide.ä

ãWhy not just tell  them to forget everything theyâve done, to wipe it from
their minds?ä

ãThat might  save them from prosecution if things  went badly wrong. But it
wouldnât save  us. We canât wipe  from our minds all  memory of what we had
them do.  If problems  develop with the  field test, serious  problems that
throw our entire Operation in the garbage, and if it turns out that Rossner
and  Holbrook  were  seen  at  the  reservoir  or left  any  clues  behind÷

well, we donât want the authorities to connect us with Glenn and Peter.ä

ãWhat problems could arise that would be that serious?ä

ãAnything. Nothing. I donât know.ä

After he bad thought about it for a while, Klinger said, ãYes, I suppose
youâre right.ä

ãI know I am.ä

ãHave you set a date yet? For the field test?ä

ãWe should be ready by August,ä Salsbury said.

9

                          Friday, August 26, 1977

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT . . Since his experience with Brenda Mackim on
Monday,

Salsbury  had been  able to resist  temptation. At  any time he  could have
taken full control of  another good-looking woman, could have raped her and
erased  all memory  of the  act from  her mind.  He took strength  from the
knowledge  that the  bitches  were his  for the  asking. Whenever  he could
honestly conclude  that the field test was a  smashing success, and that no
danger  of discovery  existed, he  would screw  every one  of them  that he
wanted. The bitches. Animals.  Little animals. Dozens of them. All of them.
Because he knew the future held an almost endless orgy for him, be was able
to cop; if only  temporarily, with his desire. He went from house to house,
using the  key-lock code  phrase, interviewing his  subjects, observing and
testing.  Denying himself.  Working  hard. Doing  his job.  So  strict with
himself. . . He was proud of his will power.

This morning his will  power shattered. For the past four nights, his sleep
had been disturbed by  grotesque dreams that featured his mother and Miriam
and  sudden violence and  blood and  an eerie, indescribable  atmosphere of
perverted sex.  When he came  awake this morning, shouting  and flailing at
the  bedclothes,  he  thought  of Emma  Thorp÷deep  cleavage  in an  orange
sweater÷and she  seemed to  him like an  antidote for the  poisons that had
churned through  him while he slept  he had to have  her, was going to have
her, today, soon, and to hell with self-denial.

The smooth  stream of power in  him was again transformed  into a rhythmic,
alternating  current, crackling  across countless  arcs, a  hundred million
synapses.  His thoughts ricocheted  with great  energy from one  subject to
another,      submachine-gun     thoughts:      tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat

At 7:45  he left Pauline Vickerâs rooming house and went to the cafe on the
square.

The sky was cloudy, the air humid.

At 8:25 he finished breakfast and left the cafe.

At 8:40 he reached the Thorpsâ place, the Last house on Union Road, next to
the river.

He rang the doorbell twice.

The chief  of police  himself answered. He  hadnât gone to  work yet. Good.
Wonderful.

Salsbury said, ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

ãLet me in.ä

Bob Thorp  stepped out of his  way, let him by,  then closed the door after
him.

ãIs your wife here?ä ãYes.ä

ãYour son?ä

ãHeâs here too.ä

ãAnyone else?ä

ãJust you and me.ä ãYour sonâs name?ä ãJeremy.ä

ãWhere are they?ä ãIn the kitchen.ä

ãTake me to them.ä Thorp hesitated.

ãTake me to them!ä

They went along a narrow but brightly papered hallway.

The kitchen  was modem  and stylish. Mediterranean  cupboards and fixtures.
Coppertone refrigerator and upright freezer. A microwave oven. A television
set was suspended from the

ceiling in one corner and angled toward the big round table by the window.

Jeremy was  at the  table, eating eggs  and toast, facing the  hall. To the
boyâs  right, Emma sat  with one elbow  on the  table, drinking a  glass of
orange juice. She was  wearing a blue, floor-length corduroy housecoat. Her
hair was as  golden and full as he remembered it. As  she turned to ask her
husband who  had rung the bell, he saw that her  lovely face was still soft
with sleep÷and for some reason that aroused him.

She said, ãBob? Whoâs this?ä

Salsbury said, ãI am the key.ä

Two voices responded.

At 8:55, making the weekly trip into town to lay in a fresh supply of
perishables, Paul Annendale braked at the end of the gravel road, looked
both ways, then turned left Onto Main Street.

From the back seat Mark said, ãDonât take me all the way to Samâs place.
Let me out at the square.ä

Looking in the rearview mirror, Paul said, ãWhere are you going?ä

Mark patted the large canary cage that stood on the seat beside him. The
squirrel danced about and chattered. ãI want to take Buster to see Jeremy.ä

Swiveling around in her seat and looking back at her brother, Rya said,
ãWhy donât you admit that you donât go over to their house to see Jeremy?
We all know youâve got a crush on Emma.ä

ãNot so!ä Mark said in such a way that he proved absolutely that what she
said was true.

ãOh, Mark,ä she said exasperatingly.

ãWell, itâs a lie,ä Mark insisted. ãI donât have a crush on Emma. Iâm not
some sappy kid.ä

Rya turned around again.

ãNo fights,ä Paul said. ãWeâll leave Mark off at the square with Buster,
and there will be no fights.ä



* * *



Salsbury said, ãDo you understand that, Bob?ä

ãI understand.ä

ãYou will not speak unless spoken to. And you will not move from that chair
unless I tell you to move.ä

ãI wonât move.ä

ãBut youâll watch.ä

ãIâll watch.ä

ãJeremy?ä

ãIâll watch too.ä

ãWatch what?ä Salsbury asked.

ãWatch you÷screw her.ä

Dumb cop. Dumb kid.

He stood by the sink, leaned against the counter. ãCome here, Emma.ä

She got up. Came to him.

ãTake off your robe.ä

She took it off. She was wearing a yellow bra and yellow panties with three
embroidered red flowers at the left hip.

ãTake off your bra.ä

Her breasts fell free. Heavy. Beautiful.

ãJeremy, did you know your mother looked so nice?ä

The boy swallowed hard. ãNo.ä

Thorpâs hands were on the table. They had curled into fists.

ãRelax, Bob. Youâre going to enjoy this. Youâre going to love it. You canât
wait far me to have her.ä

Thorpâs hands opened. He leaned back in his chair. Touching her breasts,
staring into her shimmering green eyes, Salsbury had a delightful idea.
Marvelous. Exciting. He said, ãEmma, I think this would be more enjoyable
if you resisted me a bit. Not seriously, you understand. Not physically.
Just keep asking me not to hurt you. And cry.ä

She stared at him.

ãCould you cry for me, Emma?ä

ãIâm so scared.ä

ãGood! Excellent! I didnât tell you to relax, did I? You should be scared.
Damned scared. And obedient. Are you frightened enough to cry, Emma?ä

She shivered. ãYouâre very firm.ä She said nothing. ãCry for me.ä ãBob..

ãHe canât help you.ä He squeezed her breasts. ãMy son . .

ãHeâs watching. Itâs all right if he watches. Didnât he suck these when he
was a baby?ä

Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

ãFine,ä he said. ãOh, thatâs sweet.ä

Mark could only carry the squirrel and the cage for fifteen or twenty steps
at a time. Then he had to put it down and shake his arms to get the pain
out of them.

ãCup your breasts with your hands.ä She did as she was told.

She wept.

ãPull on the nipples.ä

ãDonât make me do this.ä

ãCome on, little animal.ä

At first, upset by all the jerking and shaking and swinging of his cage,
Buster ran in tight little circles and squealed like an injured rabbit.

ãYou sound like a rabbit,ä Mark told him during one of the rest stops.

Buster squealed, unconcerned with his image.

ãYou should be ashamed of yourself. Youâre not a dumb bunny. Youâre a
squirrel.ä

In front of Edisonâs store, as he was closing the car door, Paul Saw
something gleam on the back seat. ãWhatâs that?ä

Rya was still in the car, undoing her safety belt. ãWhatâs what?ä

ãOn the back seat. Itâs the key to Busterâs cage.ä

Rya  squirmed   into  the  back   seat.  ãIâd  better  take   it  to  him.ä

ãHe wonât need it,ä Paul said. ãJust donât lose it.ä

ãNo,ä she said. ãIâd better take it to him. Heâll want to let Buster out so
he can show off for Emma.ä

ãWho are you÷Cupid?ä

She grinned at him.

ãUnzip my trousers.ä

ãI donât want to.ä

ãDo it!ä

She did.

ãEnjoying yourself, Bob?ä

ãYes.ä

He laughed. ãDumb cop.ä

By the  time he  reached the edge of  the Thorp property, Mark  had found a
better way to grip the cage. The new method didnât strain his arms so much,
and he didnât have to stop every few yards to rest.

Buster had become  so upset by the erratic movement of  his pen that he had
stopped squealing. He was  gripping the bars with all four feet, hanging on
the side  of the  cage, very stiU  and quiet, frozen  as if he  were in the
woods  and   had  just   seen  a  predator  creeping   through  the  brush.

ãTheyâll  be eating  breakfast,ä Mark  said. ãWeâll  go around to  the back
door.ä

ãSqueeze it.ä She did.

ãHot?ä

ãYes.ä

ãLittle animal.ä

ãDonât hurt me.ä ãIs it hard?ä

ãYes.ä Crying.

ãBend over.ä

Sobbing, shaking, begging him not to hurt her, she did as she had been
told. Her face glistened with tears. She was almost hysterical. So
beautiful...

Mark was passing the kitchen window when he heard the woman crying. He
stopped and listened closely to the broken words, the pitiful pleas that
were punctuated by long sobs. He knew at once that it was Emma.

The window was only two feet away, and it seemed to beckon him. He couldnât
resist. He went to it.

The curtains were drawn shut, but there was a narrow gap between them. He
pressed his face to the windowpane.



10

                           Sixteen Days Earlier:

Wednesday, August 10, 1977

AT TRREE OâCLOCK in the morning, Salsbury joined Dawson in the first-floor
study of the Greenwich house.

ãHave they begun already?ä

ãTen minutes ago,ä Dawson said.

ãWhatâs coming in?ä

ãExactly what weâd hoped for.ä

Four men sat on straight-backed chairs around a massive walnut desk, one at
each  side  of  it.  They were  all  household  servants:  the butler,  the
chauffeur, the cook, and the gardener. Three months ago the entire staff of
the house  had been given the  drug and treated to  the subliminal program;
and  there  was no  longer  any  need to  hide  the project  from them.  On
occasion, as  now, they made very useful  tools. There were four telephones
on  the desk,  each  connected to  an  infinity transmitter.  The men  were
referring to lists of Black River telephone numbers, dialing, listening for
a few seconds or a minute, hanging up and dialing again.

The  infinity transmitters÷purchased  in Brussels  for $2,500  each÷allowed
them  to  eavesdrop on  most  of the  bedrooms  of Black  River in  perfect
anonymity. With  an IF  hooked to a  telephone, they could  dial any number
they wished, long distance  or local, without going through an operator and
without leaving  a record of the call  in the telephone companyâs computer.
An

electric tone oscillator deactivated the bell on the phone being called÷and
simultaneously opened  that receiverâs microphone. The  people at the other
end of  the line heard no  ringing and were not  aware that they were being
monitored. These four servants  were able, therefore, to hear anything said
in the room where the distant telephone was placed.

Salsbury went  around the desk, leaned down  and listened at each earpiece.

ã. . . nightmare. So vivid. I canât remember what it was, but it scared the
hell out of me. Look how Iâm shaking.ä

so cold.  You too? V/hat the devil?ä ã...feel like  Iâm going to throw up.ä

ã... all right? Maybe we should call Doc Troutman.ä

And around again:

ã...something we ate?ä

ã...flu. But at this time of year?ä

ã...first thing  in the morning. God, if I  donât stop shaking, Iâll rattle
myself to pieces!ä

ã...running with sweat but cold.ä

Dawson tapped  Salsbury on  the shoulder. ãAre  you going to  stay here and
watch over them?ä

ãI might as well.ä

ãThen Iâll go to the chapel for a while.ä

He was  wearing pajamas, a dark blue silk  robe, and soft leather slippers.
At this hour, with  rain falling outside, it didnât seem likely that even a
religious fanatic of Dawsonâs  bent would get dressed and go out to church.

Salsbury said, ãYouâve got a chapel in the house?ä

ãI  have  a chapel  in  each of  my  residences,ä Dawson  said proudly.  ãI
wouldnât build a house without one. Itâs a way of thanking Him for all that
Heâs done for me. After all, itâs be cause of Him that I have the houses in
the first  place.ä Dawson Went to the door,  paused, looked back, and said,
ãIâll  thank  Him  for  Our  success  and  pray  for  more  of  the  same.ä

ãSay one for me,ä  Salsbury said with sarcasm he knew would escape the man.

Frowning, Dawson said, ãI donât believe in that.ä

ãIn what?ä

ãI canât pray for your soul. And I can only pray for your success so far as
it supports  my own. I donât  believe one man should  pray for another. The
salvation of your soul is your own concern÷and the most vital of your life.
The  notion that  you can  buy indulgences  or have someone  else÷a priest,
anyone else

÷pray for you  - . . Well, that strikes me as Roman Catholic. Iâm not Roman
Catholic.ä

Salsbury said, ãNeither am I.ä

ãIâm glad  to hear it,ä Leonard  said. He smiled warmly,  one Pope-hater to
another, and went out.

A  maniac, Salsbury  thought.  What am  I  doing in  partnership with  that
maniac?

Disturbed by his own  question, he went around the desk again, listening to
the voices  of the people in Black River.  Gradually he forgot about Dawson
and regained his confidence.  It was going to work out  as planned. He knew
it. He was sure of it. What could possibly go wrong?



11

Friday, August 26, 1977

RYA FLUNG THE CAGE KEY high into the air and a few feet ahead of her. She
ran forward as if she were playing center field, and she caught the golden
ãball.ä Then she flipped it up and ran after it again.

At the corner of Main Street and Union Road, she tossed the key once
more÷and missed. She heard the metal edge ring as it struck the sidewalk
behind her, but when she turned she couldnât see the trinket anywhere.

Emma Thorp bent over and braced her arms on the kitchen table. She
accidentally knocked aside an empty coffee cup. It fell off the table and
shattered on the tile floor.

Kicking the fragments out of his way, Salsbury stepped in behind her and
with both hands stroked the graceful curve of her back.

Bob watched, smiling primly.

Jeremy watched, amazed.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat: the power, Miriam, his mother, the whores, Dawson,
Klinger, women, vengeance - . . Ricocheting thoughts.

She looked over her shoulder at him.

ãIâve always wanted one of you like this.ä He giggled. He could not
suppress it. He felt good. ãScared of me. Of me!ä

Her face was pale and streaked with tears. Her eyes were wide.

Lovely,ä he said.

ãI donât want you touching me.ä

ãMiriam  used to  say  that. But  with Miriam  it was  an order.  She never
begged.ä He touched her.

She was covered with gooseflesh.

ãDonât stop crying,ä he said. ãI like you crying.ä

She wept, not quietly  but uncontrollably and unashamedly, as if she were a
child÷or as if she were in agony.

As he prepared to enter her, he heard someone shout just beyond the window.
Startled, he said, ãWho÷ä

The  kitchen door  crashed open. A  boy, no  older than Jeremy  Thorp, came
inside, shouting  at the top of  his voice and wind-milling  his thin arms.

At the edge of  the Thorp property, Rya tossed the key and missed it again.

Two errors  out of forty catches isnât so bad,  she thought. In fact thatâs
major league talent. Rya Annendale of the Boston Red Sox! Didnât sound bad.
Not  bad at  all. Rya Annendale  of the  Pittsburgh Pirates! That  was even
better.

This time she saw  where the key fell in the grass. She went straight to it
and picked it up.

When  the door flew  open and the  boy charged  in like a  dangerous animal
breaking free of its  cage, Salsbury stepped away from the woman and pulled
up his trousers.

ãYou let go of her!ä

The boy collided with him.

ãGet out of here! Now! Out!ä

Under attack, Salsbury staggered  backwards. He was strong enough to handle
the boy, but he  was suffering from surprise and confusion; and he had lost
his balance.  When he backed into the  refrigerator, still trying to button
the waistband of his slacks, the boy pummeling him, he realized that it was
ridiculous  for   him,  of  all  people,  to   retreat.  ãI  am  the  key.ä

The boy hit him. Called him names.

Desperate,  Salsbury fought back,  seized him  by the wrists  and struggled
with him. ãI am the key!ä

ãMr. Thorp! Jeremy! Help me!ä

ãStay right where you are,ä Salsbury told them.

They didnât move.

He swung the boy around, reversing their positions, and slammed him against
the refrigerator. Bottles and  cans and jars rattled loudly on the shelves.

Very young children would  not have been affected by the subliminal program
that had been played for Black River. Below the age of eight, children were
not  sufficiently aware  of death  and sex  to respond to  the motivational
equations  that  the subceptive  films  established  in older  individuals.
Furthermore, although  the vocabulary  had been made as  simple as possible
since the  Hoibrook-Rossner-Picard indoctrination,  a child had  to have at
least  a  third-grade  reading  ability to  be  properly  impressed by  the
block-letter messages that established  the key-lock code phrases. But this
boy was older than eight, and he should respond.

Through  clenched   teeth  Salsbury  said,    ãIâm  the  key,   damn   youä





Halfway across  the lawn, atop the  grape arbor, a robin  bounced along the
interlocking  vines, stopped after  every second  or third hop,  cocked its
head, and peered between  the leaves. Rya paused to watch him for a moment.

Panic.

He had to guard against panic.

But he  had made  a fatal mistake, and  he might have the  power taken away
from him.

-  No. It was a  serious mistake. Granted. Very  serious. But not fatal. He
must not panic. Keep cool.

ãWho are you?ä he asked.

The boy squirmed, tried to free himself.

ãWhere are  you from?ä Salsbury  demanded, gripping him so  tightly that he
gasped.

The boy kicked him in the shin. Hard.

For   an  instant  Salsburyâs   whole  world   was  reduced  to   a  bright

bolt  of pain  that shot  from his  ankle to  his thigh, coruscated  in his
bones. Howling, wincing, he almost fell.

ÎWrenching loose, the boy  ran toward the sink, away from the table, intent
on getting around Salsbury.

Salsbury stumbled after him, cursing. He grabbed at the boyâs shirt, hooked
it with his fingers,  lost hold of it in the same second, tripped and fell.

If the little bastard gets away.

ãBob!ä Panic.  ãStop him.ä Hysteria. ãKill him. For  Godâs sake, kill him!ä

The canary cage was on the lawn by the kitchen window.

Rya  heard Buster  chattering÷and then  she heard  someone shouting  in the
house.

Tat-tat-tat-tat...

Salsbury got up.

Sick. Scared.

The naked woman wept.

Crazily, he thought of  the refrain from the rhyme that went with a childâs
game that he had  once played: all fall down.. all fall  down. . . all fall
down...

Thorp blocked the door.

The boy tried to dodge him.

ãKill himä

Thorp caught the intruder  and drove him backwards, knocked him against the
electric  range with  devastating force,  clutched him  by the  throat, and
pounded his  head into the stainless steel  brightwork that ringed the four
burners. A  frying pan  fell to the  floor with a  clang!  As if  he were a
machine, an automaton, Thorp hammered the boyâs head against the metal edge
until he felt the skull give way. When blood sprayed across the wall behind
the range and streamed from the boyâs nostrils, the big man let go, stepped
back as the body crumpled at his feet.

Jeremy was crying.

ãStop that,ä Salsbury said sharply.

The boy stopped, reluctantly.

On his way to the bloodied child, Salsbury saw a girl in the open door. She
was staring at the blood, and she seemed mesmerized by the sight. He
started toward her.

She looked up, dazed.

ãI am the key.ä

She turned and fled.

Salsbury ran to the door÷but when he got there, she was already gone around
the corner of the house, out of sight.

PART TWO:

Terror







1

Friday, August 26, 1977



9:45 A.M.



RYA SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT of the station wagon between Paul and Jenny,
silent and unmoving, gripped by what appeared to be fear and by anger as
well. Her hands were curled into solid little fists in her lap. Beneath her
summer tan she was ashen. Fine beads of perspiration were strung along her
hairline. She pressed her lips together like, the halves of a vise, partly
to keep them from trembling, partly as a sign of her extreme anger,
frustration, and determination to prove herself right.

Although she  had never lied  to him about anything  serious, Paul couldnât
believe the story she had told them minutes ago. She had seen something odd
at the Thorp house.  He was fairly certain of that. However, she had surely
misinterpreted what  she had seen. When  she burst in upon  Sam, Jenny, and
him at the store,  her tears and horror had been genuine; of that there was
absolutely no  doubt. But  Mark dead? Unthinkable.  Beaten to death  by Bob
Thorp, the chief of  police? Ridiculous. If she wasnât lying÷well, then she
was at least terribly confused.

ãItÎs  t-t-true, Daddy.  Itâs true!  I swear  to Cod  itâs true.  They they
k-k-killed him. They did.  Mr. Thorp did. The other man t-told Mr. Thorp to
k-kill,  and he  did. He  kept b-b-banging  Markâs head.  . . his  head.. .
banging it  against the stove. It  was awful. B-banging it  . . .  over and
over again . . . and all the blood. . . Oh, God, Daddy, itâs crazy but itâs
true!ä

It was crazy.

And it couldnât be true.

Yet  when she first  came into  the store÷breathing hard,  half-choking and
half-crying, babbling as if  she were in a fever, so unlike herself÷he felt
an icy hand on  the back of his neck. As she told her improbable story, the
glacial fingers lingered. And they were still there.

He  turned the  corner  onto Union  Road. The  police  chiefâs house  was a
quarter of a mile away, the last on the street, near the river. The garage,
large enough  for two cars and topped by a  workmanâs loft, lay fifty yards
beyond the house. He  pulled into the driveway and parked the station wagon
in front of the garage.

ãWhereâs the canary cage?ä he asked.

Rya  said,  ãIt  was  over  there.  Near  the window.  Theyâve  moved  it.ä

ãLooks calm.  Peaceful. Doesnât seem like a murder  took place half an hour
ago.ä

ãInside,ä Rya said sharply. ãThey killed him inside.ä

Jenny   took   hold  of   the   girlâs   hand  and   squeezed  it.   ãRya÷ä

ãInside.ä Her face was set; she was resolute.

ãLetâs have a look,ä Paul said.

They got  out of the car  and crossed the freshly mown  lawn to the back of
the house.

Emma had  evidently heard them drive  up; for by the  time they reached the
kitchen stoop,  she had the door open and was waiting  for them. She wore a
royal  blue floor-length  corduroy  housecoat with  a high  neckline, round
collar, and light blue corduroy belt at the waist. Her long hair was combed
back and tucked behind her ears, held in place by a few bobby pins. She was
smiling, pleased to see them.

ãHi,ä Paul  said awkwardly. He was suddenly at a loss  for words. If even a
tiny fraction  of Ryaâs tale were  true, Emma would not  be this serene. He
began  to feel  foolish for having  placed any  faith whatsoever in  such a
bizarre story.  He couldnât imagine how  he would ever tell  Emma about it.

ãHi there,ä she said cheerily. ãHello, Rya. Jenny, how is your father?ä

ãFine, thanks,ä Jenny said. She sounded quite as bewildered as Paul felt.

ãWell,ä Emma said, ãIâm still in my robe. The breakfast dishes havenât been
washed. The kitchenâs a greasy mess. But if you donât mind sitting down in
a disaster zone, youâre welcome to visit.ä

Paul hesitated. ãSomething wrong?ä Emma asked. ãIs Bob home?ä ãHeâs at
work.ä ãWhen did he leave?ä

ãSame as every day. A few minutes before nine.ä

ãHeâs at the police station?ä

ãOr cruising around in the patrol car.ä Emma no longer needed to ask if
something was wrong; she knew. ãWhy?ä Why indeed? Paul thought. Rather than
explain, he said, ãIs Mark here?ä

ãHe was,ä Emma said. ãHe and Jeremy went over to the basketball court
behind the Union Theater.ä

ãWhen was that?ä

ãHalf an hour ago.ä

It seemed to him that she had to be telling the truth, for her statement
could be verified or disproved so easily. If her husband had killed Mark,
what could she hope to gain by such a flimsy lie? Besides, he didnât think
she was the sort of woman who could take part in the cover-up of a
murder÷certainly not with such apparent equanimity, not without showing a
great deal of stress and guilt.

Paul looked down at Rya.

Her face was still a mask of stubbornness÷and even more pale and drawn than
it had been in the car. ãWhat about Buster?ä she asked Emma. Her voice was
sharp and too loud. ãDid they take Buster over to the court so he could
play basket-ball with them?ä

Understandably bewildered by the girlâs uncharacteristic nastiness and her
intense reaction to such a simple statement,

Emma  said, ãThe  squirrel?  Oh, they  left him  with me.  Do you  want the
squirrel?ä   She   stepped   back,  out   of   the   doorway,  ãCome   in.ä

For a moment, recalling  the tale of mindless violence that Rya had related
just thirty  minutes ago,  Paul wondered if  Bob Thorp was  in the kitchen,
waiting for him

But  that was absurd.  Emma was not  aware that  supposedly a boy  had been
slain in her kitchen  this morning; he would have wagered nearly any sum on
that. And in the light of Emmaâs innocence, Ryaâs story seemed altogether a
fantasy÷and not really a very good one, at that.

He went inside.

The canary cage stood in one corner, next to the flip-top waste can. Buster
sat on his hind feet and busily nibbled an apple. His tail flicked straight
up, and  he went  stiff as a  wooden squirrel when  he became  aware of the
guests. He  assessed Paul  and Rya and Jenny  as if he had  never seen them
before,  decided  there  was  no danger,  and  returned  to his  breakfast.

ãMark told me he likes apples,ä Emma said.

ãHe does.ä

The kitchen  held no evidence that a violent  and deadly struggle had taken
place  there. The  dishes on the  table were  spotted with dried  egg yolk,
butter,  and crumbs  of toast.  The clock-radio produced  soft instrumental
music, an  orchestrated version of a pop tune. The  new issue of the weekly
newspaper, distributed that morning, was folded in half and propped against
two empty juice glasses  and the sugar bowl. A cup of steaming coffee stood
beside the paper. If she had watched her husband murder a child, could Emma
have  sat down  to read less  than an  hour after the  killing? Improbable.
Impossible. There  was no blood on  the wall behind the  electric range, no
blood on  the range itself, and  no blood, not even  one thin smear, on the
tile floor.

ãDid  you come  to get Buster?ä  Emma asked.  She was clearly  perplexed by
their behavior.

ãNo,ä Paul said. ãBut  weâll take him off your hands. Actually, Iâm ashamed
to tell you why we did come.ä

ãThey cleaned it up,ä Rya said. ãI donât want to hear÷ä

ãThey cleaned up the blood,ä she said excitedly.

Paul pointed one finger at her. ãYou have caused quite enough trouble for
one day, young lady. You keep quiet. Iâll talk to you later.ä

Ignoring his warning, she said, ãThey cleaned up the blood and hid his
body.ä

ãBody?ä Emma looked confused. ãWhat body?ä

ãItâs a misunderstanding, a hoax, or÷ä Paul began.

Rya interrupted him. To Emma she said, ãMr. Thorp killed Mark. You know he
did. Donât lie! You stood at that chair and watched him beat Mark to death.
You were naked and֊

ãRya!ä Paul said sharply.

ãItâs true!ä

ãI told you to be quiet.ä

ãShe was naked and÷ä

In eleven years he had never been required to deal out any punishment more
severe than a twenty-four-hour suspension of some of her privileges. But
now, angry, he started toward her. Rya pushed past Jenny, threw open the
kitchen door, and ran. Shocked by her defiance, angry and yet worried about
her, Paul went after her. When he set foot on the stoop, she was already
out of sight. She. couldnât have had time to run to the garage or to the
station wagon; therefore, she must have slipped around the corner of the
house, either left or right. He decided she would most likely head for
Union Road, and he went that way. When he reached the sidewalk he saw her
and called to her.

She was nearly a block away, on the far side of the street, still running.
If she heard him, she didnât respond; she disappeared between two houses.

He crossed the street and followed her. But when he reached the rear lawns
of those houses, she wasnât there.

ãRya!ä

She didnât answer him. She might have been too far away to hear÷but he
suspected that she was hiding nearby.

ãRya, I just want to talk to you!ä

Nothing. Silence.

Already his  anger had  largely given way  to concern for her.  What in the
name of  God had  possessed the girl?  Why had she concocted  such a grisly
story?  And how had  she managed to  tell it  with such passion?  He hadnât
really believed any of it, not from the start÷yet heâd been so impressed by
her sincerity  that heâd  come to the  Thorp house to see  for himself. She
wasnât a liar by  nature. She wasnât that good an  actress. At least not in
his  experience. And  when her  story was shown  to be  a lie, why  had she
defended it  so ardently? How  had she defended  it so ardently, knowing it
was a lie? Did  she believe, perhaps, that it wasnât a fabrication? Did she
think that  she actually had  seen her brother killed?  But if that was the
case, she  was÷mentally disturbed. Rya? Mentally  disturbed? Rya was tough.
Rya knew how to cope. Rya was a rock. Even an hour ago he would have staked
his life  on her  soundness of mind.  Was there any  psychological disorder
that  could  strike  a  child so  suddenly,  without  warning, without  any
symptoms beforehand?

Deeply worried, he went  back across the Street to apologize to Emma Thorp.



2

10:15 A.M.

JEREMY THORP STOOD, almost as if at attention before a military court, in
the center of the kitchen.

ãDo you understand what Iâve said?ä Salsbury asked. ãYeah.ä

ãYou know what to do?ä

ãYeah. I know.ä ãAny questions?ä ãJust one.ä ãWhat is it?ä

ãWhat do I do if they donât show up?ä

ãTheyâll show up,ä Salsbury said. ãBut what if they donât?ä ãYou have a
watch, donât you?ä The boy held up one thin wrist.

ãYou wait twenty minutes for them. If they donât show up in that time, come
straight back here. Is that understood?ä

ãYeah. Twenty minutes.ä

ãGet moving.ä

The boy started toward the door.

ãDonât leave that way. Theyâll see you. Go out the front.ä Jeremy went down
the narrow hail to the door.

Salsbury  followed, watched  until  the boy  was  out of  sight behind  the
neighboring  house,  closed the  door,  locked  it, and  went  back to  the
kitchen.

Not  bad, he  thought. Youâre  holding up  well, Ogden. H.  Leonard himself
couldnât have  coped any faster than  youâve done. Clever as  hell. You are
certainly  clever. With  your  mind and  the  advantage of  the power,  the
key-lock code phrases, youâll  weather this crisis. If Miriam could see you
now .  . -ÎWhat would old  Miriam say now? You  arenât anything like Miriam
said you  were. Youâre a tough customer. Jesus,  what a tough customer. You
make sound decisions under pressure, and you stick with them. Smart. Damned
smart. But oh, my God, what a razor edge youâre walking!

