'Nothing,' the man answered.

'That's what I thought.'

But Buchanan knew what the man had said.

Because of your brother.

11.

'What's he doing now?' the man who called himself Alan asked as he entered the apartment directly above Buchanan's.

'Nothing,' the muscular man, Major Putnam, said. He sipped from a styrofoam cup of coffee and watched the television monitors. Again he wore civilian clothes.

'Well, he must be doing something.' Alan glanced around the apartment. The colonel and Captain Weller weren't around.

'Nope,' Major Putnam said. 'Nothing. When he came in, I figured he'd pour himself a drink, go to the bathroom, read a magazine, watch television, do exercises, whatever. But all he did was go over to the sofa. There he is. That's what he's been doing since you left him. Nothing.'

Alan approached the row of television monitors. Massaging his right elbow where the nerve that Buchanan had pinched still troubled him, he frowned at a black-and-white image of Buchanan sitting on the sofa. 'Jesus.'

Buchanan sat bolt-straight, motionless, his expression rigid, his intense gaze focused on a chair across from him.

'Jesus,' Alan repeated. 'He's catatonic. Does the colonel know about this?'

'I phoned him.'

'And?'

'I'm supposed to keep watching. What did the two of you talk about? When he came in, he looked.'

'It's what we didn't talk about.'

'I don't understand.'

'His brother.'

'Christ,' the major said, 'you know that's an off-limits subject.'

'I wanted to test him.'

'Well, you certainly got a reaction.'

'Yeah, but it's not the one I wanted.'

12.

Buchanan was reminded of an old story about a donkey between two bales of hay. The donkey stood exactly midpoint between the bales. Each bale was the same size and had the same fragrance. With no reason to choose one bale over the other, the donkey starved to death.

The story - which could never happen in the real world because the donkey could never be exactly at midpoint and the bales could never be exactly the same - was a theoretical way to illustrate the problem of free will. The ability to choose, which most people took for granted, depended on certain conditions, and without them, a person could be motiveless, just as Buchanan found that he was now.

His brother.

Buchanan had so thoroughly worked to obliterate the memory that for the past eight years he'd managed not to be conscious of the critical event that controlled his behavior. Not once had he thought about it. On rare occasions of weakness, late at night, weary, he might sense the nightmare lurking in the darkness of his subconscious, crouching, about to spring. Then he would muster all his strength of resolve to thrust up a mental wall of denial, of refusal to accept the unacceptable.

Even now, with his defenses taken from him, with his identity exposed, unshielded, he was repulsed sufficiently that the memory was able to catch him only partially, in principle but not in detail.

His brother. His wonderful brother.

Twelve years old.

Sweet Tommy.

Was dead.

And he had killed him.

Buchanan felt as if he were trapped by ice. He couldn't move. He sat on the sofa, and his legs, his back, his arms were numb, his entire body cold, paralyzed. He kept staring toward the chair in front of him, not seeing it, barely aware of time.

Five o'clock.

Six o'clock.

Seven o'clock.

The room was in darkness. Buchanan kept staring, seeing nothing.

Tommy was dead.

And he had killed him.

Blood.

He'd clutched Tommy's stake-impaled body, trying to tug him free.

Tommy's cheeks had been terribly pale. His breathing had sounded like bubbles. His moan had been liquid, as if he were gargling. But what he gargled hadn't been salt water. It had been.

Blood.

'Hurts. Hurts so bad.'

'Tommy, oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.'

Push him.

Just horsing around.