I began typing in words that I thought might mean something to Robby.

The names of moons: t.i.tan. Miranda. Io. Atlas. Hyperion.

Each word was denied access.

The writer had expected this and scolded the father for being surprised.

I was not aware as I bent over the computer that the door behind me was slowly opening.

The writer a.s.sumed that I had closed the door.

The writer even went so far as to suggest that I had locked it.

I held on to the possibility that I had left it ajar.

As I kept uselessly typing in pa.s.swords, the door opened itself fully, and something entered Robby's room.

And just as the writer decided to type in neverland neverland I realized that Nadine Allen had gotten it wrong. I realized that Nadine Allen had gotten it wrong.

The word wasn't neverland. neverland.

The word was neverneverland. neverneverland.

Neverneverland was where the missing boys were going. was where the missing boys were going.

Not neverland neverland but but neverneverland. neverneverland.

The writer told me to type it in immediately.

It broke open the pa.s.sword.

And as the screen filled itself with a digital photo of Cleary Miller accompanied by a long letter dated November 3 that began with the words "Hey RD," another chasm opened in Robby's room.

(Robert Dennis was RD.) I froze when I heard clicking noises behind me.

Before I could turn around there was a high-pitched screech.

The Terby was standing in the doorway, its wings outstretched.

It wasn't a doll anymore. It was now something else.

It stood perfectly still, but something was stirring beneath its feathers.

The presence of the Terby-and all the things it had done-loosened me from my fear, and I rushed toward it.

When I grabbed it with my sweater I expected it to react in some way.

The animatronic lips below its beak parted to reveal a wide, uneven set of fangs that I didn't know it had.

The black face seized up-its eyes brightly wet-and its feathers started bristling as I threw the sweater over it.

But when I lifted the doll there was no struggle.

Okay, I told myself, I told myself, Sarah had left it on. It could move around on its own accord. So it walked down a hallway. It entered a room. I hadn't shut the door. Sarah simply hadn't turned the thing off before school. Sarah had left it on. It could move around on its own accord. So it walked down a hallway. It entered a room. I hadn't shut the door. Sarah simply hadn't turned the thing off before school.

I slowly pulled the sweater off the Terby-it was reeking and felt soft and pliable, and it was vibrating slightly in my hands.

I turned the doll over to switch off the red light in the back of its neck in order to deactivate it.

But when I turned the doll over the red light wasn't on.

This fact moved me immediately out of the room.

Whatever fear this caused was transformed into energy.

I rushed to my office for my car keys.

I threw the doll into the trunk of the Porsche.

I purposefully started driving to the outskirts of town.

The writer, beside me, was thinking things through, forming his own theories.

The doll wasn't activated because no one had turned the doll on.

The doll, Bret, had picked up on your scent.

The doll knew you were in Robby's room and did not want you to find the files.

Just as it had not wanted you to see what was in Robby's room on Sunday night.

The night it bit you, it had been aiming for the hand the gun was clenched in.

The thing was protecting something.

It didn't want you to know things.

Something had wanted the doll placed in your house.

You were simply the go-between.

I needed to call Kentucky Pete and find out where he got the doll from.

I told the writer that this would begin to answer all the questions.

Okay: I had bought the thing last August, and August was the month my father died and- Stop it, the writer interrupted. There is an empire of questions and you will never be able to answer them-there are too many, and they are all cancerous.

Instead, the writer was urging me to head up to the college. The writer wanted me to pick up the copy of "Minus Numbers"-the ma.n.u.script Clayton had left in my office. This would provide an answer, the writer a.s.sured me. But the answer would only lead ultimately to more questions and those were the questions I did not want answered.

It was too early to get ahold of Pete, but I dialed his cell and left a message.

At some point I simply pulled the Porsche over next to a field on a deserted stretch of the interstate.

Outside the sky was divided in half: part of it was an intense arctic blue slowly being erased by a sheet of black clouds. Trees were becoming leafless now. The field was glazed with dew.

I opened the trunk.

The writer told me to take note of the sweater I had wrapped the doll in.

The red Polo sweater had been torn apart during the twenty-minute drive from Elsinore Lane to the field off the interstate.

As I lifted the Terby out of the trunk by a wing, I averted my eyes as the doll began urinating a thin stream of yellow that arced from its black body and splashed onto the highway's pavement.

The writer urged me to notice the crows lining the telephone wires above me as I hurled the doll into the field where it landed, immobile.

Leaves began lifting themselves off the field.

I could hear the sound of a river, or was it waves crashing against the coastline?

The Terby was almost immediately enveloped in a cloud of flies.