Standing next to the rear window, he pushed the curtain aside a fraction of
an inch, until he  could see the garage. Annendale slid the squirrelâs cage
into the  cargo bed of the  station wagon, closed the  tailgate, and put up
the electric window. Jenny Edison got in the car. Annendale and Emma talked
for perhaps a minute.  Then he got behind the wheel and reversed out of the
driveway.  When Emma  waved  good-by to  them and  started back  toward the
house, Salsbury let the curtain fall into place.

She came into the  kitchen, saw him, and was startled. She looked as if she
was  ready   to  scream.   ãWhat  are  you   doing  here?  Who   are  you?ä

ãI am the key.ä ãI am the lock.ä ãRelax.ä

She did.

ãSit down.ä She sat.

He stood  in front  of her, loomed  over her. ãWhat were  you and Annendale
talking about out there?ä

ãHe  kept  apologizing  for  his daughterâs  behavior.ä  Salsbury  laughed.

Because her memories of  this morningâs events had been selectively edited,
she didnât see the humor in the situation. ãWhy

would Rya accuse Bob of murder? What a terrible thing. Does she think sheâs
being funny? What a gruesome joke!ä

The entrance  foyer of St. Margaret Maryâs  Roman Catholic Church was quiet
and nearly lightless. The entire interior was done in dark pine÷pegged pine
floors,  dark  pine  walls,   open-beam  ceilings,  an  intricately  carved
twelve-foot-high  crucifix÷as  befitted the  major  house of  worship in  a
lumber mill town. A  five-watt bulb burned above the holy water font twelve
feet away.  At the far end  of the auditorium, votive  candles flickered in
ruby-colored glass  cups, and soft lights  shone at the base  of the altar.
However,  little of  this  ghostly illumination  filtered through  the open
archway into the foyer.

Cloaked  in these  shadows  and in  the holy  silence, Jeremy  Thorp leaned
against one  of the two heavy,  brass-fitted front doors of  the church. He
opened  it only  two or  three inches and  held it  in place with  his hip.
Beyond lay  a set of brick steps, the sidewalk, a  pair of birch trees, and
then the western end  of Main Street. The Union Theater was directly across
the  street;  he had  an  adequate  view of  it  in spite  of the  birches.

Jeremy looked  at his watch in  the blade of light  that sliced through the
narrow crack between the doors. 10:20.

As they  approached the traffic light at the  town square, Paul switched on
the right-hand turn signal.

Jenny said, ãThe storeâs to the left.ä

ãI know.ä

ãWhere are we going?ä

ãTo the basketball court behind the theater.ä

ãTo check up on Emma?ä

ãNo. Iâm sure sheâs telling the truth.ä

ãWhy, then?ä

ãI want to ask Mark exactly what did happen this morning,ä he said, tapping
his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited impatiently for the light to
change.

ãEmma told us what happened. Nothing.ä

He   said,  ãEmmaâs   eyes   were  red   and  puffy,   as  if   sheâd  been

crying. Maybe  she and Bob had an argument while  Mark was there. Rya might
have  come to  the  door at  the height  of  the shouting.  She  might have
misunderstood what was happening; she panicked and ran.ä

ãEmma would have told us.ä

ãShe might have been too embarrassed.ä

As the  traffic light turned  green, Jenny said, ãPanic?  That sure doesnât
sound like Rya.ä

ãI  know. But  is it  more in  character for  her to  fabricate extravagant
lies?ä

She nodded. ãYouâre right.  As unlikely as it is, itâs more likely that she
was confused and that she panicked.ä

ãWeâll ask Mark.ä

According to  Jeremy Thorpâs wrist  watch it was 10:22  when Paul Annendale
drove his  station wagon  up Main Street  and into the  alleyway beside the
theater. As soon  as the car was out of sight, the  boy left the church. He
went down  the front steps, stood  at the curb, and  waited for the station
wagon to reappear.

During the last hour  the sky had come closer to the earth. From horizon to
horizon, a solid mass of lowering gray-black clouds rolled eastward, driven
by a  strong high-altitude wind. Some  of that wind had  begun to sweep the
streets of Black River, just enough of it to turn the leaves on the trees÷a
sign, according to folklore, of oncoming rain.

No rain, please, Jeremy  thought. We donât want any damn rain. At least not
before tonight. This summer  a dozen kids had organized a series of bicycle
races to  be held every Friday. Last week he had  placed second in the main
event, the  cross-town dash. But Iâll be first  this week, he thought. Iâve
been  in training.  Heavy training.  Not wasting  my time like  those other
kids.  Iâm   sure  to   be  the  first   this  week÷if  it   doesnât  rain.

He glanced at his watch again. 10:26.

A few  seconds later,  when he saw  the station wagon coming  back down the
alley,  Jeremy started  walking  east along  Main Street  at a  brisk pace.

* * *

As the car nosed out of the alley, just as Paul was about to turn right
onto Main Street, Jenny said, ãThereâs Jeremy.ä

Paul tapped the brakes. ãWhere?ä

ãAcross the street.ä

ãMarkâs not with him.ä He blew the horn, put down his window, and motioned
for the boy to come to him.

After he had looked both ways, Jeremy crossed the street. ãHi, Mr.
Annendale. Hi, Jenny.ä

Paul said, ãYour mother told me you and Mark were playing basketball behind
the theater.ä

ãWe started to. But it wasnât much fun, so we went up to Gordonâs Woods.ä

ãWhereâs that?ä

They were in the final block of Main Street; but the road continued to the
west. It rose with the land, rounded a bluff, and went on until it reached
the mill and after that the logging camp.

Jeremy pointed to the forest atop the bluff. ãThatâs Gordonâs Woods.ä

ãWhy would you want to go up there?ä Paul asked. ãWeâve got a tree house in
Gordonâs Woods.ä The boy read Paulâs expression accurately, and he quickly
said, ãOh, donât worry, Mr. Annendale. Itâs not a rickety old place. Itâs
completely safe. Some of our fathers built it for all the kids in town.ä

ãHeâs right,ä Jenny said. ãItâs safe. Sam was one of the fathers who built
it.ä She smiled. ãEven though his daughter is a bit too old for
treehouses.ä

Jeremy grinned. He wore braces. Those and the freckles that peppered his
face disarmed Paul. The boy clearly didnât have the guile, the dark
personality, or the experience to take part in a murder conspiracy.

Paul felt somewhat relieved. When he hadnât found Jeremy and Mark at the
basketball court, that icy hand had settled once more, if briefly, on the
back of his neck. He said, ãIs Mark up at the treehouse now?ä

Yeah.

ãWhy arenât you there?ä

ãMe and Mark and a couple of other kids want to play Monopoly. So Iâm going
home to get my set.ä

ãJeremy. . .ã How could he possibly find out what he wanted to know? ãDid
anything÷happen in your kitchen this morning?ä

The boy blinked, a bit perplexed by the question. ãWe had breakfast.ä

Feeling more foolish than ever, Paul said, ãWell . . . You better get your
Monopoly set. The other kids are waiting.ä

Jeremy said good-by to Jenny and Paul and to Buster, turned, looked both
ways, and crossed the street.

Paul watched him until he turned the corner at the square.

ãNow what?ä Jenny asked.

ãRya probably ran to Sam for sympathy and protection.ä He sighed. ãShe's
had time to calm down. Maybe she realizes that she panicked. Weâll see what
her story is now.ä

ãIf she didnât run to Sam?ä

ãThen thereâs no use looking for her all over town. If she wants to hide
from us, she can with little trouble. Sooner or later sheâll come to the
store.ä

Sitting at the kitchen table, across from his mother, Jeremy recounted the
conversation heâd had with Paul Annendale a few minutes ago.

When the boy finished, Salsbury said, ãAnd he believed it?ä

Jeremy frowned. ãBelieved what?ä

ãHe believed that Mark was at the treehouse?ä

ãWell, sure. Isnât he?ä

Okay. Okay, okay, Salsbury thought. This isnât the end of the crisis.
Youâve bought some time to think. An hour or two. Maybe three hours.
Eventually Annendale will go looking for his son. Two or three hours.
Youâve no time to waste. Be decisive. Youâve been wonderfully decisive so
far. What youâve got to do is be decisive and get this straightened out
before you have to tell Dawson about it.

Earlier, within twenty minutes of the boyâs death, he had

edited  the Thorp  familyâs  memories, had  erased all  remembrance  of the
killing from  their minds.  That editing took  no longer than  two or three
minutes÷but  it  was  only  the  first  stage  of  a plan  to  conceal  his
involvement in  the murder. If the situation were  any less desperate, if a
capital  offense  hadnât been  committed,  if the  entire key-lock  program
didnât hang in the  balance, he could have left the Thorps with blank spots
in their memories, and  he would have felt perfectly safe in spite of that.
But the circumstances were  such that he knew he should not merely wipe out
the truth  but that he should also replace it with  a detailed set of false
memories, recollections  of routine  events which might  have happened that
morning but which in reality did not.

He decided to begin with the woman. To the boy he said, ãGo into the living
room and  sit on  the couch. Donât  move from there  until I  call for you.
Understood?ä

ãYeah.ä Jeremy left the room.

Salsbury thought for a minute about how to proceed.

Emma watched him, waited.

Finally he said, ãEmma, what time is it?ä

She   looked   at   the    clock-radio.   ãTwenty   minutes   of   eleven.ä

ãNo,ä he  said softly. ãThatâs  wrong. itâs twenty minutes  of nine. Twenty
minutes of nine this Îmorning.ä

ãIt is?ä

ãLook at the clock, Emma.ä

ãTwenty of nine,ä she said.

ãWhere are you, Emma?ä

ãIn my kitchen.ä

ãWho else is here?ä

ãJust you.ä

ãNo.ä He sat in Jeremyâs chair. ãYou canât see me. You canât see me at all.
Can you, Emma?ä

ãNo. I canât see you.ä

ãYou can  hear me. But you  know what? Whenever our  little Conversation is
over, you  wonât remember weâve had it. Every event  that I describe to you
in  the next couple  of minutes will  become a  part of your  memories. You
wonât remember that you

were told these things. You will think that you actually experienced them.
Is that clear, Emma?ä

ãYes.ä Her eyes glazed. Her facial muscles went slack.

ãAll right. What time is it?ä

ãTwenty minutes of nine.ä ãWhere are you?ä

ãIn my kitchen.ä

ãWho else is here?ä

ãNo one.ä

ãBob and Jeremy are here.ä ãBob and Jeremy are here,ä she said. ãBobâs in
that chair.ä

She smiled at Bob.

ãJeremyâs sitting there. The three of you are eating breakfast.ä

ãYes. Breakfast.ä

ãFried eggs. Toast, Orange juice.ä

ãFried eggs. Toast. Orange juice.ä

ãPick up that glass, Emma.ä

She lifted the empty glass in front of her.

ãDrink, Emma.ä

She stared doubtfully at the tumbler.

ãItâs filled to the top with cold, sweet orange juice. Do you see it?ä

ãYes.ä

ãDoesnât it look good?ä ãYes.ä

ãDrink some of it, Emma.ä She drank from the empty glass.

He laughed aloud. The power. . . It was going to work. He could make her
remember whatever he wished. ãHow does it taste?ä

She licked her lips. ãDelicious.ä

Lovely animal, he thought, suddenly giddy. Lovely, lovely little animal.



3

NOON

IN BUDDYÎS  NIGHTMARE two men were filling  the townâs reservoir with cats.
In  the  deepest shadows  of  the  night, just  before  sunrise, they  were
standing at  the edge of the  pool, opening cages and  pitching the animals
into the  water. The felines  squalled about this assault  on their dignity
and comfort. Soon the  reservoir was teeming with cats: alley cats, Siamese
cats, Angora  cats, Persian cats, black  cats and gray cats  and white cats
and yellow  cats, striped cats,  spotted cats, old cats  and kittens. Below
the reservoir,  in Black River,  Buddy innocently turned on  the cold water
tap in  his kitchen÷and  cats, dozens upon  dozens of fiercely  angry cats,
began  to   spill  into  the  sink,   full-sized  cats  that  had  somehow,
miraculously, passed  through the  plumbing, through narrow-gauge  pipe and
rat  traps  and  elbow  joints  and filter  screens.  Screeching,  wailing,
hissing,  biting, scratching  cats  fell over  one another  and  clawed the
porcelain and  scrambled inexorably out of the sink  as new streams of cats
poured in  behind them. Cats on the counter. Cats  on the breadbox. Cats in
the dish  rack. They leapt to  the floor and clambered  atop the cupboards.
One of  them jumped on Buddyâs  back as he turned to  run. He tore it loose
and  threw  it against  the  wall. The  other  cats were  outraged by  this
cruelty. They  Swarmed after Buddy,  all of them spitting  and snarling. He

reached the  bedroom/living room  inches ahead of them,  slammed and locked
the door.  They threw  themselves against the  far side of  the barrier and
yammered  incessantly, but they  werenât strong  enough to force  their way
through  it.  Relieved  that  he had  escaped  them,  Buddy turned÷and  saw
ten-yard-square  cages full  of  cats, scores  of green  eyes  studying him
intensely, and behind the  cages two men wearing shoulder holsters, holding
pistols, and dressed in black rubber scuba suits.

He woke up, sat up, and screamed. He flailed at the mattress, wrestled with
the sheets, and pounded his fists into the pillows for a few seconds until,
gradually,   he  realized   that   none  of   these  things   was   a  cat.

ãDream,ä he mumbled.

Because Buddy  slept in the mornings and  early afternoons, the drapes were
heavy, and there was virtually no light in the room. He quickly switched on
the bedside lamp.

No cats.

No men in scuba suits.

Although he  knew that  he had been  dreaming, although heâd  had this same
dream on each of  the last three days, Buddy got out of bed, stepped into a
pair of slippers that  were as large as most menâs boots, and lumbered into
the kitchen to check the water faucets. There were no cats streaming out of
them, and that was a good thing to know.

However,  he was badly  shaken. He was  no less  affected by the  dream for
having  endured it  on two  other occasions.  All week  his sleep  had been
disturbed by  dreams of one sort or another; and he  never was able to fall
back to sleep once brought awake by a vivid nightmare.

The wall clock showed  12:13. He came home from the mill at half past eight
and  went to  bed at  half past  nine, five days  a week,  as if he  were a
clockwork mechanism.  Which meant that he had  gotten barely three hours of
sleep.

He went to the kitchen table, sat down, and opened the travel magazine that
he had bought at  the general store last Monday. He studied the photographs
of divers in scuba suits.

why? he thought. Divers. Seamen. Guns. At the reservoir. Why? So late. Late
at night.  Dark. Divers. ÎWhy? Figure  it. Come on. Figure  it. Canât. Can.
Canât.  Can. Canât.  Divers. In  woods. Night.  So crazy. Canât  figure it.

He decided  to shower, get dressed, and walk  across the street to Edisonâs
General  Store.   It  was  time  he  asked  Sam   to  figure  it  for  him.

At 12:05 Rya watched a man in thick glasses, gray trousers, and a dark blue
shirt enter Pauline Vickerâs  rooming house. He was the man who had ordered
Bob Thorp to kill Mark.

At  12:10  she  went  to  St.  Margaret  Maryâs  and  hid  in  one  of  the
confessionals at the right rear corner of the nave. Last week she had heard
Emma mention  the Friday lunch and card club that  met all afternoon in the
church  basement. Through  a  chink in  the crimson  velveteen confessional
curtains, she could look  across the back of the nave to the steps that ]ed
down to the recreation room. Women in bright summer dresses and pant-Suits,
many of  them carrying umbrellas, arrived singly and  in pairs for the next
fifteen  minutes÷and Emma  Thorp came  through the  foyer arch  promptly at
twelve thirty.  Rya recognized her even  in the dim light.  As soon as Emma
disappeared down the stairs, Rya left the confessional.

For a moment she was transfixed by the sight of the crucifix at the far end
of the  chamber. The wooden Christ seemed to be  staring over all the pews,
directly at her.

You could have saved my mother, she thought. You could have saved Mark. Why
did you put killers on earth?

Of course the crucifix had no answer.

God helps  those who help themselves, she thought.  Okay. Iâm going to help
myself. Iâm going to  make them pay for what they did to Mark. Iâm going to
get  proof  of  it.  You wait  and  see  if  I  donât.  You  wait and  see.

She was  beginning to tremble again,  and she felt tears  at the Corners of
her eyes.  She took a minute to calm herself, then  Walked out of the nave.

In   the  foyer   she   discovered  that   one  of   the  main   doors  was

open, and  that the lowest of  its four hinges had  been removed. A toolbox
stood on the foyer floor, and a variety of tools were spread out around it.
The workman  apparently had gone to get some piece  of material that he had
forgotten on his first trip.

She turned and looked through the archway at the twelve-foot-high crucifix.

The  wooden  eyes  still  seemed to  be  staring  at  her,  a terribly  sad
expression in them.

Quickly,  worried that  the workman  might return  at any moment,  she bent
down,  peered into  the toolbox, and  plucked a  heavy wrench from  it. She
slipped the  wrench into a pocket  of her windbreaker and  left the church.

At  12:35  she  strolled  past the  municipal  building  which  was at  the
northeast corner  of the square.  The police chiefâs office  was toward the
rear of the first  floor, and it had two large windows. The venetian blinds
were raised.  As she passed she  saw Bob Thorp sitting  at his desk, facing
the   windows;  he  was   eating  a   sandwich  and  reading   a  magazine.

At 12:40  she stood in front  of Ultmanâs Cafe and  watched as a dozen kids
cycled north  on Union  Road toward the  macadamed alley where  some of the
Friday   races  were  held.   Jeremy  Thorp   was  one  of   the  cyclists.

At 12:45, at the southern end of Union Road, Rya crossed the street, walked
under the grapevine arbor,  and went around to the back of the Thorp place.
The lawn ended in  brush and trees, no parallel streets and no buildings in
that direction. There was no house to her left÷just the lawn and the garage
and the  river. To her right  the nearest dwelling was  set closer to Union
Road than  was the Thorp house; therefore, she was  not in anyoneâs line of
sight.

A polished copper knocker gleamed in the center of the door. To one side of
that, near  the knob, were  three decorative windows, each  six inches wide
and nine inches long.

She knocked loudly.

No one answered.

When she  tried the door she found that it was  locked. She had expected as
much.

She took the stolen  wrench from her windbreaker, gripped it tightly in one
hand, and  used it to smash  the middle pane in  the verticle row of three.
The blow made considerably more noise than she had anticipated÷although not
sufficient  noise to  discourage her.  When she  had broken every  shard of
glass  out of  the  frame, she  pocketed  the wrench,  reached through  the
window, and  felt for the latch. She began to  despair of ever locating the
mechanism÷and  then her fingers  touched cool  metal. She fumbled  with the
lock for  almost a minute, finally  released it, withdrew her  arm from the
window, and shoved open the door.

Standing  on the stoop,  staring warily  into the shadow-hung  kitchen, she
thought:  ÎWhat if  one  of them  comes back  home and  finds me  in there?

Go  ahead, she  urged herself. You  better go  inside before you  lose your
courage.

Iâm scared. They killed Mark.

You ran  away this morning. Are you going to run  away again? Are you going
to run  away from  everything that scares  you, from now until  the day you
die?

She walked into the kitchen.

Glass crunched underfoot.

When she  reached the electric range where the  murder had taken place, she
stood quite  still, poised to flee, and  listened closely for movement. The
refrigerator  and  the  upright   freezer  rumbled  softly,  steadily.  The
clock-radio hummed.  A loose window rattled as a  gust of wind rushed along
the side  of the house. In  the living room a  grandfather clock, running a
few minutes  late, solemnly chimed the third quarter  of the hour; the note
reverberated long after the pipe had been struck. The house was filled with
noises;   but  none   of  them   had  a   human  source;  she   was  alone.

Having  broken the law,  having violated  the sanctity of  another personâs
home, with  the first and  most dangerous step already  taken, she couldnât
decide what  to do  next. Well . .  Search the house. Of  course. Search it
from   top  to   bottom.   Look  for   the  body.   But  where   to  begin?

At last, when she realized that her indecision was an outgrowth of the fear
which  she was  determined  to overcome,  when  she realized  that she  was
desperately afraid  of finding Markâs corpse even  though she had come here
to do precisely that,  she began the search in the kitchen. There were only
a  few places  in that  room where  the body  of a nine-year-old  boy might
possibly be  concealed. She looked in the  pantry, in the refrigerator, and
then  in  the freezer,  but  she  uncovered nothing  out  of the  ordinary.

When she  opened the  cabinet beneath the  sink, however, she  saw a bucket
full  of bloody  rags. Not  rags, really.  Dish towels.  They had  used the
towels to  clean up, had thrown them in  the bucket÷and then apparently had
forgotten to destroy the  evidence. She picked up one of the cloths. It was
wet, cold,  and heavy with blood.  She dropped it and  gazed at her stained
hand.

ãOh,  Mark,ä she  said sadly,  a bit  breathlessly. A  pain rose  from deep
inside of  her, filled  her chest. ãLittle Mark  . . . You  never ever hurt
anyone. Not  anyone. What they did to you. What an  awful thing they did to
you. Why?ä

She stood up. Her knees felt weak.

Find the body, she thought.

No, she told herself.

You came here to find the body.

Iâve changed my mind.  Find the body? No. No, thatâs just... too much. Much
too much.  Finding him.. . Mark..  . with his skull cracked  open . . . and
his eyes rolled back in his head .

and dried blood  all over his face . . . Too  much. Even strong girls canât
deal with  everything in life.  Even strong girls have  their limits, donât
they? This  is mine.  My limit. I  canât go looking  . . .  all through the
house . . . just canât . .

Beginning to cry, beginning to shake, she picked up the bucket and left the
house.

At 12:45 Salsbury carried  his briefcase down from his room and went to the
parlor.

Pauline Vicker was sitting in the largest of the three armchairs. She was a
heavyset woman in her early sixties. Fluffy

gray hair. Ruddy complexion.  Double chin. Merry eyes and a nearly constant
smile.  She   had  the   archetypal  grandmotherâs  face,   the  model  for
grandmothersâ faces in storybooks and movies. Her bare feet were propped up
on a hassock. She  was eating candies and watching a television soap opera.

From the doorway he said, ãMrs. Vicker.ä

She glanced  up, chewing a caramel. She  had some trouble swallowing. Then:
ãGood afternoon,  Mr. Deighton.  If youâve a  complaint about your  room or
anything÷do you  think perhaps it could wait just  a bit, a few minutes÷not
longer  than  that mind  you÷just  until this  show  ends? Itâs  one of  my
favorite shows and֊

ãI am the key,ä he said impatiently.

ãOh,ä she  said, disappointed  that she wasnât  going to be  able to finish
watching the program. ãI am the lock.ä

ãGet up, Mrs. Vicker.ä

She struggled out of the chair.

Fat old cow, he thought.

ãWhat do you need?ä she asked pleasantly.

ãIâll need this room  for a while,ä he said, walking to the desk which held
her private telephone. ãDonât disturb me.ä

ãAm I to leave?ä

ãYes. Now.ä

She looked  wistfully at the round maple table  beside her armchair. ãMay I
take my box of candy?ä

ãYes, yes. Just get the hell out of here.ä

Pleased, she snatched up  the candy. ãIâm as good as gone. As good as gone,
Mr. Deighton.  You take  your time here.  I wonât let  anyone disturb you.ä

ãMrs. Vicker.ä

ãYes?ä

ãGo to the kitchen.ä

ãAll right.ä

ãEat your chocolates if you want.ä

ãI will.ä

ãListen to  your radio, and wait  in the kitchen until  I come to see you.ä

ãYes, sir.ä

ãIs that completely clear?ä

ãCertainly. Certainly.  Iâll do just what you say. See  if I donât. Iâll go
straight  out   to  the   kitchen  and  eat  my   chocolates  and  listen֊

ãAnd  close the  door  as you  leave,ä he  said  sharply. ãLeave  now, Mrs.
Vicker.ä

She shut the parlor door behind her.

At  the desk  Salsbury  opened his  briefcase. He  took  from it  a  set of
screwdrivers and  one of  the infinity transmitters÷a small  black box with
several  wires  trailing from  it÷that  Dawson had  purchased in  Brussels.

Smart, he thought. Clever.  Clever of me to bring the IF. Didnât know why I
was packing it  at the time. A hunch. Just a hunch.  And itâs paid off now.
Clever. Iâm  on top  of the situation.  Right up there on  top, in control.
Full control.

Having  carefully considered  his options,  algebraic even  when he  was so
recently returned  from the edge of panic, he had  decided that it was time
to hear  what Paul Annendale was saying to the  Edisons. There were a dozen
miniature glass  swans lined up across  the top of the  desk, each slightly
different in  size and  shape and color  from the one that  preceded it. He
brushed  these figurines  to  the floor;  they  bounced on  the carpet  and
clinked against one another. His mother had collected hand-blown figurines,
although not swans. She favored glass dogs. By the hundreds. He crushed one
of the swans under his heel and imagined that it was a glass dog. Curiously
satisfied  by this gesture,  he connected  the infinity transmitter  to the
telephone and dialed the  number of the general store. Across the street no
telephone rang  at the Edisonâs place.  Nevertheless, every receiver in the
store, as  well as in the familyâs living  quarters above the store, opened
to Salsburyâs ear.

What he heard in the first couple of minutes broke down the paper-thin wall
of  composure  that he  had  managed  to rebuild  since  the murder.  Buddy
Pellineri, in his own  half-literate fashion, was telling Sam and Jenny and
Paul about the two  men who had come down from the reservoir on the morning
of August sixth.

Rossner and Holbrook had been seen!

However, that was neither  the only nor the worst piece of bad news. Before
Buddy had  reached the end of  his story, before Edison  and the others had
finished questioning him, Annendaleâs daughter arrived with the bucket full
of bloody rags. The damned bucket! In his haste to clean up the kitchen and
hide  the corpse,  he had  shoved the  bucket under  the sink and  then had
completely  forgotten  about  it.  The  boyâs  body wasnât  all  that  well
hidden÷but at  least it wasnât in  the room where the  murder had occurred.
The damned  bloody rags.  He had left  evidence at the scene  of the crime,
virtually  out  in  plain  sight  where  any  fool  could  have  found  it!

He could  no longer afford to  spend hours formulating his  response to the
events  of the  morning.  If he  was to  contain  the crisis  and  save the
project, he  would have  to think faster  and move faster than  he had ever
done before.

He   stepped   on  another   glass   swan   and  snapped   it  to   pieces.

4

1:10 P.M.



A PEAL  OF THUNDER rumbled across  the valley, and the  wind seemed to gain
considerable force in the wake of the noise.

Torn between  a desire to believe Emma Thorp  and a growing conviction that
Rya was telling the truth, Paul Annendale climbed the steps to the stoop at
the back of the Thorp house.

Putting  a hand  on his  shoulder, pressing  with fingers like  talons, Sam
said, ãWait.ä

Paul turned.  The wind  mussed his hair,  blew it into his  eyes. ãWait for
what?ä

ãThis is breaking and entering.ä

ãThe doorâs open.ä

ãThat doesnât change anything,ä Sam said, letting go of him. ãBesides, itâs
open because Rya broke it open.ä

Aware  that  Sam  was trying  to  reason  with him  for  his  own good  but
nonetheless impatient,  Paul said, ãWhat in  the hell am I  supposed to do,
Sam? Call  the cops? Or maybe pull some strings,  use my connections, put a
call through  to the  chief of police,  and have him  investigate himself?ä

ãWe could call the state police.ä

ãThe body might not even be here.ä

ãIf they  could avoid it, they  wouldnât move a corpse  in broad daylight.ä

ãMaybe there is no corpse, not here, not anywhere.ä

ãI hope to God youâre right.ä

ãCome on, Paul. Letâs call the state police.ä

ãYou said theyâd need  as much as two hours to get here.  If the body still
is  in this house÷well, it  most likely wonât be  here two hours from now.ä

ãBut  this is  all so  improbable! Why  on earth  would Bob want  to murder
Mark?ä

ãYou heard what Rya said. That sociologist ordered him to kill. That Albert
Deighton.ä

ãShe didnât know it was Deighton,ä Sam said.

ãSam,   youâre    the  one  who  recognized  him  from  her  description .ä

ãOkay. Granted.  But why would Emma  go to a church  luncheon and card game
just after  watching her husband kill  a defenseless child?  How could she?
And how could a boy like Jeremy witness a brutal murder and then lie to you
so smoothly?ä

ãTheyâre your neighbors. You tell me.ä

ãThatâs just  the point,ä  Sam insisted. ãTheyâre  my  neighbors. They have
been all their lives.  Nearly all their lives. I know them well. As well as
I know  anyone. And  Iâm telling you,  Paul, they simply  arenât capable of
this sort of thing.ä

Paul put one hand to his belly. His stomach spasmed with cramps. The memory
of what he had  seen in that bucket÷the thickening blood and the strands of
hair that were the same color as Markâs hair÷had affected him physically as
well  as  emotionally.  Or   perhaps  the  emotional  impact  had  been  so
devastating, so overwhelming that a sharp physical revulsion could not help
but follow. ãYouâve known these people under ordinary circumstances, during
ordinary times. But I swear, Sam, thereâs something extraordinary happening
in this town. First Ryaâs story. Markâs disappearance. The bloody rags. And
on top  of that, Buddy comes  around with this story  of strange men at the
reservoir   in   the   dead   of  night÷just   a   few   days  before   the

whole    town   suffered    from   a   curious,    unexplained   epidemic֊

Sam blinked  in surprise.  ãYou think the  chills are connected with  this,
with֊

A deafening crack of thunder interrupted him.

As the  sky grew  quiet, Sam said,  ãBuddyâs not a  very reliable witness.ä

ãYou believed him, didnât you?ä

ãI believe  he saw something strange, yes. Whether  or not it was precisely
what Buddy thinks it was֊

ãOh, I  know he didnât see  skin divers. Skin divers  donât wear hip boots.
What he  saw÷I think  maybe he saw  two men with  empty chemical dispersion
tanks.ä

ãSomeone   contaminated    the   reservoir?ä   Sam   asked   incredulously.

ãLooks that way to me.ä

ãWho? The government?ä

ãMaybe. Or maybe terrorists. Or even a private company.ä

ãBut why?ä

ãTo   see  if   the  contaminate   did  what   it  was  supposed   to  do.ä

Sam  said,  ãContaminated the  reservoir  .  . .  with  what?ä He  frowned.
ãSomething that  turns sane  men into psychopaths  who will kill  when told
to?ä

Paul began to shake.

ãWe havenât found  him yet,ä Sam said quickly. ãDonât lose hope. We havenât
found him dead.ä

ãSam -  . . Oh God,  Sam, I think we will. I really  think we will.ä He was
close to  tears, but he knew  that, for the time  being, they were a luxury
that he  couldnât allow himself to  have. He cleared his  throat. ãAnd Iâll
bet this  sociologist, Deighton, is  involved with the men  Buddy saw. Heâs
not here to study  Black River. He knows what was put in the reservoir, and
heâs  in town  only to  see what  effect that  substance has on  the people
here.ä

ãWhy didnât Jenny and I get the night chills?ä

Paul shrugged.  ãI donât know. And Iâve no idea  what Mark walked into this
morning.  What did he  see that made  it necessary  for him to  be killed?ä

They stared at each  other, horrified by the idea that the townspeople were
unwitting guinea  pigs in some  bizarre experiment. Both of  them wanted to
laugh off the entire  notion, dismiss it with a joke or two; but neither of
them could even smile.

ãIf any of this  is true,ä Sam said worriedly, ãthereâs even more reason to
call in the state police right now.ä

Paul said,  ãWeâll find the body  first. Then  weâll call the state police.
Iâm going  to find my  son before he winds  up in an unmarked  grave way to
hell and gone in the mountains.ä

Gradually, Samâs face became as white as his hair. ãDonât talk about him as
if  you  know  heâs  dead.  You  donât   know   that  heâs  dead,  dammit!ä

Paul took a deep  breath. His chest ached. ãSam, I should have believed Rya
this morning.  Sheâs no liar. Those bloody dish towels  .. . Look, Iâve got
to talk about him  as if heâs dead. Iâve got to think of him that way. If I
convince myself  that heâs still alive and then  I find his body÷itâll hurt
too much. Itâll destroy me. Do you understand?ä

ãYes.ä

ãYou donât have to come in with me.ä

ãI canât let you go alone,ä Sam said.

ãYes, you can. Iâll be fine.ä

ãI wonât let you go alone.ä

ãAll right. Letâs get this over with.ä

ãHeâs a  good boy,ä Sam said quietly. ãHeâs always been  such a good boy. I
love him like my own.ä

Paul nodded, turned, and went into the dark house.

The telephone company maintained a narrow, two-story brick building on West
Main Street,  half a block from  the square. It was  a two-minute walk from
Pauline Vickerâs rooming house.

The front  office on the  first floor÷where complaints could  be lodged and
bills paid÷was  small and neat. It contained  eight gray filing cabinets, a
cash  register,   an  electronic   calculator,  a  photostatic   copier,  a
typewriter, a  long pine  worktable, and two Straight-backed  chairs in one
corner,  a large  metal  desk with  a Sturdy  swivel  chair, a  Sierra Club
calendar, several telephones,

stacks  of company  pamphlets, a  radio, and  the United  States flag  in a
stainless steel  stand. There was no dust on the  furniture, no dirt on the
tile  floor, and  every  pile of  typing  paper, forms,  and envelopes  was
properly squared off and neatly stacked.

The only  person in the office  was as businesslike as  the room. She was a
thin  but  not  unattractive  woman in  her  middle  or  late forties.  Her
short-cropped chestnut hair had no more than a dozen strands of gray in it.
Her skin  was smooth  and milky. Although  her features were  very angular,
they were  balanced by a generous, sensuous mouth  that saved her looks but
seemed  to have  been  borrowed from  another face.  She  wore a  smart and
efficient green pantsuit with  a white cotton blouse. Her glasses were on a
chain  so that  when  she took  them off  they  hung ready  at  her breast.

When Salsbury  entered the  office, she stepped  up to the  counter, smiled
professionally,  and  said,  ãDoes  it still  look  like  rain out  there?ä

Closing  the mullioned-window  door,  Salsbury said,  ãYes. Yes,  it does.ä

ãWhat can I do for you?ä

ãI am the lock.ä ãI am the key.ä

He went to the counter.

She  toyed with  the glasses at  her breast.  He said, ãWhatâs  your name?ä

ãJoan Markham.ä

ãAre you a secretary?ä

ãIâm the assistant manager.ä

ãHow many people are working here?ä ãRight now?ä

ãRight now,ä he said.

ãSix, including me.ä

ãName them for me, one by one.ä

ãWell, thereâs Mr. Puichaski.ä

ãWhoâs he?ä

ãThe manager.ä

ãWhere is he now?ä

ãIn his office, The front room upstairs.ä

ãWho else, Joan?ä

ãLeona Ives. Mr. Pulchaskiâs secretary.ä

ãIs she upstairs too?ä

ãYes.ä

ãThat leaves three.ä

ãThose are operators.ä

ãSwitchboard operators?ä

ãYes. Mary Ultman, Betty Zimmerman, and Louise Pulchaski.ä

ãMr. Puichaskiâs wife?ä

ãHis daughter,ä Joan said.

ãWhere do the operators work?ä

She pointed to a door at the back of the room. ãThat leads to the
downstairs hall. The switchboards are in the next room, at the back of the
building.ä

ãWhen do these operators go off duty?ä

ãAt five oâclock.ä

ãAnd three more come on the new shift?ä

ãNo. Just two. There isnât that much business at night.ä

ãThe new shift works until÷one in the morning?ä

ãThatâs right.ä

ãAnd two more operators come on duty until nine oâclock in the morning?ä

ãNo. Thereâs just one during the graveyard watch.ä She put on her glasses,
took them off again a second later. ãAre you nervous, Joan?ä

ãYes. Terribly.ä

ãDonât be nervous. Relax. Be calm.ä

Some of the stiffness went out of her slender neck and Shoulders. She
smiled.

ãTomorrow is Saturday,ä he said. ãWill there be three operators on duty
during the daylight shift?ä

ãNo. On weekends thereâre never more than two.ä

ãJoan, I see youâve got a notebook and pen next to your typewriter. I want
you to prepare for me a list of all the operators

who are scheduled to work tonight and during the first two shifts tomorrow.
I  want  their  names   and  their  home  telephone  numbers.  Understood?ä

ãOh, yes.ä

She went to her desk.

Salsbury crossed to the front door. He studied West Main Street through the
six-inch-square panes of glass.

Presaging a  summer storm,  the wind whipped  the trees mercilessly,  as if
trying to drive them to shelter.

There was no one  in sight on either side of the street. Salsbury looked at
his watch. 1:15

ãHurry up, you stupid bitch.ä She looked up. ãWhat?ä

ãI called  you a stupid bitch.  Forget that. Just finish  the list. Quickly
now.ä

She busied herself with pen and notebook.

Bitches, he  thought. Rotten bitches. All of them.  Every last one of them.
Always fouling him up. Nothing but bitches.

An empty  lumber truck went past  on Main Street, heading  toward the mill.

ãHere it is,ä she said.

He returned  to the customer  service counter, took the  notebook page from
her  hand, and  glanced  at it.  Seven names.  Seven telephone  numbers. He
folded  the  paper  and  put it  in  his  shirt  pocket.  ãNow, what  about
repairmen?  Donât you  have  linemen or  repairmen on  duty all  the time?ä

ãWe have a crew of four men,ä she said. ãThere are two on the day shift and
two  on the  evening shift.  Thereâs no  one regularly scheduled  for night
shift or for  the weekends, but every one of the crewâs  on call in case of
emergencies.ä

ãAnd there are two men on duty now?ä ãYes.ä

ãWhere are they?ä

ãWorking  on   a  problem  at   the  mill.ä  ãWhen  will   they  be  back?ä

ãBy three. Maybe three thirty.ä

ãWhen they come in, you send them over to Bob Thorpâs

office.ä  He had  already  decided to  make the  police chiefâs  office his
headquarters  for   the  duration   of  the  crisis.   ãUnderstood,  Joan?ä

Yes.

ãWrite down  for me the names  and home telephone numbers  of the other two
repairmen?â

She needed half a minute for that assignment.

ãNow listen closely, Joan.ä

Resting her  arms on the counter, she leaned  toward him. She seemed almost
eager to hear what he had to tell her.

ãWithin the  next few  minutes, the wind  will blow down  the lines between
here and  Bexford. It wonât be possible for anyone in  Black River or up at
the mill to make or receive a long-distance call.ä

ãOh,ä she said wearily.  ãWell, that sure is going to ruin  my day. It sure
is?â

ãComplaints, you mean?ä

ãEach one nastier than the one before it.ä

ãIf people complain, tell them that linemen from Bexford are working on the
break. But  there was a great deal of damage.  The repairs will take hours.
The  job  might not  be  done  until tomorrow  afternoon.  Is that  clear?ä

ãThey wonât like it.ä

ãBut is that clear?ä

ãItâs clear.ä

ãAll right.ä He sighed.  ãIn a moment Iâm going to go back to talk with the
girls at the switchboard. Then upstairs to see your boss and his secretary.
When  I  leave  this  room, youâll  forget  everything  weâve said.  Youâll
remember me  as a lineman from  Bexford. I was just  a lineman from Bexford
who  stopped  in  to  tell  you  that  my  crew  was already  on  the  job.
Understood?ä

ãGo back to work.ä

She returned to her desk.

He walked behind the counter. He left the room by the hall door and went to
talk to the switchboard operators.

* * *

Paul felt like a burglar.

Youâre not  here to steal anything, he told  himself. Just your sonâs body.
If there is a body. And that belongs to you.

Nevertheless,  as he  poked through  the house,  undeterred by  the Thorpsâ
right to privacy, he felt like a thief.

By 1:45 he and Sam had searched upstairs and down, through the bedrooms and
baths  and closets,  through the living  room and  den and dining  room and
kitchen. There was no corpse.

In the kitchen Paul opened the cellar door and switched on the light. ãDown
there. We should have looked down there first. Itâs the most likely place.ä

ãEven  if Ryaâs story  is true,ä Sam  said, ãthis  isnât easy for  me. This
prying around. These people are old friends.ä

ãIt isnât my style either.ä

ãI feel like such a shit.ä

ãitâs almost finished.ä

They descended the stairs.

The  first  basement room  was  a  well-used work  center.  The nearer  end
contained two  stainless-steel sinks,  an electric washer-dryer,  a pair of
wicker clothes baskets, a  table large enough for folding freshly laundered
towels,  and shelves  on  which stood  bottles of  bleach, bottles  of spot
removers, and boxes of detergents. At the other end of the room there was a
workbench equipped  with vises  and all of  the other tools  that Bob Thorp
needed to tie flies. He was an enthusiastic and dedicated fly fisherman who
enjoyed creating  his own  ãbaitä; but he  also sold between  two and three
hundred pieces  of his handiwork every  year, more than enough  to make his
hobby a very profitable one.

Sam peered into the  shadow cavity beneath the stairs and then searched the
cupboards beside the washer-dryer.

No corpse. No blood. Nothing.

Paulâs  stomach burned  and gurgled as  if he  had swallowed a  glassful of
acid.

He looked  in the  cabinets above and  below the workbench,  flinching each
time he opened a door.

Nothing.

The  second  basement  room,   less  than  half  the  size  of  the  first,

was  used   entirely  for  food  storage.   Two  walls  were  covered  with
floor-to-ceiling shelves; and these were lined with store-bought as well as
home-canned  fruits  and vegetables.  A  large,  chest-style freezer  stood
against the far wall.

ãIn there or nowhere,ä Sam said.

Paul went to the freezer.

He lifted the lid.

Sam stepped in beside him.

Frigid air rushed over  them. Streams of ghostly vapor snaked into the room
and were dissipated by the warmer air.

The  freezer  contained  two or  three  dozen  plastic-wrapped and  labeled
packages  of meat.  These bundles  werenât stacked  for optimum use  of the
space÷and  to Paul  at  least, that  looked rather  odd.  Furthermore, they
hadnât been arranged according to size or weight or similarity of contents.
They were  merely dumped  together every which  way. They appeared  to have
been thrown into the freezer in great haste.

Paul  took a five-pound  beef roast from  the chest  and dropped it  on the
floor. Then  a ten-pound  package of bacon. Another  five-pound beef roast.
Another   roast.   More   bacon.  A   twenty-pound   box   of  pork   chops

The dead boy had  been placed in the bottom of the freezer, his arms on his
chest and  his knees  drawn up; and the  packages of meat had  been used to
conceal  him. His  nostrils were caked  with blood.  An icy, ruby  crust of
blood sealed his lips and masked his chin. He stared up at them with milky,
frozen eyes that were as opaque as heavy cataracts.

ãOh . . .  no. No. Oh, Jesus,ä Sam murmured. He swung away from the freezer
and  ran. In  the  other room  he turned  on a  faucet; the  water splashed
loudly.

Paul heard him gagging and puking violently into one of the stainless-steel
sinks.

Strangely, he was now in full control of his emotions. When he saw his dead
son, his intense anger  and despair and grief were at once transformed into
a  deep  compassion,  into   a  tenderness  that  was  beyond  description.

ãMark,ä he said softly. ãItâs okay. Okay now. iâm here. Iâm here with you
now. You arenât alone anymore.ä

He took the remaining packages of meat from the freezer, one at a time,
slowly excavating the grave.

As Paul removed the last bundle from atop the body, Sam came to the
doorway. ãPaul? Iâll . - . go upstairs. Use the phone. Call . . the state
police.ä

Paul stared into the freezer.

ãDid you hear me?ä

ãYes. I heard you.ä

ãShould I call the state police now?ä

ãYes. Itâs time.ä

ãHow are you feeling?ä

ãIâm all right, Sam.ä

ãWill you be okay here÷alone?ä

ãSure. Fine.ä

ãAre you certain?ä

ãSure.ä

Sam hesitated, finally turned away. He took the steps two at a time,
thunderously.

Paul touched the boyâs cheek.

It was cold and hard.

Somehow he found the strength to pull the body, stiff as it was, out of the
freezer. He balanced his son on the edge of the chest, got both arms under
him and lifted him. He swung around and put the boy on the floor, in the
center of the room.

He blew on his hands to warm them.

Sam came back, still as pale as the belly of a fish. He looked at Mark. His
face twisted with pain, but he didnât cry. He kept control of himself.
ãThere seems to be some trouble with the telephones.ä

ãWhat sort of trouble?ä

ãWell, the lines have been blown down between here and Bexford.ä

Frowning, Paul said, ãBlown down? It doesnât seem windy enough for that.ä

ãNot here it isnât. But it probably is much windier farther on

toward Bexford. In these mountains you can have a pocket of relative calm
right next to a fierce storm.ä

ãThe lines to Bexford . . .ã Paul brushed strands of stiff, frozen,
blood-crusted hair from his sonâs white forehead. ãWhat does that mean to
us?ä

ãYou can ring up anyone you want in town or up at the mill. But you canât
place a long-distance call.ä

ãWho told you?ä

ãThe operator. Mandy Ultman.ä

ãDoes she have any idea when theyâll get it fixed?ä

ãEvidently, thereâs been a lot of damage,ä Sam said. ãShe tells me a crew
of linemen from Bexford are already working. But theyâll need several hours
to put things right.ä

ãHow many hours?ä

ãWell, theyâre not even sure they can patch it up any time before tomorrow
morning.ä

Paul remained at his sonâs side, kneeling on the concrete floor, and he
thought about what Sam had said.

ãOne of us should drive into Bexford and call the state police from there.ä

ãOkay,ä Paul said.

ãYou want me to do it?ä

ãif you want. Or I will. It doesnât matter. But first we have to move Mark
to your place.ä

ãMove him?ä

ãOf course.ä

ãBut isnât that against the law?ä He cleared his throat ãI mean, the scene
of the crime and all thatä

ãI canât leave him here, Sam.ä

ãBut if Bob Thorp did this, you want him to pay for it. Donât you? If you
move÷move the body, what proof do you have that you actually found it
here?ä

Surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, Paul said, ãThe police
forensic specialists will be able to find traces of Markâs hair and blood
in the freezer.ä

"But÷"

ãI canât leave him here!ä

Sam nodded. ãAll rightä ãI just canât, Sam.ä

ãOkay. Weâll get him to the car.ä ãThank you.ä

ãWeâll take him to my place.ä

ãThank you.ä ãHow will we carry him?ä ãYou÷take his feet.ä Sam touched the
boy. ãSo cold.ä ãBe careful with him, Sam.ä Sam nodded as they lifted the
body. ãBe gentle with him, please.ä ãOkay.ä

ãPlease.ä

ãI will,ä Sam said. ãI will.ä



5

2:00 P.M.

THUNDER  CANNONED, and  rain shattered  against the  windows of  the police
chiefâs office.

Two  men,  employees  of other  governmental  departments  that shared  the
municipal building,  stood with their backs to  the windows, trying to look
stern, authoritarian,  and eminently reliable. Bob  Thorp had provided them
with bright yellow hooded  rain slickers with POLICE stenciled across their
shoulders and  chests. Both men were in their  middle or late thirties, yet
they expressed an almost  childish delight at the opportunity to wear these
raincoats: adults playing cops and robbers.

ãCan you use a gun?ä Salsbury asked them.

They both said that they could.

Salsbury turned to Bob Thorp. ãGive them guns.ä

ãRevolvers?ä the police chief asked.

ãDo you have shotguns?ä

ãYes.ä

"I believe those would be better than revolvers,ä Salsbury said. ãDonât you
agree?ä

ãFor this operation?ä Thorp said. ãYes. Much better.ä

ãThen give them shotguns.ä

A brilliant explosion of  lightning flashed against the windows. The effect
was stroboscopic: everyone and every object in the

room  seemed to  jump rapidly back  and forth  for an instant,  although in
reality nothing moved.

Overhead the fluorescent lights flickered.

Thorp went to the  metal firearms cabinet behind his desk, unlocked it, and
fetched two shotguns.

ãDo  you know  how  to use  these?ä Salsbury  asked the  men in  the yellow
raincoats.

One of them nodded.

The  other said,  ãNot much to  it. These babies  pack a  hell of a  lot of
punch. You  pretty much just have to point in  the general direction of the
target and  pull the trigger.ä He gripped the  gun with both hands, admired
it, smiled at it.

ãGood enough,ä  Salsbury said. ãThe two  of von will go  out to the parking
lot behind  this building,  get in the  spare patrol car, and  drive to the
east end of town. Understand me so far?ä

ãTo the east end,ä one of them said.

ãA hundred yards short  of the turn at the mouth of the valley, youâll park
the  cruiser across  the highway  and block  both lanes  as best  you can.ä

ãA roadblock,ä  one of them said,  obviously pleased with the  way the game
was developing.

ãExactly,ä  Salsbury said.  ãIf anyone  wants to enter  Black River÷logging
trucks,  local  citizens,  maybe  visitors  from  out of  town,  anyone  at
all÷youâll let  them in. However,  youâll send them here,  straight to this
office. Youâll  tell them  that a state  of emergency has  been declared in
Black River and that they absolutely must, without exception, check in with
the   chief  of   police  before   they  go   on  about   their  business.ä

ãWhat kind  of emergency?ä ãYou donât  need to know.ä One  of them frowned.

The other said, ãEveryone we stop will want to know.ä

ãIf they  ask, tell them that the chief will  explain it.ä Both men nodded.

Thorp   distributed   a   dozen   shotgun   shells   to   each   of   them.

ãIf anyone tries to  leave Black River,ä Salsbury said, ãyouâll also direct
them to  the chief,  and youâll give them  the same story about  a state of
emergency. Understood?ä

ãYes.ä

ãYes.ä

ãEvery time you send someone to see Bob, whether they were coming into town
or trying  to get  out of it, youâll  radio this office. That  way, if they
donât  show  up within  a  few  minutes, weâll  know  that  weâve got  some
renegades on our hands. Understood?ä

They both said, ãYes.ä

Salsbury  took  his  handkerchief  from  his  hip pocket  and  blotted  the
perspiration  from his  face.  ãIf anyone  leaving town  tries to  run your
roadblock, stop them. If  you canât stop them any other way, use the guns.ä

ãShoot to kill?ä

ãShoot to  kill,ä Salsbury said. ãBut only if thereâs  no other way to stop
them.ä

One of the men tried to look like John Wayne receiving orders at the Alamo,
shook  his head  solemnly, and said,  ãDonât worry.  You can count  on us.ä

ãAny questions?ä

ãHow long will we be in charge of this roadblock?ä

ãAnother team  of men  will relieve you  in six hours,ä  Salsbury said. ãAt
eight  oâclock this  evening.ä  He jammed  his handkerchief  back  into his
pocket. ãOne  other thing. When you  leave this room, you  will forget that
you ever met me.  Youâll forget that I was here. Youâll remember everything
Iâve  said to  you  prior to  what Iâm  saying to  you now,  every previous
exchange  of this  conversation weâve  just had÷but  youâll think  that Bob
Thorp   gave   you   your   instructions.   Is   that   perfectly   clear?ä

ãYes.ä

ãPerfectly.ä

ãThen get moving.ä

The two  men went out of the room, forgetting him  the moment they set foot
in the corridor.

A fiercely  white pulse of lightning  washed over the town,  and a crack of
thunder followed, rattling the windows.

ãClose those blinds,ä Salsbury said irritably.

Thorp did as he was told.

Salsbury sat down behind the desk.

When he  had drawn the Venetian blinds, Bob Thorp  returned to the desk and
stood in front of it.

Salsbury  looked up  at him  and said, ãBob,  I want  to seal this  burg up
tight. Real  tight.ä He made a fist with his right  hand by way of example.
ãI  want to  make damned sure  that no one  can get  out of town.  Is there
anything  else   that  I   should  block  in  addition   to  the  highway?ä

Scratching his beetled brow, Thorp said, ãYou need two more men at the east
end of the valley.  One to watch the river. He should be armed with a rifle
so he  can pick off anyone  in a boat if  he has to do  that. The other man
should be  stationed in the trees  between the river and  the highway. Give
him a  shotgun and tell him  to stop anyone who  tries to sneak out through
the woods.ä

ãThe man at the river÷heâd have to be an expert with a rifle, wouldnât he?ä
Salsbury asked.

ãYou wouldnât need a master rifleman. But he would have to be a fairly good
shot.ä

ãOkay. Weâll  use one  of your deputies  for that. Theyâre all  good with a
rifle, arenât they?ä

ãOh, sure.ä

ãGood enough for this?ä

ãNo doubt about it.ä

ãAnything else?ä

Thorp thought  about the  situation for almost  a minute. Finally  he said,
ãThereâs a series of  old logging roads that lead up into the mountains and
eventually hook up with  a second series of roads that come from the lumber
operations around Bexford. A  lot of that route has been abandoned. None of
itâs paved. A few  sections may be graveled if they havenât been washed out
this summer, but mostly  itâs just dirt. Narrow. Full of weeds. But I guess
if  a   man  was  determined   enough,  he  could  drive   out  that  way.ä

ãThen weâll  block it,ä Salsbury said, getting up  from the chair. He paced
nervously to  the windows and back  to the desk. ãThis  town is mine. Mine.
And itâll stay that way. Iâm going

to keep my hands on every man, woman, and child here until Iâve solved this
problem.ä

The situation had gotten  incredibly far out of hand. He would have to call
Dawson. Sooner  or later. Probably sooner.  Couldnât be avoided. But before
he placed  that call, he wanted  to be certain that  he had done everything
that he  could possibly do without  Leonardâs help, without Klingerâs help.
Show  them  he  was  decisive. Clever.  A  good  man  to  have around.  His
efficiency  might impress  the  general. And  that Christ-kissing  bastard.
Impress them  enough to compensate for his having  caused the crisis in the
first place.  That was very important. Very  important. Right now the trick
was to survive his partnersâ wrath.

2:30 P.M.

The air in Samâs library was stale and humid.

Rain drummed on the outside window, and hundreds of tiny beads of dew
formed on the inside.

Still numb from the discovery of his sonâs body, Paul sat in one of the
easy chairs, his hands on the arms of the chair and his fingertips pressed
like claws into the upholstery.

Sam stood by one of the bookcases, pulling volumes of collected psychology
essays from the stacks and leafing through them.

On the wide window ledge, an antique mantel clock ticked hollowly,
monotonously.

Jenny came into the room from the ball, letting the door stand open behind
her. She knelt on the floor beside Paulâs chair and put her hand over his.

ãHowâs Rya?ä he asked.

Before they had gone to the Thorp house to search for the body, Sam had
given the girl a sedative.

ãSleeping soundly,ä Jenny said. ãSheâll be out for at least two more
hours.ä

ãHere!ä Sam said excitedly.

They looked up, startled.

He came  to them,  holding up a book  of essays. ãHis picture.  The one who
calls himself Deighton.ä

Paul stood up to have a better look at it.

ãNo wonder Rya and I couldnât find any of his articles,ä Sam said. ãWe were
looking  through  tables  of  contents  for  something  written  by  Albert
Deighton.  But  thatâs  not  his name.  His  real  nameâs Ogden  Salsbury.ä

ãIâve seen him,ä Paul  said. ãHe was in Ultmanâs Cafe the day that waitress
drove  the  meat  fork  through her  hand.  In  fact  she  waited on  him.ä

Rising to her feet, Jenny said, ãYou think that was connected with the rest
of  this, with the  story Buddy Pellineri  told us÷  with what they  did to
Mark?ä Her  voice faltered slightly on  those last few words,  and her eyes
grew shiny. But she bit her lip and held back the tears.

ãYes,ä Paul  said, wondering again at his own  inability to weep. He ached.
God,  he was  full  of  pain! But  the tears  would not  come. ãIt  must be
connected.  Somehow.ä  To  Sam  he  said, ãSalsbury  wrote  this  article?ä

ãAccording  to  the introductory  blurb,  it  was the  last  piece he  ever
published÷more than twelve years ago.ä

ãBut heâs not dead.ä

ãUnfortunately.ä

ãThen why the last?ä

ãSeems he  was quite a controversial figure.  Praised and damned but mostly
damned. And he got  tired of the controversy. He dropped out of his lecture
tours and  gave up his writing  so that heâd have  more time to dedicate to
his research.ä

ãWhatâs the article about?ä

Sam  read the  title.  ãÎTotal Behavioral  Modification through  Subliminal
Perception.âä  And  the subtitle:  ãÎMind  Control from  the Inside  Out.âä

ãWhat does all of that mean?ä

ãDo you want me to read it aloud?ä

Paul looked at his watch.

ãIt wouldnât hurt if we knew the enemy before we went into Bexford to see
the state police,ä Jenny said.

ãSheâs right,ä Sam said.

Paul nodded. ãGo ahead. Read it.ä

2:40 P.M.

Friday  afternoon H.  Leonard  Dawson was  in the  study of  his Greenwich,
Connecticut, house, reading a  long letter on lavender paper from his wife.
Julia was one-third of  the way through a three-week trip to the Holy Land,
and day by  day she was discovering that it was less  and less like she had
imagined and hoped it would be. The best hotels were all owned by Arabs and
Jews, she  said; therefore,  she felt unclean  every time she  went to bed.
There were plenty of rooms in the inns, she said, but she would almost have
preferred to  sleep in the stables. That morning  (as she wrote the letter)
her  chauffeur had  driven  her to  Golgotha, that  most sweetly  sacred of
places; and  she had read to  herself from the Bible  as the car wended its
way to  that shrine of both  sorrow and everlasting joy.  But even Golgotha
had been spoiled for her. Upon arriving there, she found that the holy hill
was literally swarming  with sweaty Southern Negro Baptists. Southern Negro
Baptists, of all people. Furthermore.

The  white  telephone  rang.  Its soft,  throaty   burrrr-burrrrburrrr  was
instantly recognizable.

The  white phone was  the most private  line in  the house. Only  Ogden and
Ernst knew the number.

He put down the  letter, waited until the telephone had rung a second time,
picked up the receiver. ãHello?ä

ãI  recognize  your voice,ä  Salsbury  said  guardedly. ãDo  you find  mine
familiar?ä

ãOf course. Are you using your scrambler?ä

ãOh, yes,ä Salsbury said.

ãThen   thereâs  no   need   to  talk   in  riddles   and   be  mysterious.

Even if the line is tapped, which it isnât, they canât make sense of what
weâre saying.ä

ãWith the situation what it is at my end,ä Salsbury said, ãI think we
should take the precaution of riddle and mystery and not trust solely in
the scrambler.ä

ãWhat is the situation at your end?ä

ãWeâve got serious trouble here.ä

ãAt the test site?ä

ãAt the test site.ä

ãTrouble of what sort?ä

ãThereâs been one fatality.ä

ãWill it pass for natural causes?ä

ãNot in a million years.ä

ãCan you handle it yourself?ä ãNo. There are going to be more.ä
ãFatalities?ä Dawson asked. ãWeâve got people here who are unaffected.ä
ãUnaffected by the program?ä ãThatâs right.ä

ãWhy should that lead to fatalities?ä ãMy cover is blown.ä

ãHow did that happen?ä Salsbury hesitated.

ãYouâd better tell me the truth,ä Dawson said sharply. ãFor all our sakes.
Youâd better tell me the truth.ä

ãI was with a woman.ä

ãYou fool.ä

ãIt was a mistake,ä Salsbury admitted.

ãIt was idiotic. Weâll discuss it later. One of these unaffected people
came upon you while you were with the woman.ä

ãThatâs right.ä

ãIf your cover is blown it can be repaired. Undramatically.ä

ãIâm afraid not I ordered the killer to do what he did.ä Despite the riddle
form of the conversation, the events in Black River were becoming all too
clear to Dawson. ãI see.ä He thought for a moment. ãHow many are
unaffected?ä

ãBesides a couple of dozen babies and very young children, at least four
more. Maybe five.ä

ãThatâs not so many.ä

ãThereâs another problem. You know the two men we sent up here at the
beginning of the month?ä

ãTo the reservoir.ä

ãThey were seen.ä

Dawson was silent.

ãIf you donât want to come,ä Salsbury said, ãthatâs okay. But I have to
have some help. Send our partner and֊

ãWeâll both arrive tonight by helicopter,ä Dawson said. ãCan you bold it
yourself until nine or ten oâclock?ä

ãI think so.ä

ãYou had better.ä

Dawson hung up.

Oh Lord, he thought, You sent him to me as an instrument of Your will. Now
Satanâs gotten to him. Help me to set all of this aright. I only want to
serve You.

He telephoned his pilot and ordered him to fuel the helicopter and have it
at the landing pad behind the Greenwich house within the hour.

He dialed three numbers before he located Klinger. ãThereâs some trouble up
north.ä

ãSerious?ä

ãExtremely serious. Can you be here in an hour?ä

ãOnly if I drive like a maniac. Better make it an hour and a quarter.ä

ãGet moving.ä

Dawson hung up again.

Oh Lord, he thought, both of these men are infidels. I know that. But You
sent them to me for Your own purposes, didnât You? Donât punish me for
doing Your will, Lord.

He opened the lower right-hand drawer of the desk and took Out a folder
thick with papers.

The label on it said:

HARRISON-BODREI DETECTIVE AGENCY

SUBJECT: OGDEN SALSBURY



Thanks to the Harrison÷Bodrei Agency, he understood his partners almost
better than they understood themselves. For

the  past fifteen  years he  had kept  a constantly  updated file  on Ernst
Klinger. The Salsbury dossier  was comparatively new, begun only in January
1975; but it traced his life all the way back through his childhood, and it
was undeniably complete. Having  read it ten or twelve times, from cover to
cover,  Dawson felt  that he  should have  anticipated the  current crisis.