In the distance a horse was grazing-maybe a hundred feet from where I stood-and the moment the flies converged upon the doll, the horse jerked its head up and galloped even farther into the field as if offended by the presence of the thing.

Kill it, the writer whispered. the writer whispered. Kill the thing now. Kill the thing now.

You no longer need to convince me, I told the writer.

The writer disliked me because I was trying to follow a chart.

I was following an outline. I was calculating the weather. I was predicting events. I wanted answers. I needed clarity. I had to control the world.

The writer yearned for chaos, mystery, death. These were his inspirations. This was the impulse he leaned toward. The writer wanted bombs exploding. The writer wanted the Olympian defeat. The writer craved myth and legend and coincidence and flames. The writer wanted Patrick Bateman back in our lives. The writer was hoping the horror of it all would galvanize me.

I was at a point where all of what the writer wanted filled me with simple remorse.

(I innocently believed in metaphor, which at this point the writer actively discouraged.) There were now two opposing strategies for dealing with the current situation.

But the writer was winning, because as I ducked back into the Porsche I could smell a sea wind drifting toward me.

20. kentucky pete

I kept my gaze fixed on the horizon. The sky was turning black, and the clouds roiling in it kept changing shapes. They resembled waves, crests, the foaming surf of a thousand beaches. My eyes kept checking the rearview mirror to see if anything was following us. I did not give a s.h.i.t how Sarah would react once she noticed her doll was gone. She was going to have to deal with it, rock 'n' roll. The writer noticed we were not heading toward the college, and he brought up "Minus Numbers" again. I patiently told the writer that we were not going to the college. I told the writer we were heading back to 307 Elsinore Lane. I told the writer that we needed to get back to Robby's room. There was information on Robby's computer. We needed to see what that information consisted of. The information would clarify things. This was why we were heading toward the house and not the college. kept my gaze fixed on the horizon. The sky was turning black, and the clouds roiling in it kept changing shapes. They resembled waves, crests, the foaming surf of a thousand beaches. My eyes kept checking the rearview mirror to see if anything was following us. I did not give a s.h.i.t how Sarah would react once she noticed her doll was gone. She was going to have to deal with it, rock 'n' roll. The writer noticed we were not heading toward the college, and he brought up "Minus Numbers" again. I patiently told the writer that we were not going to the college. I told the writer we were heading back to 307 Elsinore Lane. I told the writer that we needed to get back to Robby's room. There was information on Robby's computer. We needed to see what that information consisted of. The information would clarify things. This was why we were heading toward the house and not the college.

What is in the computer is simply a warning, the writer argued. the writer argued.

The answer is in that ma.n.u.script and not in those files, the writer argued.

I was drifting off, thinking of my own ma.n.u.script. I was thinking of how I knew at that point in time that I was never going to finish it. I dealt with this fact stoically.

When the writer started laughing at me I felt transparent.

The writer laughed: Pull over. Pull over.

The writer laughed: Drop me off. Drop me off.

The cell phone rang. I grabbed it from the dashboard. It was Pete.

"Where did you get that doll?" I asked the moment I clicked on.

"Hey, Bret Ellis," Pete drawled, hacking up something. "It's a little early in the day-we have ourselves an all-nighter?"

"No, no," I said, flinching. "It's not that. I just wanted to ask you about that doll-"

"What doll, man?"

"That bird thing that I asked you to get for my little girl?" I said, trying to sound like a concerned parent and not one of Pete's favorite drug fiends. "I needed one of those Terbys for her birthday? And they were sold out everywhere? Do you remember that?"

"Oh, right, yeah, that ugly freakin' thing you wanted so bad."

"Yes, exactly," I said, relieved that Pete actually remembered. We were on course. "Who did you get it from?"

I could hear him shrugging. "Just some contact."

"Who was it?"

"Why?"

"I need specifics, Pete. Who was it?"

"You sure you're not high, man?"

Realizing my voice sounded hoa.r.s.e and labored, I tried to push it into a neutral tone.

"This is important, okay? You don't need to name names or anything. Did your contact get this through a toy store or someone else or what?"

"I didn't ask him where he got it." I could see the glazed expression on Pete's face in the way he said this. "He just brought it to me."

Okay. I breathed in. We were heading toward something. The contact was a man.

"What did the guy look like?" I was gripping the steering wheel tightly in antic.i.p.ation of Pete's answer.

"What did he look look like?" Pete asked. "What the f.u.c.k?" like?" Pete asked. "What the f.u.c.k?"

"Was it a young guy? Was it an old guy?"