Ogden was  neither stark-raving mad nor  perfectly sound of mind.  He was a
pathological woman-hater. Yet periodically he indulged in lascivious sprees
of whoring,  using as  many as seven  or eight prostitutes  during a single
weekend. Occasionally, there was trouble.

To  Dawsonâs way  of thinking,  two of  the reports  in the file  were more
important,  told more  about  Ogden, than  all of  the others  combined. He
withdrew  the  first  of  them from  the  folder  and  read  it yet  again.

A week past his eleventh birthday, Ogden was taken from his mother and made
a ward  of the  court. Katherine Salsbury  (widowed) and her  lover, Howard
Parker,  were  later  convicted  of  child abuse,  child  molestation,  and
corrupting the  morals of a minor. Mrs. Salsbury was sentenced  to seven to
ten years  in the New  Jersey Correctional Institution for  Women. Upon her
conviction, Ogden  was transferred to  the home of a  neighbor, Mrs. Carrie
Barger (now Peterson), where he became one of several foster children. This
interview  was conducted  with Mrs.  Carrie Peterson (now  sixty-nine years
old)  in her  home in  Teaneck, New  Jersey, on  the morning  of Wednesday,
January 22, 1975. The  subject was obviously intoxicated even at that early
hour  and sipped  at a glass  of ãjust  plain orange juiceä  throughout the
interview.  The  subject  was  not  aware  that  she  was  being  recorded.

Dawson had  marked the sections of the report  that most interested him. He
skipped ahead to the third page.

AGENT: Living  next door to Mrs. Salsbury, you  must have witnessed a great
many of those beatings.

MRS. PETERSON: Oh, yes. Oh, I should say. From the time

that Ogden was old enough to walk, he was a target for her. That woman! The
least   little  thing   he  did÷whup!   she  beat   him  black   and  blue.

AGENT: Spanked him?

MRS. PETERSON: No, no.  She hardly ever spanked. Had she only spanked! That
wouldnât have  been so horrid. But that woman!  She started out hitting him
with her open hands. On the head and all about his sweet little face. As he
got older  sheâd sometimes  use her fists.  She was a big  woman, you know.
Sheâd use her  fists. And sheâd pinch. Pinch his little arms  . . . I cried
many the time. Heâd  come over to play with my foster children, and heâd be
a mess.  His little  arms would be  spotted with bruises.  Just spotted all
over with bruises.

AGENT: \Vas she an alcoholic?

MRS. PETERSON: She drank. Some. But she wasnât addicted to gin or anything.
She was  just mean.  Naturally mean. And  I donât think she  was too smart.
Sometimes, very  dim-witted people, when they  get frustrated, they take it
out  on  children.  Iâve  seen it  before.  Too  often.  Suffer the  little
children. Oh, they suffer so much, I tell you.

AGENT: She had a great many lovers?

MRS.  PETERSON: Dozens.  She  was a  vile woman.  Very  common-looking men.
Always very  common-looking. Dirty.  Crude laborers. Her  men  drank a lot.
Sometimes theyâd stay with  her as much as a year. More often it was a week
or two, a month.

AGENT: This Howard Parker÷

MRS. PETERSON: Him!

AGENT: How long was he with Mrs. Salsbury?

MRS.  PETERSON:  Nearly six  months,  I  think, before  the  crime. What  a
horrible man. Horrible!

AGENT: Did  you know what was  happening in the Salsbury  house when Parker
was there?

MRS. PETERSON: Of course not! Iâd have called the police at once! Of course
the night  of the crime÷Ogden came  to me. And then  I did call the police.

AGENT: Do you mind talking about the crime?

MRS. PETERSON: It still upsets me. To think of it. What a horrible man! And
that woman. To do that to a child.

AGENT: Parker was÷bisexual?

MRS. PETERSON: He was what?

AGENT:  He  customarily  had  relations with  both  sexes.  Is that  right?

MRS. PETERSON: He raped a little boy! Itâs . . . I donât know. I just donât
know. Why did God  make some people so wicked? I love children. Have all my
life.  Love them  more than anything.  I canât  understand a man  like that
Parker.

AGENT: Does it embarrass you to talk about the crime?

MRS. PETERSON: A little bit.

AGENT: If you can bear with me. . . Itâs really important that you answer a
few more questions.

MRS. PETERSON:  If itâs for Ogdenâs sake, like you  said, I surely can. For
Ogdenâs sake. Although he  never comes back to see me. You know that? After
I took  him in and raised  him from the age of  eleven. He just never comes
back.

AGENT: The  court records of  that time were not  properly explicit. Either
that or  the judge had some  of the testimony altered  to protect the boyâs
reputation. I am not certain whether Mr. Parker subjected the boy to÷youâll
excuse  me,   but  it  has   to  be  said÷to  oral   or  anal  intercourse.

MRS. PETERSON: That horrible man!

AGENT: Do you know which it was?

MRS. PETERSON: Both.

AGENT: I see.

MRS.  PETERSON:  With the  mother  watching.  His mother  watched! Can  you
imagine  such a thing?  Such a rotten  thing? To  do that to  a defenseless
child. . . What monsters they were!

AGENT: I didnât mean to make you cry.

MRS. PETERSON:  Iâm not crying. Just a tear or two.  Itâs so sad. Donât you
think? So terribly sad. Suffer the little children.

AGENT: Thereâs no need to continue with÷

MRS. PETERSON: Oh, but you said this was for Ogdenâs sake, that you needed
to ask all of this for Ogdenâs sake. He was one of my children. Foster
children. But I felt like they were my own. I loved them dearly. Loved all
of them. Little dears, every one. So if itâs for Ogdenâs sake . . . Well .
. . For months, without anyone at all knowing, with poor little Ogden too
afraid to tell any-one, that terrible Howard Parker . . . was using the
boy. . . using. . . his mouth. And the mother watching! She was a vicious
woman. And sick. Very sick.

AGENT: And the night of the crime÷ MRS. PETERSON: Parker used the boy.. .
he used . . . the

boyâs rectum. Hurt him terribly. You canât know the pain that boy suffered.

AGENT: Ogden came to you that night.

MRS. PETERSON: I lived right next door to them. He came to me. Shaking like
a leaf. Scared  out of his wits. The poor, poor baby.  . . Crying his heart
out, he was. That  awful Parker had beat him up. His lips were cracked. One
eye was  puffed and black. At  first I thought that  was all that was wrong
with  him. But  I soon  discovered. .  . the  other. We  rushed him  to the
hospital. He needed eleven stitches. Eleven! AGENT: Eleven÷rectal stitches?

MRS. PETERSON:  Thatâs right. He was in such pain.  And he was bleeding. He
had to stay in the hospital for nearly a week.

AGENT: And eventually you became his foster mother.

MRS. PETERSON: Yes. And  never sorry for it. He was a fine boy. A dear boy.
Very bright too.  At school they said he was a genius.  He won all of those
scholarships  and went  up to  Harvard. Youâd  think heâd  come to  see me,
wouldnât you?  After all  I did for him?  But no. He never  comes. He never
comes around. And now the social

workers wonât  let me have any  more children. Not since  my second husband
died. They  say there have to be two parents in  a foster home. And besides
they say  that Iâm  too old. Well,  thatâs craziness. I  love children, and
thatâs all that should  count. I love each and every one of them. Havenât I
dedicated my life to  foster children? Iâm not too old for them. And when I
think of all the suffering children, I could just cry.

The last  half of  that report was  a transcription of a  long and rambling
conversation with  the man  to whom Mrs.  Peterson had been  married at the
time  that  she took  the  eleven-year-old  Ogden Salsbury  into her  home.

This interview  was conducted  with Mr. Allen  J. Barger  (now eighty-three
years old) in the  Evins-Maebry Nursing Home in Huntington, Long Island, on
the afternoon of Friday,  January 24, 1975. The subject is supported at the
home  by the  three  children from  his second  marriage. The  subject, who
suffers from  senility, was  alternately lucid and  incoherent. The subject
was not aware that he was being recorded.

Dawson leafed ahead to the passage he bad marked.

AGENT: Do  you remember any of  the foster children that  you took in while
you were married to Carrie?

MR. BARGER: She took them in. Not me.

AGENT: Do you remember any of them?

MR. BARGER: Oh, Christ.

AGENT: Whatâs the matter?

MR. BARGER: I try not to remember them.

AGENT: You didnât enjoy them like she did?

MR. BARGER:  All those dirty little  faces when I came  home from work. She
tried to say we needed the extra money, the few dollars the government gave
us for keeping the kids. It was the Depression. But she drank up the money.

AGENT: She was an alcoholic?

MR. BARGER: Not when I married her. But she was sure on her way to being
one.

AGENT: Do you remember a child named÷

Mr. BARGER: My trouble was I didnât many her for her mind.

AGENT: Excuse me?

MR.  BARGER: I married  my second wife  for her  mind, and that  worked out
swell. But when I  got hitched to Carrie . . . Well,  I was forty years old
and still  single and sick to death of going  to whores. Carrie came along,
twenty-six and fresh as  a peach, so much younger than me but interested in
me, and I let my balls do my thinking for me. Married her for her body with
no  thought  as  to  what  was  in  her  head.  That  was  a  big  mistake.

AGENT: Iâm sure it was. ÎWell . . . Now, could you tell me if you can
remember a child named÷ MR. BARGER: She had magnificent jugs.

AGENT: I beg your pardon?

MR. BARGER: Jugs. Boobs. Carrie had a magnificent set.

AGENT: Oh. Yes. Uh...

MR. BARGER:  She was  pretty good in bed  too. When you could  get her away
from those  goddamned kids. Those kids!  I donât know why  I ever agreed to
take the  first one in. After that we never had  less than four and usually
six or  seven. She had always  wanted a big family.  But she wasnât able to
have children of her  own. I guess maybe that made her want them even more.
But she didnât really  want to be a mother. It was just  a dream, a sort of
sentimental thing with her.

AGENT: What do you mean?

MR. BARGER: Oh, she liked the idea, of having children more than she liked
really having them.

AGENT: I see.

MR. BARGER:  She couldnât discipline  them worth a damn.  They walked right
over her.  And I  wasnât about to take  over that chore. No,  sir! I worked
hard,  long hours  in those  days. When  I came  home I  didnât want  to do

anything but relax. I didnât spend my time chasing after a pack of brats.
So long as they left me alone, they could do what they wanted. They knew
that, and they never bothered me. Hell, they werenât my kids.

AGENT: Do you remember one of them named Ogden Salsbury?

MR. BARGER: No.

AGENT: His mother lived next door to you. She had a lot of

lovers. One of them, a man named Parker, raped the boy.

Homosexual rape.

MR. BARGER: Come to think of it, I do remember him. Ogden. Yeah. He came to
the house at a bad time.

AGENT: A bad time? Howâs that?

MR. BARGER: It was all girls then.

AGENT: All girls?

MR. BARGER: Carrie was on a kick. She wouldnât take in any but little
girls. Maybe she thought she could control them better than she could a
bunch of boys. So this Ogden and I were the only men in the house for about
two or three years.

AGENT: And that was bad for him?

MR. BARGER: The older girls knew what had happened to him. They used to
tease him something fierce. He couldnât take it. Heâd blow up every time.
Start yelling and screaming at them. Of course that was what they wanted,
so they just teased him some more. When this Ogden used to let the girls
get his goat, Iâd take him aside and talk to him÷almost father to son. I
used to tell him not to pay them any mind. I used to tell him that they
were just women and that women were good for only two things. Fucking and
cooking. That was my attitude before I met my second wife. Anyway, I think
I must have been a great help to that boy. A great help . . . Do you know
they wonât let you fuck in this nursing home?

The other report that Dawson found especially interesting was an interview
with Laud Richardson, a first-level clerk in

the Pentagonâs Bureau of Security Clearance Investigations. A
Harrison-Bodrei agent had offered Richardson five hundred dollars to pull
Salsburyâs army security file, study it, and report its contents.

Again, Dawson had bracketed the most relevant passages with a red pen.

RICHARDSON: Whatever research heâs doing must be damned important. Theyâve
spent a lot of money covering for the sonofabitch over the past ten years.
And the Pentagon just doesnât do that unless it expects to be repaid in
spades some day.

AGENT: Covering for him? How?

RICHARDSON: He likes to mark up prostitutes.

AGENT: Mark them up?

RICHARDSON: Mostly with his fists.

AGENT: How often does this happen?

RICHARDSON: Once or twice a year.

AGENT: How often does he see prostitutes?

RICHARDSON: He goes whoring the first weekend of every other month. Regular
as you please. Like heâs a robot or something. You could set your watch by
his need. Usually, he goes into Manhattan, makes the rounds of the leisure
and health spas, phones a couple of call girls and has them up to his hotel
room. Now and then one of them comes along with the kind of look that sets
him off, and he beats the shit out of her.

AGENT: What look is that?

RICHARDSON: Usually blond, but not always. Usually pale, but not always.
But she is always small. Five one or five two. A hundred pounds. And
delicate. Very delicate features.

AGENT: Why would a girl like that set him off?

RICHARDSON: The Pentagon tried to force him into psychoanalysis. He went to
one session and refused to go the second time. He did tell the psychiatrist
that these frenzies of his were generated by more than the girlsâ
appearance. They have to be delicate.÷but not just in a

physical sense.  They have to seem emotionally  vulnerable to him before be
gets the urge to pound them senseless.

AGENT: In other words  if he thinks the woman is his equal or his superior,
sheâs safe. But if be feels that he can dominate her÷

RICHARDSON:  Then   sheâd  better  have  her   Blue  Cross  paid  in  full.

AGENT: He hasnât killed any of these women, has he?

RICHARDSON:   Not  yet.   But   heâs  come   close  a   couple   of  times.

AGENT:   You   said  someone   in   the   Pentagon  covers   up  for   him.

RICHARDSON: Usually someone from our bureau.

AGENT: How?

RICHARDSON: By paying the  girlâs hospital bills and giving her a lump sum.
The  size   of  the  pay-off  depends  on   the  extent  of  her  injuries.

AGENT: Is he considered a high security risk?

RICHARDSON: Oh,  no. If  be was a closet  queen and we found  out about it,
heâd be classified as  a fairly bad risk. But his hang-ups and vices arenât
secret. Theyâre  out in  the open. No  one can blackmail  him, threaten him
with the  loss of his job  because we already know  all of his dirty little
secrets. In  fact, whenever he marks up a girl, he  has a special number to
call, a  relay point right in  my department. Someone is  at his hotel room
within an hour to clean up after him.

AGENT: Nice people you work for.

RICHARDSON: Arenât they? But  Iâm surprised that even they put up with this
sonofabitch  Salsbury. Heâs a  sick man. Heâs  a real  can of worms  all by
himself. They should stick him away in a cell somewhere and just forget all
about him.

AGENT: Do you know about his childhood?

RICHARDSON: About  his mother and the man who raped  him? Itâs in the file.

AGENT: It helps to explain why he÷

RICHARDSON: You know what?  Even though I can see where his craziness comes
from, even  though I  can see that it  isnât entirely his fault  that he is
what he  is, I canât dredge  up any compassion for  him. When I think about
all of  those girls  who ended up  in hospitals with their  jaws broken and
their eyes swollen shut . . . Listen, did any of those girls feel less pain
because  Salsburyâs evil  isnât entirely  his own  doing? Iâm  an old-style
liberal  when  it  comes  to  most  things.  But this  liberal  line  about
compassion for  the criminal÷thatâs ninety percent  horseshit. You can only
spout  that kind  of garbage  if you  and your  own family have  been lucky
enough to avoid  animals like Salsbury. If it was up to  me, Iâd put him on
trial  for  all  of those  beatings.  Then  Iâd send  him  away  to a  cell
somewhere, hundreds of miles from the nearest woman.

Dawson sighed.

He  put the  reports in  the folder  and returned  the folder to  the lower
right-hand desk drawer.

O Lord, he thought  prayerfully, give me the power to undo what damage heâs
done in Black River. If this mistake can be remedied, if the field test can
be completed  properly, then I will be able to feed  the drug to both Ernst
and Ogden. Iâll be able to program them. Iâve been making preparations. You
know  that. Iâll  be able  to program  them and  convert them to  Your holy
fellowship. And  not just them. The world. There will  be no more souls for
Satan. Heaven  on earth. Thatâs what itâll be,  Lord. True heaven on earth,
all in the shining light of Your love.

2:55 P.M.

Sam read the last line of Salsburyâs article, closed the book, and said,
ãJesus!ä

ãAt least  now we have some idea of whatâs  happening in Black River,ä Paul
said.

ãAll of  that crazy stuff about  breaking down the ego,  primer drugs, code
phrases,  achieving  total  control,  bringing contentment  to  the  masses
through behavioral  modification, the  benefits of a  subliminally directed
society. .  .ã Somewhat dazed by Salsburyâs  rhetoric, Jenny shook her head
as if that would help her to think more clearly. ãHe sounds like a lunatic.
Heâs certifiable.ä

ãHeâs a  Nazi,ä Sam said, ãin spirit if not in  name. Thatâs a very special
breed of lunatic. A very deadly breed. And there are literally thousands of
people like  him, hundreds of thousands who would  agree with every word he
said   about  the   benefits   of  a   Îsubliminally  directed   society.âä

Thunder exploded  with such violence that it sounded as  if the bowl of the
sky had  cracked in two. A  fierce gust of wind  slammed against the house.
The tempo  of the  rain on the roof  and windows picked up  to double time.

ãWhatever he is,ä Paul said, ãheâs done exactly what he said could be done.
Heâs made this insane  scheme work. By God, that has to be whatâs happening
here.  It  explains  everything  since the  epidemic  of  night chills  and
nausea.ä

ãI still  donât understand  why Dad and  I werenât afflicted,ä  Jenny said.
ãSalisbury mentions  in the  article that the subliminal  program would not
affect  illiterates and  children who  havenât yet  come to  terms, however
crude, with  sex and  death. But neither  Dad nor I  fit into  one of those
categories.ä

ãI think I can answer that,ä Paul said.

Sam said,  ãSo can I. One thing they  teach budding pharmacologists is that
no  drug affects  everyone  the same  way.  On some  people, for  instance,
penicillin has  little or no effect. Some people  donât respond well at all
to  sulfa  drugs.  I  suspect  that,  for  whatever reasons  of  genes  and
metabolisms and body chemistries,  weâre among the tiny percentage of those
who arenât touched by Salsburyâs drug.ä

ãAnd  thank God  for that,ä  Jenny said.  She hugged herself  and shivered.

ãThere ought  to be  more adults unaffected,ä Paul  said. ãItâs summertime.
People take  vacations. Wasnât anyone out of town  during the week when the
reservoir  was   contaminated  and  the   subliminal  messages  broadcast?ä

ãWhen the heavy snows come,ä Sam said, ãlogging operations have to stop. So
in the  warm months everyone connected with the mill  works his butt off to
make sure  there will  be a stockpile  of logs to  keep the  saws going all
winter. No one at  the mill takes a vacation in the summer, And everyone in
town  who  serves  the  mill  takes  his  time  off  in  the  winter  too.ä

Paul felt  as if  he were on  a turntable, whirling around  and around. His
mind spun with the implications of the article that Sam had read. ãMark and
Rya and I werenât affected because we got to town after the contaminant had
passed out of the reservoir÷and because we didnât watch whatever television
programs or  commercials contained  the subliminal messages.  But virtually
everyone   else  in   Black  River   is  now  under   Salsbury's  control.ä

They stared at one another.

The storm moaned at the window.

Finally Sam  said, ãWe enjoy  the benefits and luxuries  provided by modern
science÷all the  while forgetting  that the technological  revolution, just
like the  industrial revolution before it, has  its dark side.ä For several
long  seconds, with  the mantel  clock ticking  behind him, he  studied the
cover of  the book  in his hand.  ãThe more complex a  society becomes, the
more  dependent each  part of  it becomes  on every  other part of  it, the
easier it  is for one man, one lunatic or true  believer, to destroy it all
on  a whim.  One man  working alone  can assassinate  a chief of  state and
precipitate major  changes in his countryâs  foreign and domestic policies.
They  tell  us  that  one man  with  a  degree  in  biology  and  a lot  of
determination can  culture more than enough  plague bacillus to destroy the
world. One man working alone can even build a nuclear bomb. All he needs is
a college  degree in  physics. And the  ability to get  his hands  on a few
Pounds of plutonium. Which  isnât so damned hard to do either. He can build
a bomb inside a suitcase and wipe out New York

City because. . . Well, hell, why not because he was mugged there, or
because he once got a traffic ticket in Manhattan and he doesn't think he
deserved it.

ãBut Salsbury canât be working alone,ä Jenny said.

ãI agree with you.ä

ãThe resources needed to perfect and implement the program that he
described in his article. . . Why, they would be enormous.ä

ãA private industry might be able to finance it,ä Paul said. ãA company as
large as AT&T.ä

ãNo,ä Sam said. ãToo many executives and research people would have to know
about it. There would be a leak. It would never get this far without a leak
to the press and a major scandal.ä

ãA single wealthy man could provide what Salsbury needed,ä Jenny said.
ãSomeone as rich as Onassis was. Or Hughes.ä

Tugging gently on his beard, Sam said, ãItâs possible, I suppose. But weâre
all avoiding the most logical explanation.ä

ãThat Salsbury is working for the United States government,ä Paul said
worriedly.

ãExactly,ä Sam said. ãAnd if he is working for the government or the CIA or
any branch of the military÷then weâre finished. Not just the three of us
and Rya, but the whole damned country.ä

Paul went to the window, wiped away some of the dew, and stared at
wind-lashed trees and billowing gray sheets of rain. ãDo you think that
whatâs happening here is happening all over the country?ä

ãNo,ä Sam said. ãIf there were a general takeover in progress, Salsbury
wouldnât be in a backwoods mill town. Heâd be at a command post in
Washington. Or somewhere else, anywhere else.ä

ãThen itâs a test. A field test,ä

ãProbably.ä

ãAnd thatâs maybe a good sign,ä Sam said. ãThe government would run a field
test where it already bad tight security. Most likely on an army or air
force base. Not here.ä

Lightning blasted through the thunderheads; and for an instant the patterns
of rain  on the window seemed  to form faces: Annieâs  face, Markâs face...

Suddenly Paul  thought that his wife  and son, although they  had met quite
different deaths,  had been killed by  the same force. Technology. Science.
Annie had gone into  the hospital for a simple appendectomy. It hadnât even
been  an  emergency  operation.   The  anesthesiologist  had  given  her  a
brand-new-on-the-market-revolutionary-you-couldnât-ask-for-better
anesthetic,  something that wasnât  as messy  as ether, something  that was
easier to  use (easier for the  anesthesiologist) than pentothal. But after
the operation she didnât  regain consciousness as she should have done. She
slipped,  instead, into  a  coma. Sheâd  had  an allergic  reaction to  the
brand-new-on-the-market-revolutionary-you-couldnât-ask-for-better
anesthetic; and  it had destroyed  a large part of  her liver. Fortunately,
the doctors  told him, the liver  was the one organ  of the body that could
regenerate itself. If they  kept her in the intensive care unit, supporting
her life processes with machines, the liver would repair itself day by day,
until eventually  she would  be well again.  She was in  intensive care for
five  weeks,  at which  time  the  doctors fed  all  of the  data from  the
life-support machines  into a  Medico computer, and the  computer told them
that  she was  well enough  to be moved  out of  intensive care and  into a
private  room. Eleven  weeks  later, the  same computer  said she  was well
enough to  go home. She was listless and  apathetic÷but she agreed that the
computer must  be right. Two weeks  after she came home,  she had a relapse
and died within forty-eight hours. Sometimes he thought that if he had only
been a  medical doctor instead of a veterinarian,  he might have saved her.
But that  was pointless masochism. What he could  have done was demand that
her Original surgery be  performed with ether or pentothal, something known
to be  safe, something  that had stood  the test of decades.  He could have
told them  to stuff their computer  up their collective ass.  But he hadnât
done that either. He  had trusted in their technology simply because it was
technology, because  it was all  new. Americans were  brought up to respect

what was new and progressive÷and more often than they wanted to admit, they
died for their faith in what was bright and shiny.

After Annie  died he became  suspicious of technology, of  every new wonder
that   science  gave   to  mankind.   He  read   Paul  Ehrlich   and  other
back-to-the-land  reformers.  Gradually  he came  to  see  that the  yearly
camping trips to Black River could be the beginning of a serious program to
free  his children  from  the city,  from the  ever-growing dangers  of the
science and technology that the cities represented. The yearly trips became
an  education   for  lives   they  would  live  in   harmony  with  nature.

But the  back-to-the-land advocates were possessed  by an impossible dream.
He saw  that now,  saw it as  clearly as he  had ever seen  anything in his
life. They were trying to run away from technology÷but it moved much faster
than they  did. There  was no land  to get back  to anymore.  The city, its
science and technology, the effects of its life-style, had tendrils snaking
out into even the most remote mountains and forests.

Furthermore, you ignored the advancements of science at your own peril. His
ignorance about anesthetics and  the reliability of the Medico computer had
cost  Annie  her life.  His  ignorance  of subliminal  advertising and  the
research being  done in that field  had, if you wanted  to stretch a point,
cost Mark his life. The only way to survive in the 1970s and in the decades
to follow was to  plunge into the fast-moving, supertechnical society, swim
with it, learn  from it and about it, learn all that  you could, and be its
equal in any confrontation.

He turned away from  the window. ãWe canât go to Bexford and call the state
police. If  our own government is behind Salsbury,  if our own leaders want
to enslave us, weâll  never win. Itâs hopeless. But if it isnât behind him,
if  it doesnât know  what heâs achieved,  then we  donât dare let  it know.
Because  the moment  the  military finds  out÷itâll appropriate  Salsburyâs
discoveries; and  there are some factions of  the military that wouldnât be
opposed to using subliminal programming against us.ä

Looking  around  at  the  books  about  Nazism,  totalitarianism,  and  mob
psychology, thinking ruefully of what heâd learned

about some  menâs lust  for power, Sam  said, ãYouâre right.  Besides, Iâve
been  thinking about  the problems  with the long-distance  phone service.ä

Paul knew what he meant. ãSalsburyâs taken over the telephone exchange.ä

ãAnd if heâs done  that,ä Sam said, ãheâs taken other precautions too. Heâs
probably blockaded the roads and every other route out of town. We couldnât
go  to Bexford  and  tell the  state police  even if  we still  wanted to.ä

ãWeâre trapped,ä Jenny said quietly.

ãFor the time being,ä Paul said, ãthat really doesnât matter. Weâve already
decided thereâs  no place  to run anyway.  But if heâs not  working for the
government, if heâs backed  by a corporation or a single wealthy man, maybe
weâve got a chance to stop him here in Black River.ä

ãStop him . . .ã Sam stared thoughtfully at the floor. ãDo you realize what
youâre saying? Weâd have  to get our hands on him, interrogate him÷and then
kill him. Death is the only thing that will stop a man like that. Weâd also
have to find out from him who heâs associated with÷and kill anyone else who
might understand  how the drug was made and  how the subliminal program was
constructed.ä He  looked up from  the floor. ãThat could  mean two murders,
three, four, or a dozen.ä

ãNone of us is a killer,ä Jenny said.

ãEvery manâs  a potential killer,ä Paul said. ãWhen  it comes to matters of
survival, any man is capable of anything. And this is sure as hell a matter
of survival.ä

ãI killed men in the war,ä Sam said.

ãSo  did I,ä Paul  said. ãA different  war than  yours. But the  same act.ä

ãThat was different,ä Jenny said.

ãWas it?ä

ãThat was war,ä she said.

ãThis is war too,ä Paul said.

She stared at  Paulâs hands, as if imagining them with a  knife or a gun or
clamped around a manâs throat.

Sensing   her   thoughts,   he   raised   his  hands   and   studied   them

for  a  moment. On  occasion,  washing  his hands  before  dinner or  after
treating a  sick animal, he would flash back to  the war, back to Southeast
Asia. He  would hear  the guns and  see the blood  again in  his memory. In
these almost psychic moments, he was both amazed and dismayed that the same
hands were accustomed to mundane and horrible acts, that they could heal or
injure, make  love or kill, and look no different  after the task was done.
Codified morality,  he thought, was indeed  a blessing but also  a curse of
civilization. A  blessing because it permitted men  to live in harmony most
of the  time. A  curse because÷ when  the Jaws of nature  and especially of
human nature  made it necessary for  a man to wound  or kill another man in
order to  save himself and his family÷it spawned  remorse and guilt even if
the violence was unwanted and unavoidable.

Besides,  he reminded  himself, these  are the  1970s. This  is the  age of
science  and  technology when  a  man often  is  required to  act with  the
implacable and unemotional savagery of the machine. For better or worse, in
these times gentility is becoming less and less a sign of the civilized man
and is,  in fact,  very nearly an  obsolescent quality. You  see gentility,
most often,  in those  who are least  likely to survive wave  after wave of
future shock.

Lowering his hands he  said, ãIn the classic paranoid vein, itâs us against
them.  Except  that this  isnât  a delusion  or  an illusion;  itâs  real.ä

Jenny seemed  to accept the need  for murder as quickly  as he had accepted
the fact  that he might be  called upon to commit it.  By this point in her
life, she had experienced,  as had all but the most gentle people, at least
the  flickering  of a  homicidal  urge  in a  moment  of  despair or  great
frustration. She hadnât accepted it as the solution to whatever problem had
inspired  it. But  she was not  incapable of  conceiving of a  situation in
which homicide  was the  most reasonable response to  a threat. In spite of
the overprotected, sheltered upbringing  of which sheâd spoken last Monday,
she could adapt to  even the most unpleasant truths. Perhaps, Paul thought,
the ordeal with her first husband

had  made her  stronger,  tougher, and  more resilient  than  she realized.

She said,  ãEven if we could bring ourselves to kill  in order to stop this
thing. .  . Well,  itâs still too much.  To stop Salsbury, we  need to know
more  about  him. And  how  do  we learn  anything?  Heâs  got hundreds  of
bodyguards. Or  if he wants, he can turn everyone  in town into killers and
send them  after us. Do  we just sit here,  pass the time, wait  for him to
stop around for a chat?ä

Returning the hardbound volume of essays to the shelf from which heâd taken
it,  Sam said,  ãWait a  minute.. .  Suppose. .  .ã He  faced them.  He was
excited. All  three of them were tense, twisted  as tight as watch springs.
But now  a glimmer  of pleasurable  excitement was in  his Santa Claus÷like
features. ãWhen  Salsbury saw  Rya standing in  the kitchen doorway  at the
Thorp   house,  what   do   you  imagine   he  did,   very   first  thing?ä

ãGrabbed for her,ä Jenny said.

ãWrong.ä

Bitterly, Paul said, ãOrdered Bob to kill her.ä

ãNot  that either.  Remember,  he would  expect her  to  be another  one of
his÷zombies.ä

Sucking in  her breath, Jenny said,  ãHe would use the  code phrase on her,
the system he talks  about in the article. Heâd try to open her up and take
control of her before  she ran away. So . . . Rya  must have heard the code
phrase!ä

ãAnd if  she can recall it,ä  Sam said, ãweâll  have control of everyone in
Black River, the same  as Salsbury. He wonât be able to send them after us.
He wonât have hundreds of bodyguards to hide behind. It wonât be us against
them. Itâll be us against him.ä

6

3:15 P.M.



DR. WALTER TROUTMAN  entered the police chiefâs office. He was carrying his
black  leather satchel  in his right  hand and  a chocolate candy  bar with
almonds in  his left. He appeared  to be delighted with  the world and with
himself. ãYou wanted to see me, Bob?ä

Before Thorp could answer, Salsbury stepped away from the windows and said,
ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

ãBuddy Pellineri  is waiting in  the room across the  hail,ä Salsbury said.
ãYou know him, donât you?ä

ãBuddy?ä Troutman asked, wrinkling his fleshy face. ãWell, of course I know
him.ä

ãIâve told  him that weâre afraid  heâs picked up a  very bad germ and that
youâre going  to give him a vaccination so he wonât  get sick. As you know,
heâs  not  especially  bright.  He  believed  me. Heâs  waiting  for  you.ä

ãVaccination?ä Troutman said, perplexed.

ãThatâs what  I told  him to keep  him here. Instead, youâll  inject an air
bubble into his bloodstream.ä

Troutman was shocked. ãThat would cause an embolism.ä

ãI know.ä

ãIt would kill him!ä

Salsbury smiled and nodded. ãIt had better. Thatâs the whole idea, doctor.ä

Looking  at  Bob Thorp,  who  was  seated behind  the  desk,  then back  at
Salsbury, Troutman  said miserably,  ãBut I canât  do a thing  like that. I
canât possibly.ä

am I, doctor?ä ãYouâre÷the key.ä

ãVery good. And who are yourâ

ãIâm the lock.ä

ãAll right. You will go across the hail to the room where Buddy is waiting.
Youâll chat with him, be very pleasant, give him no cause to be suspicious.
Youâll tell  him that  youâre going to  give him a  vaccination, and youâll
inject an air bubble  into his bloodstream. You wonât mind killing him. You
wonât hesitate.  As soon as he is dead, youâll  leave the room÷and you will
remember only  that you gave him  a shot of penicillin.  You wonât remember
killing him when you  leave that room. You will come back here, look in the
door, and say to Bob, ÎHeâll be better in the morning.â Then youâll go back
to your house, having  forgotten entirely about these instructions. Is that
clear?ä

ãYes.ä

ãGo do it.ä

Troutman left the room.

Ten minutes ago Salsbury had decided to eliminate Buddy Pellineri. Although
the man  had experienced the night  chills and nausea, and  although he had
been partially brainwashed by  by the subceptive program, he was not a good
subject. He  could not be fully  and easily controlled. When  told to erase
from his  memory the men he had seen coming down  from the reservoir on the
morning of  August sixth, he might  forget them forever÷ or  only for a few
hours.  Or  not at  all.  Had  he been  been  a  genius, the  drug and  the
subliminals would  have transformed  him into the  ideal slave. Ironically,
however, his ignorance condemned him.

It was a pity that Buddy had to die. In his own way he was a likable brute.

But   Iâve   got  the   power,   Salsbury   thought.  And   Iâm  going   to

keep it. Iâm going to eliminate as many people as have to be eliminated for
me to keep the power. Iâll show them. All of them. Dawson, good old Miriam,
the  bitches, the  holier-than-thou  college professors  with their  snotty
questions  and self-righteous  denunciations  of my  work,  the  whores, my
mother, the bitches . . . Tat-tat-tat-tat. . . No one is going to take this
away from me. No one. Not ever. Never.

3:20 P.M.

Rya sat up in  bed, yawning and smacking her lips. She looked from Jenny to
Sam  to  Paul÷but she  didnât  seem  to know  for  certain  who they  were.

ãDo you  remember what he said?ä Paul asked again.  ãThe man with the thick
glasses. Do you remember?ä

Squinting  at him,  scratching her head,  she said, ãWho  .  . .  am this?ä

ãSheâs still  dopey,ä Jenny said, ãand  will be for a  while yet.ä Studying
the girl  from the foot of  the bed, Sam said,  ãSalsbury knows heâs got to
deal with us. As  soon as heâs decided how, heâll  come here. We donât have
time to wait  for the sedative to wear off. Weâve got  to help her come out
of it.ä He  looked at Jenny. ãYou give her a cold  shower. A long one. Iâll
make some fresh coffee.ä

ãDonât like coffee,ä Rya said sullenly.

ãYou like tea, donât you?ä

ãSâokay.ä She yawned.

Sam hurried downstairs to make a pot of tea.

Jenny  hustled Rya  out of  bed and  into the  bathroom at  the end  of the
hallway.

Left alone, Paul went  to the living room to sit with Markâs body until Rya
was ready to be questioned.

ÎWhen  you decide to  meet that  big, bright, shiny,  chrome-edged American
world on its own terms, he thought, things start to move. Faster and faster
and faster.

3:26 P.M.

Dr. Troutman leaned in the open doorway and said, ãHeâll be better in the
morning.ä

ãThatâs fine,ä Bob Thorp said. ãYou go along home now.ä Popping the last
piece of his chocolate-almond bar into his mouth, the doctor said, ãTake
care.ä He walked away.

To Thorp, Salsbury said, ãGet some help. Move the body into one of the
cells. Stretch him out on the bunk so that he looks like heâs sleeping.ä

4:16 P.M.

Rain gurgled noisily down the leader beside the kitchen window.

The room smelled of lemons.

Steam rose from the spout of the teapot and from the china cup.

Rya wiped away her tears, blinked in sudden recollection, and said, ãOh.
Oh, yes . . . ÎI am the key.âä

4:45 P.M.

The  downpour  dwindled abruptly  to  a  drizzle.  Soon  the  rain  stopped
altogether.

Salsbury raised  one of the  Venetian blinds and looked  out at North Union
Road. The gutters were overflowing. A miniature lake had formed down toward
the square where a  drainage grating was clogged with leaves and grass. The
trees dripped like melting candles.

He was glad to see it end. He had begun to worry about the turbulent flying
conditions   that   Dawsonâs  helicopter   pilot   would   have  to   face.

One way or another, Dawson had to get to Black River to-

night. Salsbury  didnât actually need help to  deal with the situation; but
he did  need to  be able to  share the blame  if the  field test  went even
further awry.

Neither of  his current options  was without risk.  He could send Bob Thorp
and a couple of deputies to the general store to arrest the Edisons and the
Annendales. Of  course there might be  trouble, violence, even a shoot-out.
Every additional  corpse or missing person that had  to be explained to the
authorities outside  of Black  River increased the chance  of discovery. On
the other hand, if  he had to maintain the roadblock through tomorrow, keep
control  of the  town, and perpetuate  the state  of siege, his  chances of
coming  out on  top of  this would  be less  promising than they  were now.

What in the devil was happening at Edisonâs place? They had found the boyâs
body. He knew that.  He had assigned several guards to cover the store. Why
hadnât they  come here  to see Bob  Thorp? Why  hadnât they  tried to leave
town? Why  hadnât they, in short,  acted like anyone else  would have done?
Surely,  even  with  Buddyâs  story   to  build  from,  they couldnât  have
reconstructed  the truth  behind  the events  of the  past few  weeks. They
couldnât know who he really was. They probably didnât know about subliminal
advertising in general÷and certainly not about his research in specific. He
suddenly  wished  that  he  had brought  his  briefcase  with the  infinity
transmitter from Pauline Vickerâs rooming house.

ãEverything looks so  crisp and fresh after a summer rain, doesnât it?ä Bob
Thorp asked.

ãIâm glad itâs over,ä Salsbury said.

ãIt isnât. Not by a long shot.ä

Salsbury turned from the windows. ãWhat?ä

Smiling,  as amiable  as Salsbury had  ordered him  to be, Bob  Thorp said,
ãThese  summer storms  start  and stop  half a  dozen times  before theyâre
finished. Thatâs because they bounce back and forth, back and forth between
the mountains until they finally find a way out.ä

Thinking  of Dawsonâs  helicopter,  Salsbury said,  ãSince when  are  you a
meteorologist?ä

ãWell, Iâve lived here all my life, except for my hitch in the service.
Iâve seen hundreds of storms like this one, and they÷ä

ãI said itâs over! The storm is over, Finished. Done with. Do you
understand?ä

Frowning, Thorp said, ãThe storm is over.ä

ãI want it to be over,ä Salsbury said. ãSo it is. Itâs over if I say it is.
isnât it?ä

ãOf course.ä

ãAll right.ä

ãItâs over.ä

ãDumb cop.ä

Thorp said nothing.

ãArenât you a dumb cop?ä

ãIâm not dumb.ä

ãI say you are. Youâre dumb. Stupid. Stupid as an ox. Arenât you, Bob?ä

ãYes.ä

ãSay it.ä

ãWhat?ä

ãThat youâre as stupid as an ox.ä

ãIâm as stupid as an ox.ä

Returning to the window, Salsbury stared angrily at the lowering cobalt
clouds.

Eventually he said, ãBob, I want you to go to Pauline Vickerâs house.ä

Thorp stood up at once.

ãIâve got a room on the second floor, the first door on the right at the
head of the stairs. Youâll find a leather briefcase beside the bed. Fetch
it for me.ä

4:55 P.M.

The four of them went through the crowded stockroom and onto the rear porch
of the general store.

Immediately, twenty yards away on the wet emerald-green

lawn, a  man moved  out of the  niche formed by  two  angled rows  of lilac
bushes.  He was  a  tall, hawk-faced  man  in horn-rimmed  glasses. He  was
wearing   a  dark   raincoat   and  holding   a  double-barreled   shotgun.

ãDo you know him?ä Paul asked.

ãHarry  Thurston,ä Jenny  said. ãHeâs  a foreman  at the  mill. Lives  next
door.ä

With one hand Rya  clutched Paulâs shirt. Her self-confidence and her faith
in people  had been seriously eroded  by what she had  seen Bob Thorp do to
her  brother.  Watching the  man  with  the shotgun,  trembling, her  voice
pitched slightly higher than  it normally was, she said, ãIs he . . . going
to shoot US?ä

Paul  placed  one  hand on  her  shoulder,  squeezed gently,  reassuringly.
ãNobodyâs going to be shot.ä

As he  spoke he ardently wished  that he could believe what  he was telling
her.

Fortunately, Sam  Edison sold a line of  firearms in addition to groceries,
dry   goods,  drugs,   notions  and   sundries;  therefore,   they  werenât
defenseless. Jenny had a .22 rifle. Sam and Paul were both carrying Smith &
Wesson  Combat Magnum  revolvers loaded  with .38 Special  cartridges which
would produce  only half of the fierce  kick of Magnum ammunition. However,
they didnât  want to use the guns, for they were  trying to leave the house
secretly; they  kept the  guns at their  sides, barrels aimed  at the porch
floor.

ãIâll handle this,ä Sam  said. He went across the porch to the wooden steps
and started down.

ãHold it  right there,ä  said the man  with the shotgun. He  came ten yards
closer.  He pointed  the  weapon at  Samâs chest,  kept  his finger  on the
trigger,  and watched all  of them  with unconcealed anxiety  and distrust.

Paul glanced at Jenny.

She was biting  her lower lip. She looked as if she  wanted to swing up her
rifle and level it at Harry Thurstonâs head.

That  might  set off  a  meaningless  but disastrous  exchange of  gunfire.

He  had a mental  image of the  shotgun booming.  Booming again. .  . Flame
blossoming from the muzzles . .

ãCalm,ä he said quietly.

Jenny nodded.

At the bottom of the steps, still twenty-five feet from the man with the
shotgun, Sam held out a hand in greeting. When Thurston ignored it, Sam
said, ãHarry?ä

Thurstonâs shotgun didnât waver. Neither did his expression. But he said,
ãHello, Sam.ä

ãWhat are you doing here, Harry?ä

ãYou know,ä Thurston said.

ãIâm afraid I donât.ä

ãGuarding you,ä Thurston said.

ãFrom what?ä

ãFrom escaping.ä

ãYouâre here to keep us from escaping from our own house?ä Sam grimaced.
ãWhy would we want to escape from our own house? Harry, you arenât talking
sense.ä

Thurston frowned. ãIâm guarding you,ä he said stubbornly.

ãFor whom?ä

ãThe police. Iâve been deputized.ä ãDeputized? By whom?ä

ãBob Thorp.ä

ãWhen?ä

ãAn hour.. . hour and a half.ä

ãWhy does Bob want you to keep us in the house?ä

ãYou know why,ä Thurston said again.

ãIâve already told you that I donât know.ä

ãYouâve done something.ä ãWhat have we done?ä ãSomething wrong. Illegal.ä
ãYou know us better than that.ä Thurston said nothing. ãDonât you, Harry?ä
Silence.

ãWhat have we done?ä Sam insisted. ãI donât know.ä

ãBob didnât tell you?ä

ãIâm just an emergency deputy.ä

The shotgun looks nonetheless deadly for that, Paul thought.

ãYou donât  know what weâre supposed to have  done?ä Sam asked. ãBut youâre
willing to shoot us if we try to leave?ä

ãThose are my orders.ä

ãHow long have you known me?ä

ãTwenty years anyway.ä

ãAnd Jenny?ä

ãA long time.ä

ãYouâre willing to kill old friends just because someone tells you to?ä Sam
asked.  He  was  probing,  trying to  discover  the  breadth  and depth  of
Salsburyâs control.

Thurston couldnât  answer that question.  His eyes flicked from  one to the
other  of  them,  and  he shuffled  his  feet  in  the  wet  grass. He  was
exceedingly nervous, confused, and exasperated÷ but he was determined to do
what the chief of police had asked of him.

Unable to  take his eyes off the finger that  was curled tightly around the
shotgun trigger, unable to look at Sam when he spoke to him, Paul said, ãWe
better  get on  with this.  I think  maybe youâve  pushed him  far enough.ä

ãI think  so too,ä Sam said tensely. And then to  Thurston: ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

ãLower the gun, Harry.ä Thurston obeyed.

ãThank God,ä Jenny said. ãCome here, Harry.ä

Thurston went to Sam.

ãIâll be damned,ä Jenny said.

A  perfect zombie,  Paul thought.  A regular  little tin soldier..  A chill
passed along his spine.

Sam said, ãHarry, who really told you to come over here and keep a watch on
us?ä

ãBob Thorp.ä

ãTell me the truth.ä

ãIt was Bob Thorp,ä Thurston said, perplexed.

ãIt wasnât a man named Salsbury?ä

ãSalsbury? No.ä

ãHavenât you met Salsbury?ä

ãNo. Who are you talking about?ä ãMaybe he called himself Albert Deighton.ä
ãWho did?ä Thurston asked. ãSalsbury.ä

ãI donât know anyone named Deighton.ä

Jenny, Rya, and Paul came down the rain-slick steps and joined the two men.

ãSalsburyâs obviously working through Bob Thorp,ä Jenny said, ãone way or
another.ä

ãWhat are you people talking about?ä Thurston asked.

Sam said, ãHarry, I am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

Taking a moment to study Thurston and to decide upon his approach, Sam
finally said, ãHarry, we are going for a walk up toward Hattie Langeâs
house. You wonât try to stop us. Is that clear?ä

ãI wonât stop you.ä

ãYou wonât shoot us.ä

ãNo. Of course not.ä

ãYou wonât call out or make trouble of any kind.ä

Thurston shook his head: no.

ãWhen we leave here,ä Sam said, ãyouâll go back to the lilac bush. Youâll
forget that we ever came out of the house. Is that clear?ä

ãYes.ä

ãI want you to forget that weâve had this little talk. When the four of us
leave here, I want you to forget every word thatâs been spoken between us.
Can you do that, Harry?ä

ãSure. Iâll forget that we talked, that I saw any of you just now, all of
it, like a you said.ä

For a human robot, for an honest-to-God zombie, Paul thought, he seemed
damned relaxed.

ãYouâll think weâre still inside,ä Sam said.

Thurston stared at the back of the general store.

ãYouâll guard the place exactly as you were doing a few minutes ago,ä Sam
said.

ãGuard it.. . Thatâs what Bob told me to do.ä

ãThen do it,ä Sam said. ãAnd forget youâve seen us.ä

Obediently, Harry  Thurston returned to  the man-size niche in  the wall of
lilac bushes.  He stood  with his feet  apart. He held the  shotgun in both
hands,  parallel to  the ground,  prepared to  raise it  and fire  within a
second if faced with a sudden threat.

ãIncredible,ä Jenny said.

ãLooks like a storm  trooper,ä Sam said wearily. ãCome on. Letâs get out of
here.ä

Jenny followed him.

Paul took hold of Ryaâs icy hand.

Her face drawn, a haunted look in her eyes, she squeezed his hand and said,
ãWill it be all right again?ä

ãSure.  Everything will  be  fine before  much  longer,ä he  told her,  not
certain if that was the truth or another lie.

They went  west, across the  rear lawns of the  neighboring houses, walking
fast and hoping they wouldnât be seen.

With every step Paul expected someone to shout at them. And in spite of the
manner  in which  Harry Thurson  had behaved,  he also  expected to  hear a
shotgun blast close behind  him, much too close behind him, inches from his
shoulder blades:  one sudden apocalyptic roar  and then an endless silence.

Halfway  down the block  they came to  the back  of St. Lukeâs,  the townâs
all-denominational  church.   It  was   a  freshly  painted,   neatly  kept
rectangular white frame structure  on a brick-faced foundation. There was a
five-story-high bell  tower at the front  of the building, out  on the Main
Street side.

Sam tried the rear  door and found it unlocked. They slipped inside, one at
a time.

For two or three minutes they stood in the narrow, musty, windowless foyer,
and  waited to  see if  Harry Thurston  or anyone  else would  follow them.

No one did.

ãSmall blessings,ä Jenny said.

Sam led  them into the chamber behind the altar.  That room was even darker
than  the  foyer. They  accidentally  knocked  over a  rack  full of  choir
gowns÷and stood very still until the echo

of  the crash  had faded  away, until  they were  certain that  they hadnât
revealed themselves.

Holding hands,  forming a human chain,  they stumbled out of  that room and
onto the  altar platform.  Because the storm  clouds filtered the  day into
twilight before it was  filtered again by the leaded stained-glass windows,
the church  proper was  only marginally brighter  than the room  behind it,
Nevertheless, there was sufficient  light to allow them to break the chain;
and  they followed  Sam along the  center aisle,  between the two  ranks of
pews, without  having to feel their  way as if they  were blind people in a
strange house.

At the  rear of  the nave, on the  left-hand side, Sam pulled  open a door.
Beyond lay  an enclosed spiral staircase. Sam  went first; Jenny went next,
then Rya.

Paul  stood on the  bottom step, staring  out at  the shadowy church  for a
minute or two. His  revolver was ready in his right hand. When the big room
remained silent  and deserted, he closed the stairwell  door and went up to
join the others.

The top  of the  bell tower was  a nine-foot-square platform.  The bell÷one
yard  wide at  the  mouth÷was at  the center  of  the platform,  of course,
suspended from the highest  point of the arched ceiling. A chain was welded
to the rim of  the bell and trailed through a small hole in the floor, down
to the base  of the tower where the toiler could tug  on it. The walls were
only four feet high, open from there to the ceiling. A white pillar rose at
each corner,  supporting the peaked, slate-shingled  roof. Because the roof
overhung  the wails  by four  feet on  all sides,  the rain hadnât  come in
through   the   open   spaces;   and   the   belfry   platform   was   dry.

ÎWhen he  reached the head of the stairs, Paul got  on his hands and knees.
People seldom  looked up  as they hurried about  their business, especially
when they  were in a familiar  place; however, there was  no reason to risk
being  seen.  He crawled  around  the  bell to  the  opposite  side of  the
platform.

Jenny and  Rya were sitting on the floor, their back  to the half-wall. The
.22 rifle lay  at Jennyâs side. She was talking to the girl in a low voice,
telling her a joke or a story, trying to help

her  ease her  tensions and overcome  some of  her grief. Jenny  glanced at
Paul, smiled, but kept her attention focused on Rya.

That  should be  my  job, Paul  thought.  Helping Rya.  Reassuring her  and
comforting her, being with her.

And  then he  thought,  No. For  the time  being,  your job  is  to prepare
yourself to  kill at  least one man. Maybe  two or three. Maybe  as many as
half a dozen.

Suddenly he  wondered how  the violence past  and the violence  yet to come
would  affect his  relationship with  his daughter.  Knowing he  had killed
several men, would Rya fear him as she now feared Bob Thorp? Knowing he was
capable  of the ultimate  brutal act, would  she ever  be at ease  with him
again?  Death had  taken his wife  and his  son. Would alienation  take his
daughter from him?

Sam was on his knees, peering over the belfry wall.

Deeply disturbed  but aware that this  wasnât the time to  worry about more
than a few hours of the future, easing in beside Sam, Paul looked eastward,
to  his  left. He  could  see Edisonâs  General  Store half  a block  away.
Karkovâs  service station  and garage.  The houses  in the last  section of
town. The baseball diamond  on the meadow near the river. At the end of the
valley, near  the bend in the highway, a police  car was angled across both
lanes.

ãRoadblock.ä

Sam said, ãIâve seen it.ä

ãSalsbury does have us penned up.ä

ãAnd right  now heâs  probably wondering why  the hell we  havenât tried to
call the cops or leave Black River.ä

To Paulâs  right was the main part of town.  The square. Ultmanâs Cafe with
its pair  of enormous black  oak trees. The municipal  building. Beyond the
square, more lovely houses:

brick houses and stone  houses and white gingerbread Gothic houses and trim
little bungalows. A couple  of shops with striped awnings out in front. The
telephone  company office.  St.  Margaret Maryâs.  The cemetery.  The Union
Theater with its old  fashioned marquee. And then the road to the mill. The
entire  panorama,  so recently  scrubbed  by  the storm,  looked crisp  and

bright and quaint÷and too innocent to contain the evil that he knew it
harbored.

ãYou still think Salsburyâs holed up in the municipal building?ä Paul
asked.

"Where else?ä

ãI guess so.ä

ãThe chiefâs office is the logical command center.ä

Paul looked at his watch. ãA quarter past five.ä

ãWeâll wait here until dark,ä Sam said. ãNine oâclock or thereabouts. Then
weâll sneak across the street, get past his guards with the code phrase,
and reach him before heâs seen us coming.ä

ãIt sounds so easy.ä

ãIt will be,ä Sam said.

Lightning flashed like a fuse and thunder exploded and rain like shrapnel
clattered on the tower roof and on the streets below.

5:20 P.M.

Smiling  as he had  been told to  smile, his  arms folded across  his broad
chest,  Bob  Thorp leaned  casually  against  the window  sill and  watched
Salsbury, who was working at Bobâs desk

The infinity  transmitter was  connected to the office  telephone. The line
was open to Sam  Edisonâs place÷or at least the number had been dialed, and
the line should have been open.

Salsbury hunched over the  chiefâs desk, the receiver gripped so tightly in
his right hand that  his knuckles appeared to be about to slice through the
pale  skin that  sheathed them.  He listened  closely for some  sound, some
insignificant tiny little sound  of human origin, from the general store or
from   the  living   quarters   on  the   two  floors   above   the  store.

Nothing.

ãCome on,ä he said impatiently.

Silence.

Cursing  the infinity  transmitter, telling  himself that the  damned thing
hadnât worked,  that it was a piece of  crappy Belgian-made hardware and so
what could  you expect,  he hung up.  He checked to  see if  the wires were
attached to  the proper  terminals, then dialed the  Edisonsâ number again.

The  line opened:  hissing, a  soft roar  not unlike  the echo of  your own
circulation when you held a seashell to your ear.

In the  background at  the Edisonâs place,  a clock ticked  rather noisily,
hollowly.

He looked at his watch. 5:24

Nothing. Silence.

5:26

He hung up, dialed again.

He heard the ticking clock.

5:28

5:29

5:30



No one  spoke over there. No  one cried or laughed  or sighed or coughed or
yawned or moved.

5:32

5:33

Salsbury pressed the receiver to his ear as hard as he could, concentrated,
strained with  his whole body and attention to  hear Edison or Annendale or
one of the others.

5:34

5:35

They were over there. Dammit, they were!

5:36

He slammed the receiver into its cradle.

The bastards  know Iâm listening to them, he  thought. Theyâre trying to be
quiet, trying to worry me. Thatâs it. That has to be

it.

He   picked   up   the   telephone   and  dialed   the   Edisonsâ   number.

A ticking clock. Nothing else.

5:39

5:40



ãBastards!ä

He hung up the phone with a bang!

Suddenly he was drenched with perspiration.

Clammy and uncomfortable, he got to his feet. But he was frozen by rage; he
couldnât move.

He said to Thorp, ãEven if they did get out of the store some way, somehow,
they canât have left town. Thatâs absolutely impossible. None of themâs a
magician. They canât have done it. Iâve got it all sewed up. Havenât I?ä

Thorp smiled at him. He was still operating under the previous orders
Salsbury had given him.

ãAnswer me, damn you!ä

Thorpâs smile vanished.

Salsbury was livid and greasy with sweat. ãHavenât I got this fucking town
sewed up tight?ä

ãOh, yes,ä Thorp said obediently.

ãNo one can get out of this crummy burg unless I let them out of it. Isnât
that right?ä

ãYes. Youâve got it sewn up.ä

Salsbury was shaking. Dizzy. ãEven if they slipped out of the store, I can
find them. I can find them any damned time I want to. Canât I?ä

ãYes.ä

ãI can tear this goddamned town apart, rip it wide open and find those
sonsofbitches.ä

ãAny time you want.ä

ãThey canât escape.ä

Abruptly sitting  down, almost as if he  had collapsed, Salsbury said, ãBut
that doesnât matter. They  havenât left the store. They canât have left it.
Itâs guarded.  Closely guarded. Itâs  a damned prison. So  theyâre still in
the place.  Being quiet as mice. They know  Iâm listening. Theyâre dying to
trick  me.  Thatâs what  it  is. A  trick.  Thatâs precisely  what it  is.ä

He dialed the Edisonsâ number.

He heard the familiar ticking of the clock in one of the rooms where there
was a receiver.

5:44

5:45

He hung up.

Dialed again.

Ticking...

5:46

5:47

He hung up.

Grinning at the chief of police, he said, ãDo you realize what they want me
to do?ä

Thorp shook his head: no.

ãThey want me to  panic. They want me to order you to make a house-to-house
search for  them.ä He giggled. ãI  could do that. I  could make everyone in
town cooperate  in a house-to-house search. But  that would take hours. And
then Iâd have to  erase the memory of it from everyoneâs mind, Four hundred
minds. That  would take  a couple of hours  more. They want me  to waste my
time. Precious  time. They want me to panic and  waste hours and maybe give
them a  chance to slip by me in the confusion.  Isnât that what they want?ä

Salsbury giggled. ãWell, Iâm  not playing their game. Iâm going to wait for
Dawson and Klinger. Iâm  not going to panic. Not me. I am in control of the
situation÷and Iâll stay that way.ä

Ti-under boomed over the valley and reverberated in the two office windows.

He dialed the general store.

5:50

5:51

He giggled and hung up.

Then he had a  startling thought: if the Edisons and the Annendales knew he
was listening  to them, that meant  they knew the entire  story, the truth,
knew who he was, really was, and what be was doing here in Black River. . .
And that was impossible.

He dialed again.

5:52

Nothing. Silence.

He put  down the  receiver and turned  to Thorp. ãWell, I  guess it doesnât
matter if  they do  know. They canât get  away. Iâve got them  where I want
them. I have the  power . . .ã He stared  at the infinity transmitter for a
while, then  looked back at Thorp.  ãWhat do you think  Miriam will do when
she finds out about the power Iâve got?ä

ãWhoâs Miriam?ä

ãYou know Miriam.ä

ãI donât know her.ä

ãSheâs my ex-wife.ä

ãA rotten bitch.ä

Thorp said nothing.

ãFrigid as a Popsicle.ä

ãIâm sorry.ä

ãI know  what sheâll do,ä Salsbury  said. ãSheâll come crawling  to me. Old
Miriam. Crawling to me,  Bob. On her hands and knees. She will. Wonât she?ä

ãYes,ä Thorp said.

The power...

ãYou know what Iâll do?ä

Thorp said, ãNo.ä

ãYou know  what the hell Iâll do when that rotten  bitch comes on her hands
and knees, crawling on her hands and knees to me?ä

ãKick her in the face.ä

ãThatâs assault,ä Thorp said.

ãSame for Dawson. Kick him in the face.ä

ãThatâs assault. Youâll wind up in jail.ä

ãIâll get Dawson,ä Salsbury  said solemnly. Then he giggled. ãIâll get that
sanctimonious old bastard.ä

Thorp frowned.

ãThink I could find a pair of jackboots, Bob?ä

ãA pair of what?ä

ãMaybe there are  a few people, just a few people,  not many mind you, that
Iâd want jackboots for.ä

6:30 P.M.



ãHello?ä

ãMrs. Wolinski?ä

ãYes.ä

ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

ãIs your husband there?ä ãHeâs upstairs right now.ä

ãIs he alone upstairs?ä ãAlone? Yes.ä ãAre you alone downstairs?ä ãYes.ä

ãDo you know Sam Edison?ä ãOh, sure.ä

ãIs he at your house now?ä ãSam? No.ä

ãIs Jenny Edison at your house?ä ãNo. Why should she be?ä

ãHavenât you seen either of the Edisons today?ä

ãNo. Look here, I÷ä

ãMrs. Wolinski, when you hang up your telephone, youâll forget every word
of this conversation. Youâll only remember that someone called and tried to
sell you life insurance. Someone from Bexford. Is that understood?ä

ãYes.ä

ãHang up, Mrs. Wolinski.ä



6:45 P.M.

ãSt. Margaret Maryâs.ä

ãIs this the rectory?ä ãYes, it is.ä ãFather OâHara?ä ãSpeaking.ä

ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

ãAre you alone, father?ä

ãYes.ä

ãWhat about your housekeeper?ä

ãSheâs gone home for the day.ä

ãDo you know Sam and Jenny Edison?ä

ãCertainly. Fine people.ä ãIs either of them with you now?ä

ãHere at the rectory? No.ä

ãIn the church perhaps?ä ãNo. Why do you ask?ä

ãHave you seen either of the Edisons today?ä

ãNo. I÷ä

ãDo you know Paul Annendale?ä

ãI donât believe so. If thereâs some sort of emergency÷ä ãShut up, OâHara.
When you hang up your telephone, youâll forget every word of this
conversation. Youâll only remember that someone dialed a wrong number. Is
that understood?ä

ãYes.ä

ãHang up, OâHara.ä



7:00 P.M.





either of the Edisons today?ä ãI saw Sam. Down at the store.ä ãWhen was
that, Mrs. Jamison?ä ãThis morning. Around nine.ä ãYou havenât seen him
since?ä

ãMrs. Jamison, I donât want you to go away from the phone. You stand right
there. But give the receiver to your husband.ä

ãHello?ä

ãMr. Jamison?ä

ãYes?ä

ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä



7:30 P.M.





ã...donât want you to  go away from the phone, Mrs. Potter. You stand right
there. But give the receiver to Reverend Potter.ä

ãAll right. Just a minute. .

ãHello?ä

ãReverend Potter?ä

ãThis is he.ä

ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä

ãDo  you   know  Sam  and  Jenny  Edison?ä   ãYes.  Very  well,  in  fact.ä

ãHave you seen either of them today?ä "No."

ãAre you absolutely sure of that?ä

ãOh, yes. Absolutely.ä

ãHave you talked to either of them today?ä

ãNo. I÷ä

ãDo  you know  Paul  Annendale or  his daughter?ä  ãYes. Every  year they÷ä

ãHave you seen or talked to them today?ä

ãNo. Iâve spent the day÷ä

ãWhat the fuckâs happening, Potter?ä

ãI beg your pardon?ä

ãWhere in the hell are they?ä

ãI donât like foul language or÷ä

ãIâve called fifty people  in the past hour and a half. Nobodyâs seen them.
Nobodyâs heard from them. Nobody knows anything. Well, theyâve got to be in
this town. Iâm damn sure of that! They canât get out . . . Christ. You know
what  I  think,  Potter?  I think  theyâre  still  in  the general  store.ä

"If-"

ãBeing quiet  as mice. Trying to fool me. They want  me to come looking for
them. They want me to send Bob Thorp after

them. They  probably have guns in there. Well, they  canât fool me. Theyâre
not going  to start  a shooting match and  leave me with a  dozen bodies to
account for.  Iâll wait them out. Iâll get them,  Potter. And you know what
Iâll do when  I get my hands on them? The Edisons  will have to be studied,
of course. Iâll have to End out why they didnât respond to the drug and the
subliminals. But  I  know why  the Annendales didnât  respond. They werenât
here for the program. So when I get them, I can dispose of them right away.
Right  away.  Iâll  have  Bob  Thorp  blow  their fucking  heads  off.  The
sonsofbitches. Thatâs exactly what Iâll do.ä

7

9:00 P.M.

AT DUSK, when the thunderstorm temporarily abated for the fourth time that
day, a streamlined executive helicopter, painted bright yellow and black
like a hornet, already gleaming with green and red running lights,
fluttered into the east end of the Black River valley. It was flying low,
no higher than sixty feet above the ground. It followed Main Street toward
the town square, chopping up the humid air. A flat echo of the stuttering
blades rebounded from the wet pavement below.

In the  bell tower of the all-denominational  church, also sixty feet above
the ground-÷but  safely hidden  in the deep  shadows that were  cast by the
overhanging belfry  roof÷Rya, Jenny, Paul, and  Sam watched the aircraft as
it approached. In the penumbral, purple-gray twilight the helicopter seemed
dangerously close to them; but no one in it was looking their way. However,
the waning  daylight was still bright enough to allow  them to see into the
flight deck and into the cozy passenger cabin behind it.

"Two men besides the pilot,ä Sam said.

At the  square the helicopter hovered  for a moment, then  swept across the
municipal  building and  settled into  the parking  lot ten yards  from the
spare police car.

As the  evening quietude returned  in the aircraftâs wake,  jenny said, ãDo
you think those men are connected with Salsbury?ä

ãNo doubt about it,ä Sam said.

ãGovernment?ä

Paul said, ãNo.ä

ãI  agree,ä  Sam said  almost  happily.  ãEven the  Presidentâs chopper  is
military-style  on the  outside÷although  probably not  on the  inside. The
government doesnât use sleek little executive machines like that yellow and
black job.ä

ãWhich doesnât rule out the governmentâs having a part in this,ä Paul said.

ãOh, certainly  not. It doesnât rule  out anything,ä Sam said.  ãBut itâs a
good sign.ä

ãWhat now?ä Rya asked.

ãNow  we watch  and wait,ä  Paul said,  his eyes  fixed on  the white-brick
municipal building. ãJust watch and wait.ä

The  damp air  still held  an unpleasant  tang of the  helicopter's exhaust
fumes.

Up in  the mountains,  thunder rumbled menacingly.  Lightning arced between
two  of  the higher  peaks  as  if they  were  terminals in  Frankensteinâs
laboratory.

To Paul  time seemed almost at  a standstill. Each minute  ticked on and on
and on. Each second was like a tiny bubble of air rising slowly through the
bottle of  glucose on the intravenous-feeding rack  that he had watched for
hour after leaden hour at Annieâs hospital bedside.

Finally,  at  9:20  two  cars came  down  Main  Street  from the  municipal
building: the  second police cruiser and a  one-year-old Ford LTD. The four
headlamps  sliced  open the  crescent  darkness.  Half a  block beyond  the
church,  they   parked  at  the  curb  in   front  of  the  general  store.

Bob Thorp  and two  men with handguns climbed  out of the squad  car. For a
moment they  stood in  the splash of  amber white light from  the LTD; then
they  went up  the porch  steps and  disappeared beneath the  veranda roof.

Three   men  got   out   of  the   second   car.  They   left  the   engine

running and the doors  open. They didnât follow Thorp; they remained at the
LTD. Because  they were standing  behind the headlights, they  were for the
most part in darkness. Paul couldnât tell if they were armed or not. But he
knew for  certain who they were:  Salsbury and the two  passengers from the
helicopter.

ãDo you  want to go down  there and take them  now?ä Paul asked Sam. ãWhile
they have their backs to us?ä

ãToo risky.  We donât know if theyâve got guns.  They might hear us coming.
And even if we did catch them by surprise, one of them would get away, sure
as hell. Letâs wait a bit.ä

At 9:35  one of Bob Thorpâs ãdeputiesä came down the porch steps and joined
the three  men at the second  car. They talked, possibly  argued, for a few
seconds. The  deputy remained at the LTD  while Salsbury and his associates
mounted the steps to the general store.

9:50 P.M.





Turning away from the bookshelves in Sam Edisonâs study, Dawson said, ãAll
right then. Now we understand how they might have pieced it together.
Ogden, do they know the code phrases?ä

Shocked by the question, Salsbury said, ãOf course not! How in the hell
could they know?ä

ãThe little girl might have heard you use them with Thorp or with her
brother.ä

ãNo,ä he said. ãImpossible. She didnât Step into that doorway until long
after I gave up trying to get control of her brother÷and long, long after
Iâd already assumed control of Thorp.ä

ãDid you try to use the phrase on her?ä

Did I? Salsbury wondered. I remember seeing her there, taking a step toward
her, being unable to catch her. But did I use the code phrase?

He rejected that notion because if he accepted it he would

have  to accept  defeat,  complete destruction.  ãNo,ä he  told  Dawson. ãI
didnât have  time to use the  phrase. I saw her. She  turned and ran. I ran
after her, but she was too fast.ä

ãYouâre absolutely certain?ä

ãAbsolutely.ä

Regarding Salsbury with unvarnished  disgust, the general said, ãYou should
have  foreseen this development  with Edison.  You should have  known about
this library, this hobby of his.ä

ãHow in  the hell could I foresee any of it?ä  Salsbury asked. His face was
flushed. His  myopic eyes seemed to  bulge even more than  usual behind his
thick glasses.

ãIf you had done your duty÷ä

ãDuty,ä Salsbury  said scornfully. Half  of his anger was  generated by his
fear; but it was  important that neither Dawson nor Klinger see that. ãThis
isnât the  stinking military,  Ernst. This isnât  the army. Iâm  not one of
your oh-so-humble enlisted men.ä

Klinger turned away from him, went to the window, and said, ãMaybe weâd all
be better off if you were.ä

Willing the general to  look at him, aware that he was at a disadvantage so
long as Klinger felt  safe enough to turn his back, Salsbury said, ãChrist!
No matter how careful Iâd been÷ä

ãThatâs enough,ä  Dawson said. He  spoke softly but with  such command that
Salsbury stopped  talking and the general looked  away from the window. ãWe
havenât time  for arguments and  accusations. Weâve got to  find those four
people.ä

ãThey canât  have gotten out of  town through the east  end of the valley,ä
Salsbury said. ãI know Iâve got that sealed tight.ä

ãYou thought  you had this house  sealed up tight too,ä  Klinger said. ãBut
they slipped past you.ä

ãLetâs not judge too harshly, Ernst,ä Dawson said. He smiled in a fatherly,
Christian fashion  and nodded  at Salsbury. But  there was only  hatred and
loathing in  his black  eyes. ãI agree  with Ogden. His  precautions at the
east end  are certainly  adequate. Although we might  consider tripling the
number of  men along the river and in the woods  now that night has fallen.
And  I  believe  Ogdenâs  also  covered  the logging  roads  well  enough.ä

ãThen  there are  two possibilities,ä  Klinger said,  deciding to  play the
military strategist.  ãOne÷they might  still be in  town, hiding somewhere,
waiting  for a chance  to get past  the roadblock  or the men  guarding the
river. Or  two÷maybe theyâre  going to walk  out through the  mountains. We
know from  Thorp that  the Annendales are experienced  campers and hikers.ä

Bob Thorp was standing  by the door, as if he were an honor guard. He said,
ãThatâs true.ä

ãI donât see it,ä Salsbury said. ãI mean, they have an eleven-year-old girl
with them.  Sheâll slow  them down. Theyâll  need days  to  reach help that
way.ä

ãThat little  girl has spent a big part of the  last seven summers in these
forests,ä the general said.  ãShe might not be as much of a drag on them as
you think.  Besides, if  we donât locate  them, theyâll do  the same damage
whether  they reach  help tonight or  not until  the middle of  next week.ä

Dawson thought about that. Then: ãIf theyâre trying to walk out through the
mountains, sixty miles round-about to Bexford, how far do you think theyâve
gotten by now?ä

ãThree, maybe three and a half miles,ä Klinger said.

ãNo farther than that?ä

ãI doubt it,ä Klinger  said. ãTheyâd have to be damned careful leaving town
if they didnât  want to be seen. Theyâd move slowly, a  few yards at a time
for the  first mile. In the forest theyâd need a  while to really hit their
stride. And  even if the little  girl is  at home in the  woods, sheâd slow
them down a bit.ä

ãThree and a half miles,ä Dawson said thoughtfully. ãWouldnât that put them
somewhere   between  the   Big  Union   mill  and  the   planned  forests?ä

ãThatâs about right.ä

Dawson closed  his eyes and seemed to mutter a  few words of silent prayer;
his lips moved slightly. Then his eyes snapped open, as if sprung by a holy
revelation, and he said,  ãThe first thing weâll do is organize a search in
the mountains.ä

ãThatâs absurd,ä Salsbury said,  although he was aware that Dawson probably
thought of his plan as a divine inspiration,

the  very handiwork  of God.  ãIt would  be like÷well,  like hunting  for a
needle in a haystack.ä

His voice as  cold as the dead boy in the next  room, Dawson said, ãWe have
nearly two hundred men at the logging camp, all of them familiar with these
mountains. Weâll mobilize them. Arm them with axes and rifles and shotguns.
Give them  flashlights and Coleman  lanterns. Weâll put them  in trucks and
jeeps and send  them a mile or so beyond the logging  camp. They can form a
search line  and walk back. Forty feet between the  men. That way, the line
will be a mile  and a half from one end to the other÷yet each man will have
only a small area  of ground to cover. The Edisons and the Annendales wonât
be able to get by them.ä

ãItâll work,ä Klinger said admiringly.

ãBut what  if they arenât up there in  the mountains?ä Salsbury said. ãWhat
if theyâre right here in town?ä

ãThen weâve  nothing to worry about,ä  Dawson said. ãThey canât  get to you
because youâre surrounded by Bob Thorp and his deputies. They canât get out
of town because every  exit is blocked. All they can do is wait.ä He smiled
wolfishly. ãIf we donât find them in the mountains by three or four oâclock
in the  morning, weâll begin a house-to-house search  here in town. One way
or  another,  I  want  this whole  affair  wrapped  up  by noon  tomorrow.ä

ãThatâs asking a lot,ä the general said.

ãI donât care,ä Dawson  said. ãIt isnât asking too much. I want the four of
them dead  by noon. I want to restructure the  memories of everyone in this
town to cover our trail completely. By

noon.ä

ãDead?ä Salsbury said, confused. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. ãBut
I need  to study the Edisons. You can kill the  Annendales if you want. But
Iâve   got  to  know   why  the   Edisons  werenât  affected.   Iâve  got÷ä

ãForget that,ä Dawson said  brusquely. ãIf we attempted to capture them and
take them back to the laboratory at Greenwich, thereâs a good chance theyâd
escape  along the way.  We Canât risk  that. They  know too much.  Much too
much.ä

ãBut weâll  have so damned  many corpses!ä Salsbury said.  ãFor Godâs sake,
thereâs already  the boy. And Buddy  Pellineri. Four more. .  - And If they
fight back,  we may have as  many as a dozen  to bury. How are  we going to
account for so many?ä

Obviously pleased with himself,  Dawson said, ãWeâll put the lot of them in
the Union  Theater. Then weâll stage a tragic  fire. Weâve got Dr. Troutman
to issue  death certificates. And we  can use the key-lock  program to keep
the relatives from requesting autopsies.ä

ãExcellent,ä Klinger said, grinning,  lightly clapping his hands. Sycophant
to  the  court  of   King  Leonard  the  First,  Salsbury  thought  sourly.

ãReally excellent, Leonard,ä Klinger said.

ãThank you, Ernst.ä

ãChrist on a crutch,ä Salsbury said weakly.

Dawson gave him a nasty look. He was displeased with such strong profanity.
ãFor every sin that we commit, the Lord will have His awful retribution one
day. Thereâs no escaping that.ä

Salsbury said nothing.

ãThere is a hell.ä

Looking  at  Klinger, finding  no  support  nor even  a  wink of  sympathy,
Salsbury managed to keep  quiet. There was something in Dawsonâs voice÷like
a well-honed  knife hidden in  the soft folds of  a priestâs gown÷something
hard and sharp that frightened him.

Dawson glanced at his  watch and said, ãTime to be moving, gentlemen. Letâs
get this over with.ä

10:12 P.M



The helicopter rose from the parking lot behind the municipal building. It
swung gracefully over the town square where several people stood watching
it, and then it clattered westward toward the mountain, into the darkness.

In a moment it was gone.

Sam turned away from the street and slumped with his back to the belfry
wall. ãOn their way to the mill?ä

ãLooks like it,ä Paul said. ãBut why?ä

ãGood question.  I would have asked  the same thing myself  if you hadnât.ä

ãAnother thing,ä  Paul said. ãWhat  if theyâve figured out  how we escaped?
What if they realize we know the code phrase?ä

ãThatâs not very likely.ä

ãBut if itâs the case?ä

ãI wish  I knew,ä  Sam said worriedly.  He sighed. ãBut  remember that even
under the  worst circumstances, itâs just us  against them. If they realize
how much  we know, we lose the advantage of  surprise. But theyâve lost the
advantage  of  an  army  of programmed  bodyguards.  So  it balances  out.ä

Jenny  said,  ãDo you  think  both  of Salsburyâs  friends  are aboard  the
helicopter?ä

Sam  held his  revolver  before him.  He was  unable to  see more  than the
outline  of  it  in  the darkness.  Nevertheless,  studying  it with  dread
fascination, he said, ãWell  now, thatâs another thing I sure wish I knew.ä

Paulâs hands  were shaking. His own Smith & Wesson felt  as if it weighed a
hundred   pounds.  He   said,  ãI   guess  we   go  after   Salsbury  now.ä

ãItâs past time we did.ä

Jenny touched  her fatherâs hand, the  one that held the  gun. ãBut what if
one of those men did stay with Salsbury?ä

ãThen  itâs two against  two,ä Sam said.  ãAnd we  sure as hell  can handle
that.ä

ãIf I went along,ä she said, ãit would be three against two, and that would
have to improve the odds.ä

ãRya needs  you,ä Sam said. He hugged her, kissed  her on the cheek. ãWeâll
be okay,  Jen. I know we will. You just watch  after Rya while weâre gone.ä

And if you donât come back?ä

We will.

ãIf you donât?ä she insisted.

ãThen÷youâre on  your own,ä Sam  said, his voice almost  breaking. If there
were  tears in  the corners of  his eyes,  the darkness hid  them. ãThereâs
nothing more I can do for you.ä

ãLook,ä Paul said, ãeven if Salsbury does know how much

weâve learned, he doesnât know where we are. But we know exactly where he
is. So we still have some advantage.ä

Rya clung to Paul. She didnât want to let him go. She spoke in a quiet but
fierce voice, and she virtually demanded that he not leave her in the
tower.

He stroked her dark hair, held her tight, spoke softly to her, calmed and
reassured her as best he could.

And at 10:20 he followed Sam down the tower stairs.

8

10:20 P.M



PHIL KARKOV, the proprietor of Black Riverâs only service station and
garage, and his girl friend, Lolah Tayback, tried to leave town a few
minutes past ten oâclock. As programmed, the deputies who manned the
roadblock sent them to the municipal building to have a talk with Bob
Thorp.

The mechanic  was soft-spoken,  courteous, and obviously liked  to think of
himself as a model citizen. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, red-haired man
in his  middle thirties. His good  looks were marred only  by a bulbous and
somewhat misshapen nose that  appeared to have been broken in more than one
fight. He  was an amicable man with a ready smile;  and he was most anxious
to help the chief of police in any way that he could.

After he  opened the  two of them with  the code phrase and  spent a minute
interrogating them,  Salsbury was  satisfied that Karkov  and Lolah Tayback
were fully,  properly programmed.  They hadnât been trying  to escape. They
hadnât seen anything out  of the ordinary in town today. They had only been
going to a bar in Bexford for beer and sandwiches.

He sent  the mechanic home and  told him to stay there  for the rest of the
night.

The woman was another matter altogether.

ãChild-womanä was a better word for her, he thought. Her Silvery-blond hair
hung to her narrow shoulders and framed a

face  of childlike beauty:  crystalline green  eyes, a perfectly  clear and
milky complexion with a light, cinnamon like dusting of freckles across her
cheekbones, an upturned pixie  nose, dimples, a blade-straight jaw line and
round  little chin  . . .  Every feature  was delicate and  somehow bespoke
na•vetŽ.  She stood  perhaps five  feet two  and weighed  no more  than one
hundred  pounds.  She  seemed  fragile. Yet  in  her  red-and-white-striped
T-shirt  (sans  bra)  and  blue jean  shorts,  she  presented a  strikingly
desirable,  quite  womanly  figure.  Her  breasts  were  small,  high  set,
accentuated  by  an  extremely   thin  waistline,  the  nipples  delectably
silhouetted through the thin  material of the T-shirt. Her legs were sleek,
supple, shapely. As he  stood in front of her, looking her up and down, she
regarded  him shyly.  She was  unable to  meet his  eyes. She  fidgeted. If
appearance could count for anything, she ought to have been one of the most
malleable, vulnerable women he had ever met.

However,  even  if  she  were  a  fighter,  a  real hellcat,  she  was  now
vulnerable.  As vulnerable  as  he wished  her to  be.  Because he  had the
power...

ãLolah?ä

ãYes.ä

ãHow old are you?ä

ãTwenty-six.ä

ãAre you engaged to Phil Karkov?ä

ãNo.ä Softly.

ãGoing steady with him?ä

ãMore or less.ä

ãAre you sleeping with him?ä She blushed. Fidgeted.

Lovely   little   animal   .   Screw   you,   Dawson.   You   too,   Ernst.

He giggled.

ãAre you  sleeping with him, Lolah?ä Almost inaudibly:  ãDo I have to say?ä
ãYou must tell me the truth.ä

ãYes,ä she whispered.

ãYouâre sleeping with him?ä

"Yes."

ãHow often?ä

ãOh . . . Every week.ä

ãSpeak up.ä

ãEvery week.ä

ãLittle minx.ä

ãAre you going to hurt me?ä

He laughed. ãOnce a week? Twice?ä

ãTwice,ä she said. ãSometimes three. . .ã

Salsbury turned to Bob Thorp. ãGet the hell out of here. Go down to the end
of  the   hail  and  wait  with   the  guard  there  until   I  call  you.ä

ãSure.ä Thorp closed the door as he left.

ãLolah?ä

ãYes?ä

ãWhat does Phil do to you?ä

ãWhat do you mean?ä

ãIn bed.ä

She stared at her sandaled feet.

The power filled him, pulsed within him, leaped across tens of thousands of
terminals  in his flesh:  sparked, flashed,  crackled. He was  exhilarated.
This was what the key-lock program was all about: this power, this mastery,
this unlimited command of other peopleâs souls. No one could ever touch him
again. No  one could ever use  him. He  was the user now.  Always would be.
From here  on out. Now and forever, amen. Amen,  Dawson. Did you hear that?
Amen.  Thank you,  God, for sending  along this  cute little piece  of ass,
amen. He  was happy again for  the first time since  this morning, since he
had touched Thorpâs wife.

ãIâll bet Phil does everything to you,ä be said.

She said nothing. Shuffled her feet.

ãDoesnât he?  Doesnât he do everything  to you, Lolah? Admit  it. Say it. I
want to hear you say it.ä

ãHe does÷everything.ä

He put his hand under her chin, lifted her head.

She gazed at him. Timid. Frightened.

ãIâm going to do everything to you,ä he said.

ãDonât hurt me.ä

ãLovely, lovely little bitch,ä he said. He was excited as he had never been
in his life. Breathing hard. Yet everything so clear. So in control. Firmly
in  control.  Her absolute  master.  Everyoneâs absolute  master. That  was
Howard Parkerâs phrase, flashing  back to him across the decades, much as a
bizarre hallucination  erupting in an acidheadâs  mind years after his last
tab of LSD:  absolute master. ãThatâs exactly what Iâm going to do to you,ä
he told Lolah Tayback. ãIâm going to hurt you, just like I hurt the others.
Make you  pay. Make  you bleed. Iâm  your absolute master.  Youâre going to
take everything I dish out to you. Everything. Maybe even like it. Learn to
like it. Maybe.. .ã

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

The pilot  flew the  helicopter in a  wide circle around  the logging camp,
searching for the best  place to set down between the scattered lights from
the buildings.

In the passenger cabin,  Dawson broke an extended silence. ãOgden has to be
eliminated.ä

Klinger  had  no  difficulty  accepting  that judgment.  ãOf  course.  Heâs
untrustworthy.ä

ãUnstable.ä

ãBut  if we  eliminate him,ä the  general said,  ãcan we continue  with the
plan?ä

ãEverything that  Ogden has  learned is in the  Greenwich computer,ä Dawson
said. ãThe research was beyond us. But we can use the finished product well
enough.ä

ãHasnât he encoded his data?ä

ãNaturally. But the day after the computer was installed, long before Ogden
began to  use it, I  had my people program  it to decode and  print out any
data that I requested÷regardless of how the request was phrased, regardless
of passwords or number  keys or other security devices that he might use to
limit my access to the information.ä

The helicopter hovered, descended.

ãWhen do we deal with him?ä

ãYou deal with him,ä Dawson said.

ãMe÷or do I program someone to do it?ä

ãDo it yourself. He can deprogram anyone else.ä Dawson smiled. ãYou do have
a handgun with you?ä

ãOh, yes.ä

ãIn the small of your back?ä

ãStrapped to my right ankle.ä

ãMarvelous.ä

ãBack to the original question,ä Klinger said. ãWhen do I eliminate him?ä

ãTonight. Within the hour, if possible.ä

ãWhy not back in Greenwich?ä

ãI donât want to bury him on the estate. Thatâs taking too great a chance.ä

ãWhat will we do with the body?ä ãBury it here. In the woods.ä The
helicopter touched ground. The pilot shut off the engines.

Overhead, the rotors coughed and slowed down. A welcome silence gradually
replaced the racket they had made.

Klinger said, ãYou intend for him to just÷disappear off the face of the
earth?ä

ãThatâs correct.ä

ãHis vacation ends on the fifth of next month. Thatâs when heâs due back at
the Brockert Institute. Heâs a punctual man. The morning of the fifth, when
he doesnât show up, thereâs going to be some commotion. Theyâll come
looking for him.ä

ãThey wonât come looking in Black River. Thereâs nothing at all to connect
Ogden with this place. Heâs supposed to be vacationing in Miami.ä

ãThereâs going to be a very quiet and very big manhunt,ä Klinger said.
ãPentagon security people, the FBI . . .ã

Unbuckling his seat belt, Dawson said, ãAnd thereâs nothing to connect him
with you or with me. Eventually theyâll decide that he went over to the
other side, defected.ä

Maybe.

ãDefinitely.ä

Dawson opened his door.

ãDo I take the chopper back to town?ä Klinger asked.

ãNo. He might hear you coming and suspect what youâre there for. Take a car
or a  jeep from  here. And youâd  better walk the last  few hundred yards.ä

ãAll right.ä

ãAnd Ernst?ä

ãYes?ä

In the amber cabin light, Dawsonâs five-hundred-dollars-apiece capped teeth
gleamed in a broad and dangerous smile. There seemed to be light behind his
eyes.  His nostrils  were flared:  a wolf  on the  trail of a  blood scent.
ãErnst, donât worry so much.ä

ãCanât help but.ä

ãWeâre destined to survive  this night, to win this battle and all of those
battles  that will  come  after it,ä  Dawson said  with  solemn conviction.

ãI wish I could be as confident of that as you are.ä

ãBut you  should  be. Weâre  blessed, my friend. This  entire enterprise is
blessed,  you see.  Donât you  ever forget  that, Ernst.ä He  smiled again.

ãI wonât forget,ä Klinger said.

But he  was reassured more by the weight of the  revolver at his ankle than
by Dawsonâs words.

Straining to  hear any sound other  than their own footsteps,  Paul and Sam
left  the church  by  the rear  door and  crossed  the open  fields  to the
riverbank.

The high  grass was heavy with rain. Within  twenty yards, Paulâs shoes and
socks  were wet  through to  his skin.  The legs  of his jeans  were soaked
almost to the knees.

Sam  located  a  footpath  that  traversed  the  bank  of the  river  at  a
forty-five-degree angle. Every groove  and depression in the earth had been
transformed into  a puddle. The  way was exceedingly muddy  and slick. They
slipped   and  slid   and  waved   their  arms   to  keep   their  balance.

At   the   bottom   of   the  path,   they   came   onto  a   two-foot-wide

rocky  shelf.  On the  right  the  river rolled  and  gurgled, filling  the
darkness with  syrupy sound: a wide ebony strip which,  at this hour of the
night, looked  like crude oil rather than water. On  their left the bank of
the river rose up  eight or nine feet; and in some places the exposed roots
of  willow   trees  and   oaks  and  maples  overlaid   the  earthen  wall.

Without  benefit  of  a  flashlight,  Sam  led Paul  westward,  toward  the
mountains.  His snowy  hair  was a  ghostly, luminescent  sign for  Paul to
follow. The  older man stumbled occasionally; but he  was for the most part
sure-footed, and  he never  cursed when he misstepped.  He was surprisingly
quiet, as if the  skills and talents of an experienced warrior suddenly had
come back to him after all these years.

This  is war, Paul  reminded himself. Weâre on  our way to kill  a man. The
enemy. Several men

The warm,  heavy air was redolent  with the odor of  damp moss and with the
stale fumes of the  plants that were decomposing in the muck at the waterâs
edge.

Eventually, Sam  found a  series of wind- and  water-chiseled ledges, steps
that took  them up from the river again. They came  out in an apple orchard
on the slopes at the extreme west end of town.

Thunder  roared down  from  the peaks,  disturbing the  birds in  the apple
trees.

They  went   north.  They   were  taking  the  safest÷and   also  the  most
roundabout÷route to the back of the municipal building. Soon they came to a
waist-high white  picket fence that marked  the end of the  orchard and the
verge of Main Street, where it became known to the locals as the mill road.

After he  had looked both ways and had carefully  studied the land to which
he was running,  when he was certain that there was no  one to see him, Sam
slipped  over the  fence.  He was  as agile  as  a young  man.  He sprinted
silently  across the  lane and  quickly disappeared  into a dense  stand of
scrub   pines,   scraggly   birches,  and   brush   on   the  other   side.

Paul tucked his revolver into his belt, put both hands on the fence, looked
up and down the street as Sam had done÷but was

suddenly arrested by a severe spell of uncontrollable shivering. His
stomach twisted, and he was short of breath.

He tried to tell himself that the shakes were caused by his wet feet, but
he knew that wasnât true. The night was warm. His feet were wet but not
cold.

He was shivering for only one reason: because he was going to kill a man.

Or be killed .

That was a possibility.

He felt sick.

Dizzy.

He followed Sam.



10:30 P.M.





Lolah Tayback stood before him, naked.

ãIâm the absolute master,ä he said.

ãYes, sir.ä

ãLook at me, Lolab.ä She stared at the floor. ãLolah?ä

ãLet me go.ä Soft voice. Tears.

ãWhatâs the matter?ä ãIâm scared.ä ãDonât you like me?ä She didnât respond.
ãDo you like me, Lolah?ä ãYes, sir.ä

ãTell the truth, Lolab.ä ãI . . . donât. . . like you.ä He slapped her
face. She fell against the desk. ãBitch.ä

ãDonât hurt me.ä ãAnimal.ä

ãDonât hurt me. Please.ä

ãIâll kill you.ä

ãDonât÷ä

He struck her with his fist. Then he struck her again.

Twin arc  lamps on ribbed  aluminum poles bracketed the  parking lot behind
the municipal building. In the stark blue-white light the needles of nearby
pine trees  resembled feathers. The  lamps made the wet  macadam shine like
molten  tar and  transformed the  puddles into  broken mirrors.  It glinted
coldly  on  the  windshields of  several  automobiles,  including the  town
ambulance and the spare police cruiser.

When Sam  opened the  rear door of  the building and Paul  stepped into the
first-floor corridor, two men  looked up in surprise. Bob Thorp reached for
the revolver in the  holster at his hip. The other man, a uniformed deputy,
raised his shotgun.

ãI  am the  key,ä  Paul said  quickly. They  both  said, ãI  am  the lock.ä

ãSpeak softly.ä They nodded.

ãBob, leave your gun in the holster.ä

ãAll right.ä

ãAnd you. Put down that shotgun.ä The deputy obeyed.

Opening  these men, using  them, pushing  buttons deep within  their minds,
Paul felt  neither triumph nor the  exhilaration of command. Instead, aware
that their lives and sanity and dignity were in his hands, he had an almost
overpowering  sense  of solemn  responsibility;  and  for a  moment he  was
paralyzed by it.

Sam  opened  the  first  door  on  the  right,  switched  on  the  overhead
fluorescent   lights,   and   ushered    everyone   into   a   file   room.



10:36 P.M.







Salsburyâs knuckles  were skinned. His hands  were covered with thin gloves
of blood: his blood and hers.

He  took a  Smith &  Wesson .38  Police Special  from the  firearms cabinet
behind Thorpâs desk. He located a box of shells on the top shelf and loaded
the handgun.

He returned to Lolah Tayback.

She was on the  floor in the center of the room, lying on her side with her
knees drawn  up. Both of her  eyes were bruised and  swollen. Her lower lip
was  split. Her  septum was  broken, and  blood trickled from  her delicate
nostrils. Although she was barely conscious, she groaned miserably when she
saw him.

ãPoor Lolah,ä he said mock sympathetically.

Through  the   thin  slits   of  her  swollen  eyelids,   she  watched  him
apprehensively.

He held the gun to her face.

She closed her eyes.

With the barrel of  the .38, he drew circles around her breasts and prodded
her nipples.

She shuddered.

He liked that.

The file room was a cold, impersonal place. The fluorescent strip lighting,
institutional-green walls,  yellowed Venetian blinds, rank  on rank of gray
metal  cabinets,  and brown  tile  floor made  it  a perfect  place for  an
interrogation.

Sam   said,   ãBob,  is   there   anyone   in  your   office  right   now?ä

ãYes. A couple of people.ä ãWho?ä

ãLolah Tayback÷and him.ä ãWho is Îhimâ?ä

ãI . . . donât know.ä

ãYou donât know his name?ä ãGee, I guess not.ä

ãIs it Salsbury?ä Thorp shrugged.

ãIs he a somewhat chubby man?ä

ãAbout  forty pounds  too  heavy,ä Thorp  said.  ãAnd he  wears very  thick
glasses?ä

ãYeah. Thatâs him.ä

ãAnd heâs alone with Lolah?ä

ãLike I said.ä

ãYouâre certain of that?ä

ãSure.ä

Paul said, ãAnd his friends?ä

ãWhat friends?ä Thorp asked.

ãIn the helicopter.ä

ãThey arenât here.ä ãNeither of them?ä ãNeither of them.ä ãWhere are they?ä
ãI donât know.ä

ãArenât they at the mill?ä

ãI donât know.ä

ãWill they be back?ä

ãI donât know that either.ä ãWho are they?ä

ãIâm sorry. I donât know.ä

Sam said, ãThatâs it, then.ä

ãWe go after him?ä Paul asked.

ãRight now.ä

ãIâll hit the door first.ä

ãIâm older,ä  Sam said. ãIâve got less  to lose.ä ãIâm younger÷and faster,ä
Paul said.

ãSpeed wonât matter. He wonât be expecting us.ä

ãAnd maybe he will,ä Paul said.

Reluctantly,  Sam said,  ãAll right.  You first.  But Iâll be  damned close
behind.ä

Salsbury forced  her to lie on  her back. He parted  her legs with one hand
and  put the cool  steel barrel of  the .38  between her silken  thighs. He
shivered and licked his  lips. With his left hand he slid his glasses up on
his nose.  ãDo you want it?ä  he asked eagerly. ãDo  you want it? Well, Iâm
going to give it  to you. All of it. Every last inch of it. Do you hear me,
you little  bitch? Little animal. Bust  you wide open. Wide  open. Going to
truly and really give it to you. . .ã

* * *

Paul hesitated  outside of  the closed door  to the police  chiefâs office.
When he heard Salsbury  talking inside and knew that the man was unaware of
their  presence in  the building, he  threw open  the door and  went inside
fast,  crouching,  the  big  .357  Magnum  shoved  out  in  front  of  him.

At first  he couldnât believe what  he saw, didnât want  to believe what he
saw.  There was  a  badly beaten,  naked young  woman  lying on  the floor,
spread-eagled,   conscious   but  dazed.   And   Salsbury:  face   flushed,
sweat-filmed,  spotted  with  blood,  eyes  wild,  savage-looking.  He  was
kneeling over the woman, and he seemed like a troll, an evil and disgusting
bug-eyed troll.  He was  pressing a revolver  between her pale  thighs in a
vile, grotesque  imitation of  the sex act.  Paul was so  mesmerized by the
scene,  so riveted  by revulsion  and outrage,  that for  a few  seconds he
forgot altogether that he was in terrible danger.

Salsbury took  advantage of Paulâs and Samâs inability  to act. He stood up
as  if he had  had an electric  shock, pointed  his revolver, and  fired at
Paulâs head.

The shot was a  bit too high, an inch or two, no more than that. The bullet
slammed  into the  wall beside the  door. Chips  of plaster rained  down on
Paulâs shoulders.

Still crouching,  he pulled off two  quick shots of his  own. The first was
wide of the mark;  it smashed through the Venetian blinds and shattered one
of  the  windows.  The   second  struck  Salsbury  in  the  left  shoulder,
approximately four inches above  the nipple. It caused him to drop his gun,
almost lifted  him off his feet, pitched him backward as  if he were a sack
full of rags.

He was  thrown to  the floor by  the impact of  the bullet,  and he slumped
against the  wall beneath the  windows. He clutched his  left shoulder with
his right  hand, but for all the pressure  he applied, blood still streamed
between his  fingers. Pain pulsed rhythmically  within him, deep within him
exactly   as   the   power   bad  once   done:     tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

A man came toward him. Blue-eyed. Curly-haired.

He couldnât  see very well. His vision was blurred.  But the sight of those
bright blue eyes was sufficient to catapult him

back in time, back to the memory of another pair of blue eyes, and he said,
ãParker.ä

The blue-eyed man said, "Whoâs Parker?ä

ãDonât tease me,ä Salsbury said. ãPlease donât tease me.ä

ãIâm not teasing.ä ãDonât touch me.ä ãWhoâs Parker?ä ãPlease donât touch
me, Parker.ä ãMe? Thatâs not my name.ä Salsbury began to cry.

The blue-eyed man took him by the chin and forced his head up. ãLook at me,
damn you. Look at me closely.ä

ãYou hurt me bad, Parker.ä

ãI. Am. Not. Parker.ä

For a moment the blazing pain subsided. Salsbury said, ãNot Parker?ä

ãMy nameâs Annendale.ä

The pain blossomed again, but the past receded to its proper place. He
blinked and said, ãOh. Oh, yes. Annendale.ä

ãIâm going to ask you a lot of questions.ä

ãIâm in terrible pain,ä Salsbury said. ãYou shot me. You hurt me. That
isnât right.ä

ãYouâre going to answer my questions.ä

ãNo,ä Salsbury said adamantly. ãNone of them.ä

ãAll of them. Youâll answer all of them, or Iâll blow your damned head
off,ä the blue-eyed man said.

ãOkay. Do it. Blow my head off. Thatâs better than losing all of it. Thatâs
better than losing the power.ä

ãWho were those men in the helicopter?ä

ãNone of your business.ä ãWere they government men?ä ãCo away.ä

ãYouâre going to die sooner or later, Salsbury.ä

ãOh, is that so? Like hell I am.ä

ãYou are. So save yourself some pain.ä Salsbury said nothing.

ãWere they government men?ä

ãFuck off.ä

The blue-eyed man reversed  the revolver in his right hand, and he used the
butt to  rap hard on Salsburyâs right hand. The  blow seemed to send jagged
shards of glass through his skinned knuckles. But that was the least of the
pain. The  shock was transmitted through his hand,  to and into the tender,
bloody wound in his shoulder.

He gasped. He bent over and almost vomited.

ãDo you see what I mean?ä

ãBastard.ä

ãWere they government men?ä

ãI . . . told you . . . to . . . fuck off.ä

Klinger  parked the  car  on West  Main Street,  two  blocks from  the town
square.

He slid out from behind the wheel, closed the door÷and heard gunfire. Three
shots. One  right after the other. Inside, muffled  by walls. Not far away.
Toward town.  The municipal building? He stood  very still and listened for
at least a minute, but there was nothing more.

He took  the snub-nosed .32 Webley  from the ankle holster  and flicked off
the safety.

He hurried  into the  alleyway beside the  Union Theater, taking  a safe if
circuitous   route   to  the   back   door  of   the  municipal   building.

                                     9

10:55 P.M.

IN THE AMBULANCE LoIah Tayback lay on a cot, strapped down at chest and
thighs. A crisp white sheet was drawn

up to her neck. Her head had been elevated with two pillows to prevent her
from choking on her own blood during the trip to the hospital in Bexford.
Although her breathing was regular, it was labored; and she moaned softly
as she exhaled.

Behind the ambulance, at the open bay doors, Sam stood with Anson Crowell,
Thorpâs night deputy. ãAll right. Letâs go through it one more time. ÎWhat
happened to her?ä

ãShe was attacked by a rapist,ä the deputy said, as Sam had programmed him
to say.

ãWhere did it happen?ä

ãIn her apartment.ä ãWho found her?ä ãI did.ä

ãWho called the police?ä ãHer neighbors.ä ãWhy?ä

ãThey heard screaming.ä ãDid you catch her assailant?ä ãIâm afraid not.ä

ãDo you know who he is?ä ãNo. But weâre working on it.ä

ãHave any leads?ä

ãA couple.ä

ãWhat are they?ä

ãIâd prefer not to say at this time.ä ãWhy not?ä

ãI might prejudice the case.ä

ãBy talking to other policemen?ä

ãWeâre real careful in  Black River.ä ãThatâs being too careful, isnât it?ä

ãNo offense. Thatâs just how we operate.ä.

ãDo you have a description of the man?ä

The deputy recited a  list of physical characteristics that Sam had made up
off the top of his head. The fictitious assailant did not remotely resemble
the real one, Ogden Salsbury.

ãWhat if  the state  police or the  Bexford police offer  assistance in the
case?ä

ãI  tell them  thanks but  no thanks,ä  the deputy  said. ãWeâll  handle it
ourselves. We  prefer it that way.  Besides, I donât have  the authority to
allow  them   to  come  in  on  it.  That  would   be  up  to  the  chief.ä

ãGood enough,ä Sam said. ãGet in.ä

The deputy clambered into the passenger bay of the ambulance and sat on the
padded bench beside Lolah Taybackâs cot.

ãYouâll be  stopping at the end  of Main Street to  pick up her boyfriend,ä
Sam said. He had already talked to Phil Karkov on the telephone, had primed
him to play the  role of the anxiety-stricken lover at the hospital÷just as
he had primed Lolah  to play a bewildered rape victim who had been attacked
in  her apartment.  ãPhil will  be staying  at the  hospital with  her, but
youâll  come  back as  soon  as youâve  learned  sheâs going  to be  okay.ä

ãI understand,ä Crowell said.

Sam closed  the doors. He went  around to the driverâs  window to reinforce
the  story that  he had  planted in  the mind  of the night  duty volunteer
fireman who was behind the wheel.

At first  it seemed that there was no way  to break through Salsburyâs iron
resolve, no way to open him up and make him

talk. He was in  great pain÷shaking, sweating, dizzy÷but he refused to make
things easier  for himself. He sat  in Thorpâs office chair  with an air of
authority that simply did not make sense under the circumstances. He leaned
back and  gripped his  shoulder wound and  kept his eyes shut.  Most of the
time he  ignored Paulâs questions. Occasionally  he responded with a string
of profanities  and sex words that sounded as if  they had been arranged to
convey the minimum of meaning.

Furthermore, Paul wasnât a born inquisitor. He supposed that if he knew the
proper  way to  torture Salsbury,  if he  knew how  he could cause  the man
mind-shattering  pain without  actually  destroying him÷and  if he  had the
stomach  for it÷he  could  get the  truth in  short order.  When Salsburyâs
stubbornness  became particularly  infuriating, Paul  used the butt  of his
revolver to  jar the manâs shoulder wound.  That left Salsbury gasping. But
it  wasnât enough  to make  him talk.  And Paul  was incapable of  any more
effective cruelties.

ãWho   were  the   men   in  the   helicopter?ä  Salsbury   didnât  answer.

ãWere they government people?ä Silence.

ãIs this a government project?ä ãGo to hell.ä

If he  knew what most terrified  Salsbury, he could use  that to crack him.
Every  man  had one  or  two deeply  ingrained  fears÷ some  of them  quite
rational and  some utterly irrational÷that shaped him.  And with a man like
this, a  man so  apparently in the  borderlands of sanity,  there should be
more than the usual number of terrors to play upon. If Salsbury were afraid
of  heights, he  could take  the bastard  up to  the church bell  tower and
threaten  to throw  him off if  he didnât  talk. If Salsbury  were severely
afflicted with  agoraphobia, he could take him  to the flattest and biggest
open space in town÷perhaps  to the baseball field÷and stake him down in the
very center of it.  If, like the protagonist in i 984, he were brought near
to  madness merely  by the  thought of  being placed  in a cage  with rats÷
Suddenly Paul remembered how Salsbury had reacted to him

when he had first come into the room. The man had been

shocked, damned scared, devastated. But not just because Paul had surprised
him. He had been terrified because, for some reason known only to himself,
he had thought that Paul was a man named Parker.

What did this Parker do to him? Paul wondered. What could he possibly have
done to leave such a deep and indelible scar?

ãSalsbury?ä

Silence.

ãV/ho were the men in the helicopter?ä ãYouâre a fucking bore.ä

ãWere they government people?ä

ãA regular broken record.ä

ãYou know what Iâm going to do to you, Salsbury?ä He didnât deign to
answer.

ãYou know what Iâm going to do?ä Paul asked again. ãDoesnât matter. Nothing
will work.ä

ãIâll do÷what Parker did.ä

Salsbury didnât respond. He didnât open his eyes. However, he grew stiff in
the chair, tense, every muscle knotted tight.

ãExactly what Parker did,ä Paul said.

ÎWhen Salsbury finally opened his eyes there was a monstrous horror in
them, a trapped and haunted look that Paul had never seen anywhere but in
the eyes of cornered, panic-stricken wild animals.

This is it, Paul thought. This is the key, the pressure point, the knife
with which Iâll open him. But how should I react if he calls my bluff?

He was close to getting the truth, so close÷but he hadnât the vaguest idea
what Parker had done.

ãHow do you. . . How do you know Parker?ä Salsbury asked. His voice was a
thin, pathetic whine.

Paulâs spirits lifted even further. If Salsbury didnât recall that it was
he who had first mentioned this Parker, then the use of the name carried a
great deal of weight.

ãNever mind how I know him,ä Paul said shortly. ãBut I do. I know him well.
And I know what he did to you.ä

ãI . . . was only . . . eleven. You wouldnât.ä

ãI would. And enjoy itä

ãBut you arenât the type,ä Salsbury said desperately. He had been shiny
with sweat; now he was dripping with it ãYou just arenât the type!ä

ãWhat type is that?ä

ãQueer!ä he blurted. ãYou arenât a damned queer!ä Still bluffing but with
more good cards on the table to back

his hand, Paul said, ãWe donât all look like what we are, you know. Most of
us donât advertise it.ä

ãYou were married.ä

ãDoesnât matter.ä

ãYou had children!ä Paul shrugged.

ãYouâre sniffing around that Edison bitch!ä

ãHave you ever heard of AC-DC?ä Paul asked. He grinned. Salsbury closed his
eyes.

ãOgden?ä

He said nothing.

ãGet up, Ogden.ä

ãDonât touch me.ä

ãLean against the desk.ä

ãI wonât get up.ä ãCome on. Youâll love it.ä

ãNo. I wonât.ä ãYou loved it from Parker.ä

ãThatâs not true!ä ãYouâre the type.ä ãIâm not.ä ãAdmit it.ä He didnât
move. ãA talent for Greek.ä Salsbury winced. ãNo.ä ãLean on the desk.ä ãIt
hurts . .

ãOf course. Now get up and lean on the desk and drop your pants. Come on.ä

Salsbury shuddered. His face was drawn and ashen.

ãIf you donât get  up, Ogden, Iâll have to throw you out of that chair. You
canât refuse  me. You canât get  away from me. You  canât fight me off, not
when  Iâve  got the  gun,  not  when your  armâs  all torn  up like  that.ä

ãOh, Jesus God,ä Salsbury said miserably.

ãYouâll love it. Youâll love the pain. Parker told me how much you love the
pain.ä

Salsbury began  to cry. He didnât  weep gently or quietly,  but let go with
great, wracking  sobs. Tears  seemed to spurt  from his eyes.  He shook and
gagged.

ãAre you scared, Ogden?ä ãS-Scared. Yes.ä

ãYou can save yourself.ä ãFrom . . . from . . .ã

ãFrom being raped.ä

ãH-How?ä

ãAnswer my questions.ä ãDonât want to.ä

ãGet up then.ä

ãPlease . .

Ashamed of  himself, sick of this  violent game but determined  to carry on
with it, Paul took  hold of the front of Salsburyâs shirt. He shook him and
tried to lift  him out of the chair. ãWhen Iâm done  with you, Iâll let Bob
Thorp have  you. Iâll  tape your mouth so  you canât talk to  him, and Iâll
program him  to put it to you.ä He was incapable  of doing that, of course.
But Salsbury obviously believed he would. ãAnd not just Thorp. Others. Half
a dozen others.ä

With  that,  Salsburyâs  resistance  dissolved. ãAnything.  Iâll  tell  you
anything,ä he  said, his  voice distorted by  the wretched sobbing  that he
couldnât control.  ãAnything you want. Just donât  touch me. Oh, Jesus. Oh,
donât   touch   me.   Donât  make   me   undress.   Donât  touch.   Donât.ä

Still twisting  Salsburyâs shirt in his left  hand, leaning toward the man,
nearly  shouting  in his  face,  Paul  said, ãWho  were  those  men in  the
helicopter? Unless you want to be used until youâre raw, you better tell me
who they were.ä

ãDawson and Klinger.ä

ãThere were three.ä

ãI donât know the pilotâs name.ä

ãDawson and Klinger. First names?ä

ãLeonard  Dawson and÷ä   ãThe  Leonard Dawson?ä  ãYes. And  Ernst Klinger.ä

ãIs Klinger a government man?ä

ãHeâs an army general.ä

ãIs this a military project?ä

ãNo.ä

ãA government project?ä

ãNo,ä Salsbury said.

Paul  knew all  of  the questions.  There was  no  point in  the rapid-fire
interrogation at which he had to hesitate.

And  there  was  never  a single  moment  when  Salsbury   dared  hesitate.

Ernst  Klinger crouched  behind a  yard-high wall  of shrubbery  across the
alleyway from the municipal parking lot. Stunned, confused, he watched them
load  the  woman  into   the  white  Cadillac  van  with  the  words  BLACK
RIVER÷EMERGENCY painted in red letters on the side.

At 11:02 the ambulance  pulled out of the parking lot, swung into the alley
and from  there onto North Union Road. It  turned right, toward the square.

Its  bright red  flashers  washed the  trees  and the  buildings, and  Sent
crimson   snakes    of   light   wriggling   along    the   wet   pavement.

The bearded, white-haired man  who stood in the parking lot was Sam Edison.
Klinger recognized  him from  a photograph that  he had seen in  one of the
rooms   above  the   general  store,   little  more   than  an   hour  ago.

Edison watched the ambulance until it turned east at the Square. He was too
far  away for  Klinger  to get  a shot  at  him with  the Webley.  When the
ambulance  was  out  of  sight,  he  went inside  the  municipal  building.

Have   we  lost   control   of  the   town?  Klinger   asked   himself.  Is

it all coming down on our heads: the field test, the plan, the project, the
future? Sure as hell looks that way. Sure does. So... Is it time to get out
of Black River, out of the country with a big bundle of cash and the phony
identity Leonard provided?

Donât panic, another part of him thought. Donât be rash. Wait. See what
happens. Give it a few minutes.

He looked at his watch. 11:03.

Thunder rumbled in the mountains.

It was going to rain again.

11:04.

He had been hunkered down for so long that his legs ached. He longed to
stand up and stretch.

What are you waiting here for? he asked himself. You canât plan your
strategy without information. Youâve got to reconnoiter. Theyâre probably
in Thorpâs office. Get under those windows. Maybe you can hear what theyâre
up to.

At five minutes past the hour, he hurried across the alley. He dodged from
car to car in the parking lot, and then to the thick trunk of a pine tree.

Just like in Korea, he thought almost happily. Or Laos in the late fifties.
Just like it must have been for the younger guys in Nam. Commando work in
an enemy town. Except this time the enemy town is American.



11:05 P.M.



Sam stood in the doorway and studied Ogden Salsbury, who was still in the
spring-backed office chair. To Paul, Sam said, ãYouâre sure he told you
everything?ä

ãYes.ä

ãAnd that everything heâs told you is true?ä

ãYes.ä

ãThis is important, Paul.ä

ãHe didnât withhold anything,ä Paul said. ãAnd he didnât lie to me. Iâm
sure of it.ä

Stinking of sweat and blood, crying quietly, Salsbury looked from one to
the other of them.

Does  he understand  what  weâre saying?  Paul wondered.  Or is  be broken,
shattered,   unable   to   think  clearly,   unable   to   think  at   all?

Paul  felt unclean,  sick to  his soul.  In dealing  with Salsbury,  be had
descended to the manâs own level. He told himself that these were after all
the  1970s,  the  very first  years  of  a brave  new  world,  a time  when
individual survival  was difficult  and when it  counted for more  than all
else, the  age of  the machine and  of the machineâs  morality, perhaps the
only era in the  entire span of history when the ends truly did justify the
means÷but he still felt unclean.

ãThen  the time  has come,ä  Sam said  quietly. ãOne  of us has  to÷do it.ä

ãA man  named Parker  apparently raped him  when he was  eleven years old,ä
Paul  said. He  was speaking to  Sam, but  he was watching  Ogden Salsbury.

ãDoes that make any difference?ä Sam asked.

ãIt should.ä

ãDoes  it  make any  difference  that  Hitler might  have  been  born of  a
syphilitic parent?  Does it make any difference that  he was mad? Does that
bring  back  the  six  million  dead?ä  Sam  was talking  softly  but  with
tremendous force. He was  trembling. ãDoes what happened to him when he was
eleven justify  what he did to Mark? If Salsbury  wins, if he takes control
of  everyone, does  it matter  what happened  to him  when he  was eleven?ä

ãThereâs  no other  way  to stop  him?ä Paul  asked,  although he  knew the
answer.

ãWeâve already discussed that.ä

ãI guess we have.ä

ãI'll do it,ä Sam said.

ãNo. If I canât  get up the courage here, I wonât be any help to you later,
with  Dawson and  Klinger. We  may be in  a tight  spot with one  of those.
Youâll have to know that you can count

Letting  go of  his left  shoulder, reaching  out as  if to shake  with one
bloody hand,  Salsbury said, ãWait. Iâll  make you a partner.  Both of you.
Partners.ä

Paul aimed at the center of the manâs chest.

ãIf youâre partners, youâll have everything. Everything you could want. All
the money you could ever spend. All the money in the world. Think of that!ä

Paul thought of Lolah Tayback.

ãPartners. That  doesnât mean  just money. Women.  You can have  all of the
women you want,  any women you want, no matter who they  are. Theyâll crawl
to you. Or men, if thatâs what you like. You can even have children. Little
girls.  Nine   or  ten  years  old.  Little   boys.   Anything  you  want.ä

Paul thought  of Mark: a lump  of frosted meat jammed  into a food freezer.

And he  thought of  Rya: traumatized perhaps,  but with a chance  to live a
halfway normal life.

He squeezed the trigger.

The Magnum bucked in his hand.

Because of  his revolverâs  impressive kick÷which jolted Paul  from hand to
shoulder in  spite of  that fact that  he was using  .38 Special ammunition
rather than Magnums÷the bullet was high. It tore through Salsburyâs throat.

Blood and  bits of flesh spattered the metal  firearms cabinet. The roar of
the shot was deafening. It bounced back and forth between the walls, echoed
inside  Paulâs  skull, reverberated  as  it  would forever  in his  memory.

He squeezed off another round.

That  one took  Salsbury  in the  chest, nearly  rocked  him and  the chair
backward onto the floor.

He turned away from the dead man.

ãAre you going to be sick?ä Sam asked.

ãIâm all right.ä He was numb.

ãThereâs a toilet at the end of the hail, to your left.ä

ãIâm okay, Sam.ä

ãYou look÷ä

ãI killed men in the war. Killed men over in Asia. Remember?ä

ãThis is different. I understand that. In the war itâs always with rifles
or grenades or mortars. Itâs never from three feet with a handgun.ä

ãIâm fine. Believe me. Just fine.ä He went to the door, pushed past Sam,
stumbled into the corridor as if he had tripped, turned left, ran to the
washroom, and threw up.

Scuttling sideways like a  hermit crab, the Webley ready in his right hand,
Klinger reached the western  flank of the municipal building and found that
the lawn  there was littered with glass. He hadnât made  a sound on his run
from the  shrubbery. Now,  pieces of glass  snapped and crunched  under his
shoes, and  he cursed  silently. One of  the windows in  the police chiefâs
office was  broken, and a few of the slats in  the Venetian blind were bent
out of shape, providing  a convenient peephole for his reconnaissance work.

As he was rising up to have a look inside÷cautious as a suspicious mouse
sniffing the cheese in the trap÷two shots exploded virtually in front of
his face. He froze÷then realized that he hadnât been seen, that no one was
firing at him.

Through the twisted slats of the blind, he could see two-thirds of Thorpâs
starkly furnished and somewhat sterile office:

gray-blue walls, a pair of three-drawer filing cabinets, an oak work table,
a bulletin board with an aluminum frame, bookshelves, most of a massive
metal desk÷ And Salsbury.

Dead. Very dead.

Where was Sam Edison? And the other one, Annendale? And the woman, the
little girl?

There appeared to be no one in the room except Salsbury. Salsburyâs corpse.

Suddenly afraid  of losing track of Edison  and Annendale, afraid that they
might  somehow  get  away  or sneak  around  behind  him,  afraid of  being
outmaneuvered, Klinger turned from  the windows. He loped to the end of the
lawn, then across the

parking  lot and  the alleyway.  He hid  behind the  hedge again,  where he
commanded  a  good  view  of  the  back  door of  the  municipal  building.

When he came out  of the washroom, Sam was waiting in the corridor for him.

ãFeeling better?ä

ãYeah,ä Paul said.

ãItâs rough.ä

ãItâll get worse.ä

ãThat it will.ä

ãChrist.ä

ãWhat did  you learn from Salsbury? Who were  those men in the helicopter?ä

Leaning  against the  wall, Paul said,  ãHis partners.  One of them  was H.
Leonard Dawson.ä

ãIâll be damned.ä

ãThe other one is a general. United States Army. His nameâs Ernst Klinger.ä

Scowling, Sam said, ãThen this is a government project?ä

ãSurprisingly,  no. Just Salsbury,  Dawson, and  Klinger. A bit  of private
enterprise.ä Paul  took three minutes to outline  what he had learned about
the field test and the conspiracy behind

it.

Samâs scowl  disappeared. He risked a slight smile.  ãThen we have a chance
of stopping it right here, for good.ä

ãMaybe.ä

ãItâs just  a simple four-part problem,ä  Sam said. He held  up one finger.
ãKill Dawson.ä  Two fingers. ãKill Ernst  Klinger.ä Three fingers. ãDestroy
the data  in the computer at  the house in Greenwich.ä  Four fingers. ãThen
use the key-lock code to restructure the memories of everyone in town whoâs
seen or  heard anything, to cover up every last  trace of this field test.ä

Paul  shook his head.  ãI donât know.  It doesnât  sound so simple  to me.ä

For the  moment at least, positive  thinking was the only  sort of thinking
that- interested Sam. ãIt can be done. First . .

where did Dawson and Klinger go when they left here?ä

ãTo the logging camp.ä

ãWhy?ä

Quoting Salsbury,  he told Sam about Dawsonâs plan  to organize a search in
the mountains. ãBut he  and Klinger wonât be at the camp now. They intended
to fall  back to the mill and establish a  sort of field headquarters there
once the manhunt was underway. There are about eighty or ninety men working
on the night and graveyard shifts up there. Dawson wants to post a dozen of
them as  guards around the mill  and pack the rest of  them off to join the
search beyond the logging camp.

ãAny guards  he posts are worthless,ä Sam said.  ãWeâll use the code phrase
to  get past them.  Weâll move in  on Dawson  and Klinger before  they know
whatâs happened.ä

ãI suppose itâs possible.ä

ãOf course it is.ä

ãBut what about the computer in Greenwich?ä

ãWe can deal with that later,ä Sam said.

ãHow do we get to it?ä

ãDidnât you say Dawsonâs household staff is programmed?ä

ãAccording to Salsbury.ä

ãThen we can get to the computer.ä

ãAnd the cover-up here?ä

ãWeâll manage.ä

ãHow?ä

ãThatâs the least of our problems.ä

ãYouâre so goddamned optimistic.ä

ãIâve got to be. So do you.ä

Paul pushed  away from  the wall. ãAll  right. But Jenny and  Rya must have
heard the  shots. Theyâll be worried.  Before we go to  the mill, we should
stop  back at  the church  and fill  them in,  let them  know where  we all
stand.ä

Sam nodded. ãLead the way.ä

about÷Salsbury?ä

Later.

They left  by the rear door  and started across the  parking lot toward the
alley.

After a few steps Paul said, ãWait.ä

Sam stopped, turned back.

ãWe donât have to  sneak around the long way,ä Paul said. ãWeâre in control
of the town now.ä

ãGood point.ä

They  circled around  the  municipal building  and  went out  to East  Main
Street.



11:45 P.M.





Klinger stood  in the velvety darkness,  two-thirds of the way  up the bell
tower stairs, listening.  Voices drifted down from above: two men, a woman,
a  child.   Edison.  And  Jenny  Edison.   Annendale  and  his  daughter...

He now knew what  was happening in Black River, what the carnage at Thorpâs
office signified.  He knew  the extent of  these peopleâs knowledge  of the
field test  and of all the working, planning,  and scheming that lay behind
the field test÷and he was shocked.

Because of  what he had heard, he knew that  they were motivated to resist,
at least  in part,  for altruistic reasons.  He didnât understand  that. He
could easily have understood  them if they had wanted to seize the power of
the subliminals  for their own. But  altruism . . .  That had always seemed
foolish to him. He  had decided a long time ago that men who eschewed power
were  far more  dangerous and  deadly than  those who  pursued it,  if only
because   they   were   so   difficult   to   fathom,   so   unpredictable.

However, he  also knew that these  people could be stopped.  The field test
wasnât  an unmitigated  disaster;  not yet.  They werenât  going to  win as
easily as they thought.  They hadnât yet brought him or Dawson to ruin. The
project could be saved.

Overhead, they  finished discussing  their plans. They said  good-by to one
another and told one  another to be careful and wished one another luck and
hugged and  kissed and said they  would pray for one  another and said that
they really had to get on with it.

In the perfect darkness,  without a flashlight or even a match to show them
the  way,  out of  sight  around  two or  three  bends in  the long  spiral
staircase, Sam Edison and  Paul Annendale started down the narrow, creaking
steps.

Klingerâs own hurried descent was masked by the noise that the two men made
above him.

He paused in the  whispery, echo-filled nave of the church, where the walls
and  the altar  and the  pews were  no more  than adumbrated by  the meager
nocturnal  storm light  that shone  through the  arched windows.  He wasnât
certain what he should do next.

Confront  them here  and  now? Shoot  them both  as  they came  out  of the
stairwell?

No. The  light was much too poor for gunplay.  He couldnât target them with
any  accuracy. Under  these conditions  he would  never bring down  both of
them÷and perhaps not either of them.

He thought of searching  quickly for a light switch. He could flip it on as
they entered  the nave  and open fire on  them in the same  instant. But if
there was  a switch nearby, he  would never find it in  time. And if he did
find it  in time,  he would be  every bit as  surprised and  blinded by the
light as they would be.

Even if, by the  grace of one of the saints depicted in these stained-glass
windows, he  did somehow kill both of them, then  he would have alerted the
woman in  the tower. She might  be armed; she almost  certainly was. And if
that was the case, the belfry would be virtually impregnable. With any sort
of weapon  at all÷rifle or  shotgun or handgun÷and a  supply of ammunition,
she would be able to hold him off indefinitely.

He wished  to God that he  were properly equipped. He  should have at least
those few essentials of behind-the-lines combat:

a pretty damned good machine pistol, preferably German-made or Belgian, and
several fully loaded magazines  for it; an automatic rifle with a bandolier
of ammo; and a  few grenades, three or four. Especially the grenades. After
all, this was no  ladiesâ tea party. This was a classic commando operation,
a classic clandestine raid, deep in hostile territory.

Behind  him, Edison  and  Annendale were  unsettlingly close,  on  the last
twenty steps and coming fast.

He dashed along the  side aisle to the fourth or fifth row of pews where he
intended to  hide between the high-backed seats.  He tripped over a kneeler
that some  thoughtless member of  the congregation had forgotten  to put up
after saying a prayer,  and he fell with a loud crash. His heart hammering,
he scrambled farther along  the row toward the center aisle, then stretched
out on  the bench  of the pew,  flat on his  back, the Webley  at his side.

As they  came into  the dark church,  Paul put one hand  on Samâs shoulder.

Sam stopped. ãYeah?ä he said softly.

ãSssshhh,ä Paul said.

They  listened to  the storm  wind and  to the  distant thunder and  to the
settling sounds that the building made.

Finally Sam said, ãIs something wrong?ä

ãYeah. What was that?ä

ãWhat was what?ä

ãThat noise.ä

"I didnât hear anything.ä

Paul studied the darkness  that seemed to pulse around them. He squinted as
if  that would help  him penetrate the  inky pools  in the corners  and the
purple-black  shadows elsewhere.  The atmosphere  was Lovecraftian,  a dank
seed bed  of paranoia.  He rubbed the  back of his neck  which was suddenly
cold.

ãHow could  you have heard anything with all that  racket we were making on
the stairs?ä Sam asked.

ãI heard it. Something. . .ã

ãProbably the wind.ä

ãNo.  It was  too  loud for  that. Sharp.  It sounded  as if÷as  if someone
knocked over a chair.ä

They waited.

Half a minute. A minute.

Nothing.

ãCome on,ä Sam said. ãLetâs go.ä

ãGive it another minute.ä

As Paul spoke a particularly violent gust of wind battered the east side of
the church; and one of the ten-foot-high windows fluttered noisily in its
frame.

ãThere you are,ä Sam said. ãYou see? Thatâs what you heard. It was just the
window.ä

Relieved, Paul said, ãYeah.ä

ãWeâve got work to do,ä Sam said.

They left the church by the front door. They went east on Main Street to
Paulâs station wagon, which was parked in front of the general store.

As the station wagon reached the mill road and its taillights dwindled to
tiny red dots beyond the west end of town, Klinger left the church and ran
half a block to the telephone booth beside Ultmanâs Cafe. He paged through
the slim directory until he found the numbers for the Big Union Supply
Company: twenty of them, eight at the logging camp and twelve at the mill
complex. There wasnât time to try all of them. In what part of the mill
would Dawson establish his HQ? Klinger wondered. He thought about it,
painfully aware of the precious seconds ticking by. Finally he decided that
the main office was the location most consistent with Dawsonâs personality,
and he dialed that number.

After it had rung fifteen times, just as Klinger was about to give up,
Dawson answered it warily. ãBig Union Supply Company.ä

ãKlinger here.ä

ãHave you finished?ä

ãHeâs dead, but I didnât kill him. Edison and Annendale got to him first.ä

ãTheyâre in town?ä

ãThatâs right. Or they were. Right now theyâre coming for you. And for me.
They think weâre both at the mill.ä As best he could in less than a minute,
the general summed up the

Situation

ãWhy didnât you eliminate them when you had the chance, in the Church?ä
Dawson asked.

ãBecause J didnât have the chance,ä Klinger said impatiently.

ãI  didnât have  time  to set  it up  right. But  you  can  set it  up just
perfectly. Theyâll  probably park half a mile from the  mill and walk in to
you.  They  expect to  surprise  you.  But now   you  can  surprise  them.ä

ãLook, why  donât you  get in a  car and come  up here  right away?ä Dawson
asked. ãCome in behind them. Trap them between us.ä

ãUnder  the circumstances,ä  Klinger said,  ãthat makes no  military sense,
Leonard. As a group  of four, three of them armed, theyâd be too formidable
for  us.   Now  that   theyâre  split  into   pairs  and  puffed   up  with
self-confidence, the advantage is ours.ä

ãBut if Edison and Annendale know the key-lock phrases, I canât keep guards
posted.  I   canât  use   any  of  these   people  up  here.   Iâm  alone.ä

ãYou can handle it.ä

ãErnst,  my training  is in business,  finance. This  is more your  line of
work.ä

ãAnd Iâve got work down here in town.ä

ãI donât eliminate people.ä

ãOh?ä

ãNot like this.ä

ãWhat do you mean?ä

ãNot personally.ä

ãYou brought guns back from the camp?ä

ãA few of them. Iâve posted guards.ä

ãWith a rifle or shotgun, you can do whatâs necessary. I know you can. Iâve
seen you shoot skeet both ways.ä

ãYou  donât understand.  Itâs  against my  beliefs. My  religious beliefs.ä

ãYouâll have  to set those aside for now,ä Klinger  said. ãThis is a matter
of survival.ä

ãYou canât just set  aside morality, Ernst, whether or not itâs a matter of
survival. Anyway, I donât  like being here alone. Handling this alone. Itâs
no good.ä

Trying to think of some way to convince the man that be could and should do
what had to be done so that he would get

off the phone, the  general hit upon an approach that he recognized at once
as  custom-tailored  for Dawson.  ãLeonard,  thereâs one  thing that  every
soldier learns  his first day on the battlefield,  when the enemy is firing
at him and grenades  are exploding around him and it seems like heâll never
get through  to the next day  alive. If heâs fighting  for the right cause,
for  the just  cause, be learns  that heâs  never alone. Godâs  always with
him.ä

ãYouâre right,ä Dawson said.

ãYou do believe ours is a just cause?ä

ãOf course. Iâm doing all of this for Him.ä

ãThen youâll come out just fine.ä

ãYouâre right,ä  Dawson said. ãI shouldnât have hesitated  to do what He so
obviously wishes me to do. Thank you, Ernst.ä

ãDonât mention it,ä Klinger  said. ãYou better get moving. Theyâre probably
leaving the  station wagon  about now. Youâll  have ten minutes  at most to
prepare for them.ä

ãAnd you?ä

ãIâll go back to the church.ä

ãGod be with you.ä

ãGood luck.ä

They both hung up.

10

Saturday, August 27, 1977





12:10 A.M.





THE WIND  RAISED a steady, haunting whooooo! in  the highest reaches of the
trees.  Thunder rumbled  frequently, each  peal louder and  more unsettling
than  the  one  that  had  come  before  it.  Above  the  forest,  the  sky
periodically blazed  with lightning; the electric  glow pulsed down through
the  canopy  of interlaced  branches  and  left in  its  wake  a series  of
stroboscopic images that dazzled the eye.

In the dense underbrush,  small animals scampered this way and that, busily
searching for  food or water  or companionship or safety.  Or perhaps, Paul
thought as  one of them dashed across the path  and startled him, they were
frightened of the oncoming storm.

Paul and  Sam had expected to find armed guards  rather than animals at the
edge of  the woods that surrounded the mill,  but there were none. Although
all of the lights were on in the main building, the structure seemed÷as did
the land around it÷ deserted.

They  circled  through the  woods.  Eventually  they came  to the  employee
parking  lot and  studied the scene  from behind  a thick clump  of laurel.

The helicopter  was there,  on the macadam,  thirty feet away.  A man stood
beside it in the  darkness, smoking a cigarette, watching the lightning and
the fast-moving clouds.

Paul whispered: ãDawson or Klinger?ä

ãI donât think so,ä Sam said.

ãNeither do I.ä

ãThen heâs the pilot.ä

ãYou see a gun?ä ãNo. Nothing.ä

ãMove in now?" ãWait.ä

ãFor what?ä

ãThe right moment.ä

They watched.

A few  seconds later the pilot  dropped his cigarette and  crushed it under
the sole  of his shoe.  He put his hands  in his pockets and  began to walk
aimlessly  about, just  killing time.  At first  he came toward  the trees,
wandered within  ten or twelve feet of them, then  turned and went back the
way heâd come.

ãQuickly,ä Sam said.

Paul  stood  up. He  eased  through the  laurel  and ran  after the  pilot.

The  man heard  him and  turned. His face  was a  black mask, but  his eyes
seemed phosphorescent. ãWho÷ä

ãI am the key,ä Paul said.

ãI am the lock.ä ãSpeak softly.ä

ãYes, sir.ä

Paul   looked   beyond   the  helicopter.   He   could   see  the   windows

÷most of them with  light behind them÷on the second and third floors of the
main building at the  end of the storage yard. If he could see the windows,
anyone  who happened  to  glance Out  might be  able to  see him,  in turn,
despite the darkness. He  hustled the pilot closer to the helicopter, where
they were pretty much hidden from the main building.

Sam joined them and said, ãWhatâs your name?ä

ãMalcolm Spencer.ä

ãYou are the pilot?ä

ãYes. I am.ä

ãWhereâs Leonard Dawson?ä

ãIn the mill,ä Spencer said.

ãWhich building?ä

ãThe biggest one.ä

ãWhich floor? First, second, or third?ä

ãFirst   floor.   Thereâs   a   sort   of   public   sales   area   with÷.ä

ãAnd Ernst Klinger,ä Sam said. ãWhereâs he?ä

ãHeâs in Black River,ä Spencer said.

ãThat canât be right.ä

ãSir?ä

ãYou mean heâs in town?ä Paul asked.

ãThatâs right.ä

Paul and Sam glanced at each other.

ãSomething wrong?ä  the pilot asked. He seemed  to be concerned about them.

ãYouâre lying,ä Paul said.

Surprised, Spencer said, ãNo, sir.ä

ãI am the lock,ä Paul said.

ãI am the key,ä Spencer said.

ãWhereâs Klinger?ä

ãHeâs in Black River.ä

Paul stared at Sam. ãChrist!ä

To the  pilot, Sam said, ãYou took Klinger and  Dawson to the logging camp,
didnât you? And then brought them to the mill?ä

ãNo.  Just  Mr.  Dawson.  General Klinger  went  to  town  from the  camp.ä

ãWhen?ä

ãA  couple  of  minutes  after  we  got  there,ä Spencer  said.  He  smiled
uncertainly.   His  teeth   seemed  even   more  radiant  than   his  eyes.

ãHow did he go? Not in the chopper?ä

ãNo, sir. He took a car.ä

ãWhy-ä

Before he  could get out more  than one word of  the question, Sam screamed
and stumbled forward against the helicopter.

In the  same instant,  the night silence  was split open by  a single rifle
shot.

Instinctively, Paul dropped to the ground and rolled.

A bullet  cracked into the  pavement where heâd just  been, ricocheted into
the darkness.

A second  bullet smashed the macadam  on the other side  of him, bracketing
him.

He rolled  onto his back and  sat up. He saw the  rifleman at once: down on
one knee in a  sportsmanâs pose, thirty feet away at the edge of the woods.
On the drive from town, Paul had reloaded the Combat Magnum; now he held it
with both hands and squeezed off five quick shots.

All of them missed the mark.

However,  the sharp  barking of the  revolver and  the deadly whine  of all
those bullets skipping across the pavement apparently unnerved the man with
the rifle. Instead of trying to finish what he had begun, he stood and ran.

Paul scrambled to his feet, took a few steps after him and fired once more.

Untouched, the rifleman headed  away in a big loop that would take him back
to the mill complex.

ãSam?ä

ãHere.ä

He could barely see Sam÷dark clothes against the macadam

÷and was  thankful for the older manâs telltale  white hair and beard. ãYou
were hit.ä

ãIn the leg.ä

Paul started toward him. ãHow bad?ä

ãFlesh wound,ä Sam said.  ãThat was Dawson. Get after him, for Godâs sake.ä

ãBut if youâre hurt÷ä

ãIâll be  fine. Malcolm can make a tourniquet.  Now get after him, dammit!ä

Paul ran. At the end of the parking area he passed the rifle: it was on the
ground;  Dawson  had  either  dropped  it  by  accident and  had  been  too
frightened to  stop and retrieve it÷or he bad  discarded it in panic. Still
running, Paul  fished in his pocket with one hand  for the extra bullets he
was carrying.

12:15 A.M.





The  wooden tower  stairs  creaked under  Klingerâs weight.  He  paused and
counted  slowly to  thirty  before going  up three  more steps  and pausing
again. If  he climbed too fast,  the woman and the  girl would know that he
was coming.  And if they were  ready and waiting for  him÷well, he would be
committing suicide when he  walked onto the belfry platform. He hoped that,
by  waiting  for thirty  seconds  or  as much  as  a  minute between  brief
advances,  he could  make  them think  that the  creaking stairs  were only
settling noises or a product of the wind.

He went up three more steps.



12:16 A.M.

Ahead, Dawson disappeared around a corner of the mill.

When he  reached the same corner  a moment later, Paul  stopped and studied
the north work yard: huge stacks of logs that had been piled up to feed the
mill during the long winter; several pieces of heavy equipment; a couple of
lumber trucks: a conveyor belt running on an inclined ramp from the mill to
the maw of a  big furnace where sawdust and scrap wood were incinerated . .
.  There were simply too  many places out there  in which Dawson could hide
and wait for him.

He turned away from the north yard and went to the door in the west wall of
the building,  back the  way he had  come, thirty feet from  the corner. It
wasnât locked.

He  stepped into  a short,  well-lighted corridor. The  enormous processing
room lay  at the end of  it: the bull chain leading  from the mill pond, up
feeding shoots,  into the  building; then a  crosscut saw, a  log deck, the
carriage that moved logs  into the waiting blades that would make lumber of
them, the  giant band saw, edging machine,  trimmer saws, dip tank, grading
ramp, the green chain,  and then the storage racks . .  . He remembered all
of   those  terms   from   a  tour   that   the  manager   had  given   Rya

and  Mark two  summers ago.  In the  processing room the  fluorescent strip
lights were  burning, but none of  the machines was working;  there were no
men tending them. To his right was a washroom, to his left a set of stairs.

Taking the  steps two at  a time for four  flights÷the first level  was two
floors high  in order to accommodate the machines in  it÷he came out in the
second-floor hallway. He stopped to think, then went to the fifth office on
the left.

The door was locked.

He kicked it twice.

The lock held.

There was  a glass  case bolted to  the corridor wall. It  contained a fire
extinguisher and an ax.

He jammed the revolver  in his belt, opened the front of the case, and took
out the ax. He  used the flat head of it to batter the knob from the office
door. When  the knob fell off, the cheap latch  snapped. He dropped the ax,
pushed open the ruined door, and went inside.

The office was dark.  He didnât switch on any lights because he didnât want
to reveal his position. He closed the door to the hall so that he would not
be silhouetted by the pale light that spilled in.

The windows  in the north wall  of the office opened  above the first-floor
terrace. He  slid one of them up, slipped through  it, and stepped onto the
tar-papered terrace roof.

The wind buffeted him.

He took the Combat Magnum from his belt.

If Dawson was hiding  anywhere in the north yard, this was the best vantage
point from which to spot him.

The darkness offered Dawson  good protection, for none of the lights was on
in the yard.

He could  have turned them on, of course. But he  didnât know where to find
the switches,  and he didnât want to waste a lot  of time looking for them.

The only  thing that moved out there was  the clattering conveyor belt that
rolled continuously  up the inclined  ramp to the Scrap  furnace. It should
have been shut down with the rest of

the  equipment,  but it  had  been overlooked.  The  belt came  out of  the
building directly beneath him  and sloped to a high point twenty feet above
the  ground.  It  met  the  furnace  door  forty yards  away.  Because  the
cone-shaped  furnace÷thirty  feet in  diameter  at  the base,  ten feet  in
diameter at the top; forty feet high÷was primed by a gas flame, the fire in
it was never out unless the mill foreman ordered it extinguished. Even now,
when  the belt  had  no fuel  for it,  the furnace  roared. Judging  by the
intensity  of the  flames leaping  beyond the  open door,  however, several
hundred pounds  of the dayâs  input÷conveyed out of the  mill before Dawson
had halted operations÷ had yet to be fully consumed.

Otherwise,  the  yard  was  quiet,  still.  The mill  pond÷with  the  giant
grappling hook suspended from  thick wires over the center of it÷lay to the
right of  the ramp and the  furnace. It was dotted  with logs that looked a
bit like  dozing alligators. A narrow channel of  water called the slip led
from  the pond to  the terrace. When  the mill  was in operation,  slip men
poled logs  along the slip to  the chutes that were  covered by the terrace
roof. Once  in the chutes, the  logs were snared by  hooked bull chains and
dragged  into the  processing system. East  and north  of the pond  was the
deck, those  forty-foot-high walls  of gargantuan logs set  aside to supply
the  mill with  work during  the winter. To  the left  of the ramp  and the
furnace, two  lumber trucks, a high-lift,  and a few other  pieces of heavy
equipment were parked in a row, backed up against the chain-link fence of a
storage yard. Dawson wasnât to be seen in any of that.

Thunder and  lightning brought a  sudden fall of fat  raindrops. Some sixth
sense told Paul that  he had heard more than the clap of thunder. Propelled
by an icy premonition, he spun around.

Dawson had  come out of the  window behind him. He was  no more than a yard
away. He  was older than Paul,  a decade and a half  older, but he was also
taller and  heavier; and he looked deadly in  the rain-lashed night. He had
an ax. The goddamned fire ax! In both hands. Raised over his head. He swung
it.

* * *

Klinger  was at  the mid-point  of the  tower when  the rain began  to fall
again. It  drummed noisily  on the belfry  shingles and on the  roof of the
church, providing excellent cover for his ascent.

He waited until he was absolutely certain that the downpour would last÷then
he went  upward without  pausing after every  third step. He  couldnât even
hear the  creaking himself. Exhilarated, brimming  with confidence now, the
Webley clutched in his  right hand, he climbed through the last half of the
tower  in  less  than  a  minute  and  rushed  onto  the  belfry  platform.

Paul crouched.

The ax blade whistled over his head.

Startled  to hear  himself  screaming, unable  to stop  screaming, abruptly
aware  that the  Smith  & Wesson  was still  in his  hand, Paul  pulled the
trigger.

The bullet tore through Dawsonâs right shoulder.

The  ax flew from  his hands. It  arced out  into the darkness  and smashed
through the windshield of one of the lumber trucks.

With a  certain eerie grace,  Dawson pirouetted just once  and toppled into
Paul.

The Combat Magnum tumbled in the path of the ax.

Grappling  with each  other,  clinging to  each  other, they  fell off  the
terrace roof.

The belfry held very  little light in the midst of that primeval Storm, but
it was bright enough  for Klinger to see that the only person there was the
Annendale girl.

Impossible.

She was sitting on  the platform, her back to the half-wall. And she seemed
to be regarding him with dread.

What the hell?

There  should have  been two  of them.  The nine-foot-square  belfry wasnât
large enough  for a game of  hide-and-seek. ÎWhat he Saw  must be true. But
there should have been two of them.

The   night   was   rocked  with   thunder,   and   razor-tined  forks   of

white  lightning stabbed  the earth.  Wind boomed  through the  open tower.

He stood over the child.

Looking  up at him,  her voice wavering,  she said,  ãPlease... please..  .
donât.. . shoot me.ä

ãWhere   is  the   other  one?ä   Klinger  asked.   ãWhere  did   she  go?ä

A voice behind him said, ãHey, mister.ä

They  had heard him  coming up the stairs. They  were ready and waiting for
him.

But how had they done it?

Sick, trembling,  aware that  it was too  late for him to  save himself, he
nevertheless turned to meet the danger.

There was no one  behind him. The storm conveniently provided another short
burst of incandescent light, confirming that he saw what he thought he saw:
he and the child were alone on the platform.

ãHey, mister.ä

He looked up.

A black  form, like  a monstrous bat,  was suspended above  him. The woman.
Jenny Edison. He could  not see her face, but he had no doubt about who she
was. She had heard him coming up the stairs when he thought he was being so
clever. She  had climbed atop the bell and had  braced herself in the steel
bell supports,  against the ceiling, at the highest  point of the arch, six
feet overhead, like a goddamned bat.

Itâs twenty-seven  years since I was in Korea, he  thought. Iâm too old for
commando raids. Too old .

He  couldnât see  the gun  she held, but  he knew  he was looking  into the
barrel of it.

Behind  him  the  Annendale  girl  scrambled  out  of  the  line  of  fire.

It happened so fast, too fast.

ãGood riddance, you bastard,ä the Edison woman said.

He never heard the shot.

Dawson landed  on his back in  the middle of the  inclined ramp. Trapped in
the other manâs clumsy but effective embrace,

Paul fell on top of him, driving the breath from both of them. After a long
shudder, the conveyor belt adjusted to their

weight. It swiftly carried them headfirst toward the open mouth of the
scrap furnace.

Gasping, limp, Paul managed to raise his head from Dawsonâs heaving chest.
He saw a circle of yellow and orange and red flames flickering satanically
thirty yards ahead.

Twenty-five yards

Winded, with a bullet wound in one shoulder, having cracked his head
against the ramp when he fell, Dawson was not immediately in a fighting
mood. He sucked air, choked on the fiercely heavy rain, and blew water from
his nostrils.

The belt clattered and thumped upward.

Twenty yards...

Paul tried to roll off that highway of death.

With his good hand Dawson held Paul by the shirt.

Fifteen yards .

ãLet go . . . you . . . bastard.ä Paul twisted, squirmed, hadnât the
strength to free himself.

Dawsonâs fingers were like claws.

Ten yards .

Tapping his last reserves of energy, the dregs from the barrel, Paul pulled
back his fist and punched Dawson in the face.

Dawson let go of him.

Five yards .

Whimpering, already feeling the furnace heat, he threw himself to the
right, off the ramp.

How far to the ground?

He fell with surprisingly little pain into a bed of weeds and mud beside
the mill pond.

When he looked up he saw Dawson÷delirious, unaware of the danger until it
was too late for him÷dropping headfirst into that crackling, spitting,
roiling, hellish pit of fire.

If the man screamed, his voice was blotted out by a cymballike crash of
thunder.









THE ENDING





Saturday, August 27, 1977



5:00 A.M.



THE MESS  HALL at  the logging camp  was a rectangle, eighty  feet by forty
feet. Sam and Rya sat behind a dining

table at  one end of the  long room. A single-file  line of weary lumbermen
stretched from their table across the hail and out the door at the far end.

As each  man stepped  up to the table,  Sam used the power  of the key-lock
program to  restructure his memory. When  the new recollections were firmly
implanted,  he excused  the man÷and Rya  struck a  name from the  Big Union
Supply Companyâs employee list.

Between the  thirtieth and the thirty-first subject,  Rya said to Sam, ãHow
do you feel?ä

ãHow do you feel?ä

ãIâm not the one who was shot.ä

ãYouâve been hurt too,ä he said.

ãAll I feel is÷grown up.ä

ãMore than that.ä

ãAnd sad,ä she said.

ãAnd sad.ä

ãBecause itâll never be  the same. Not ever.ä Her lips trembled She cleared
her throat. ãNow, howâs your leg?ä

ãAbout a yard long,ä he said.

He pulled on her chin.

She pulled on his beard.

He managed to get a smile from her, and that was better medicine than Doc
Troutmanâs antibiotics.



6:30 A.M.



The storm clouds had begun to break up two hours ago. Dawn brought welcome
shafts of autumn sunlight.

In the dense pine forest, half a mile above Black River, three men lowered
the remains of Dawson, and the bodies of Salsbury and Klinger into a common
grave.

ãAll right,ä Jenny told them. ãFill it in.ä

With each shovelful of dirt that struck the corpses, she felt more alive.



9:30 A.M.





After a refueling stop in Augusta, the hornetlike helicopter put down on
the landing pad behind the Greenwich house at nine thirty in the morning.

ãGet it gassed up and serviced for a trip back to Black River this
evening,ä Paul said.

ãYes, sir,ä Malcolm Spencer said.

ãThen go home and get some sleep. Be back here by seven oâclock this
evening. That should give us both time to rest.ä

ãI can use it,ä Spencer said.

Paul got out of the helicopter and stretched. He had showered and shaved
and changed clothes before leaving Maine, but that had refreshed him only
temporarily. He was stiff, sore, and tired deep in his bones.

He went to the rear door of the stone house and knocked. A servant
answered. She was a plump, pleasant-faced woman in her fifties. Her hair
was tied back in a bun. Her hands were white with flour. ãYes, sir?ä

ãI am the key.ä

ãI am the lock.ä -

ãLet me in.ä

She stepped out of his way.

Inside, he said, ãWhereâs the computer?ä

ãThe what, sir?ä she asked.

ãThe computer. Dawsonâs computer.ä

ãI havenât any idea, sir.ä

He nodded. ãOkay. Forget about me. Go back to whatever you were doing.ä He
looked around the elaborately equipped kitchen. ãDoing a bit of baking, I
see. Go ahead with it Forget that I was ever here.ä

Humming to herself, she returned to the counter beside the oven.

He poked about on his own until he located the computer room. When he found
it, he sat before one of the programming consoles and typed out the access
code that he had gotten from Salsbury.

The computer responded on all of its read-out screens:

                                  PROCEED

Pecking at the typewriter keys with one finger, doing precisely what
Salsbury had told him to do, he ordered it to:

                           ERASE ALL STORED DATA

Five seconds later the read-out screen flickered:

                           ALL STORED DATA ERASED

That message disappeared from the tubes, and his second order was displayed
for a few seconds:

                             ERASE ALL PROGRAMS

It said:

                            REQUEST CONFIRMATION

                             OF LAST DIRECTIVE

So weary that the letters on the keys blurred before him, Paul again typed:

                             ERASE ALL PROGRAM!

Those  three words  shimmered on  the green  background for perhaps  half a
minute. Then they blinked several times, vanished.

He  typed the  words  ãBlack Riverä  and asked  for a  read-out and  a full
print-out of associated data.

The computer did nothing.

Next, he  typed the  words ãkey-lockä and  asked for a read-out  and a full
print-out of all information in that file.

Nothing.

He requested  that the computer run  a systems check on  itself and display
its circuitry on the cathode-ray tubes.

The tubes showed nothing.

He   leaned  back  in   the  programmerâs   chair  and  closed   his  eyes.

Years ago, when he had been in high school, he had seen a boy lose a finger
in woodworking shop. The boy had sliced it off on the band saw, a very even
cut between the second  and third knuckles. For two or three minutes, while
everyone around him babbled  in panic, the boy had treated the bloody stump
as little more than a curiosity. He had even joked about it. And then, when
his composure had infected those who were giving him first aid, he suddenly
came to terms with  what had happened, suddenly recognized the loss and the
pain, began to scream and wail.

In much the same fashion, the meaning of Markâs death exploded in Paul, hit
him with the emotional  equivalent of a truck plowing through a stone wall.
He doubled over in the chair and, for the first time since heâd come across
the pathetic body in the freezer, he wept.



6:00 P.M.

When he got  out of the car, Sam stood for a  while, looking at the general
store.

Jenny said, ãWhatâs the matter, Dad?ä

ãJust deciding how much I can get for it.ä

ãFor the store? Youâre selling?ä

ãIâm selling."

ãBut . . . itâs your life.ä

ãIâm getting out of Black River,ä he said. ãI canât stay here knowing that
any time I want. - . I can just open these

people with the phrase. . . use them . .

ãYou wouldnât use them,ä she said, taking him by the arm as Rya took his
other arm.

ãBut knowing that I could. . . That sort of thing can eat at the soul, rot
a man up inside.. .ã Flanked by them, he went up the porch steps. For the
first time in his life, he felt like an old man.



SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1977





The following headline appeared at the bottom of the front page of The New
York Times:

MRS. DAWSON HIRES INVESTIGATORS;

DISSATISFIED WITH F.B.I.âS WORE







SATURDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1977





Two bellhops showed them to the honeymoon suite. On the desk in the parlor,
there was an arrangement of carnations and roses, compliments of the
management. Jenny made him savor the fragrances: first a rose by itself,
then a carnation, then a rose and a carnation together.

Later, they made love, taking their time about it, doing what most pleased
each other. He seemed to float on her and she on him, he in her and she in
him. It was a rich, full experience; and they were sated afterwards.

For a while they were silent, lying on their backs, holding hands, eyes
closed.

At last she said, ãIt was different that time.ä

ãNot bad, though,ä he said. ãAt least not for me.ä

ãOh, no. Not bad. Not for me either.ä

ãWhat then?ä

ãJust. . . different. I donât know. Maybe. . . Weâve gained
something÷intensity, I think. But weâve also lost something. There wasnât
any innocence to it this time.ä

ãWeâre not innocent people anymore.ä

ãI guess we arenât,ä she said.

Weâre killers, he thought. Children of the 1970s, sons and daughters of the
great machine age, survivalists.

All right, he told himself angrily. Enough. Weâre killers. But even killers
can grab hold of a little happiness. More important, even killers can give
a little happiness. And isnât that the most anyone can do in this life?
Give a little happiness?

He thought of Mark: the faked death certificate, the small grave next to
Annieâs casket...

He turned to Jenny again and took her in his arms and let the world shrink
until it was no larger than their two bodies.



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