Giving in to his anger, Marty said, "It can't be explained away that easily, Lieutenant."

"You weren't drinking this afternoon?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

"I don't mean to be argumentative, Mr. Stillwater, really I don't, but when we first met, I smelled alcohol on your breath. Beer, I believe.

And there's a can of Coors lying in the living room, beer spilled on the wood floor."

"I drank some beer after."

"After what?"

"After it was over. He was lying on the foyer floor with a broken back.

At least I thought it was broken."

"So you figured, after all that shooting and fighting, a cold beer was just the thing."

Paige glared at the detective. "You're trying so hard to make the whole business sound silly-"

"-and I wish to hell you'd just come right out and tell us why you don't believe me," Marty added.

"I don't disbelieve you, Mr. Stillwater. I know this is all very frustrating, you feel put-upon, you're still shaken up, tired. But I'm still absorbing, listening and absorbing. That's what I do. It's my job.

And I really haven't formed any theories or opinions yet."

Marty was certain that was not the truth. Lowbock had carried with him a set of fully formed opinions when he'd first sat down at the dining-room table.

After draining the last of the Pepsi in the mug, Marty said, "I almost drank some milk, orange juice, but my throat was so sore, hurt like hell, as if it was on fire. I couldn't swallow without agony.

When I opened the refrigerator, the beer just looked a lot better than anything else, the most refreshing."

With his Montblanc pen, Lowbock was again doodling on one corner of a page in his notebook. "So you only had that one can of Coors."

"Not all of it. I drank half, maybe two-thirds. When my throat was feeling a little better, I went back to see how The Other* how the look-alike was doing. I was carrying the beer with me. I was so surprised to see the bastard gone, after he'd looked half dead, the can of Coors just sort of slipped out of my hand."

Even though it was upside-down, Marty was able to see what the detective was drawing. A bottle. A long-necked beer bottle.

"So then half a can of Coors," Lowbock said.

"That's right."

"Maybe two-thirds."

"Yes."

"But nothing more."

"No."

Finishing his doodle, Lowbock looked up from the notebook and said, "What about the three empty bottles of Corona in the trash can under the kitchen sink?"

"Rest area, this exit," Drew Oslett read. Then he said to Clocker, "You see that sign?"

Clocker did not reply.

Returning his attention to the SATU screen in his lap, Oslett said, "That's where he is, all right, maybe taking a leak in the men's room, maybe even stretched out on the back seat of whatever car he's driving, catching a few winks."

They were about to go into action against an unpredictable and formidable adversary, but Clocker appeared unperturbed. Even though driving, he seemed to be lost in a meditative state. His bearlike body was as relaxed as that of a Tibetan monk in a transcendental swoon.

His enormous hands rested on the steering wheel, the thick fingers only slightly curled, maintaining the minimum grip. Oslett wouldn't have been surprised to learn that the big man was steering the car mostly with some arcane power of the mind. Nothing in Clocker's broad, blunt-featured face indicated that he knew what the word "tension" meant, pale brow as smooth as polished marble, cheeks unlined, sapphire-blue eyes softly radiant in the reflected light of the instrument panel, gazing into the distance, not merely at the road ahead but possibly beyond this world. His wide mouth was open just enough to accept a thin communion wafer. His lips were curved in the faintest of smiles, but it was impossible to know if he was pleased by something he was contemplating in a spiritual reverie or by the prospect of imminent violence.

Karl Clocker had a talent for violence.

For that reason, in spite of his taste in clothes, he was a man of his times.

"Here's the rest area," Oslett said as they neared the end of the access road.

"Where else would it be?" Clocker responded.

"Huh?"

"It is where it is."

The big man wasn't much of a talker, and when he did have something to say, half the time it was cryptic. Oslett suspected Clocker of being either a closet existentialist on-at the other end of the spectrum-a New Age mystic. Though the truth might be that he was so totally self-contained, he didn't need much human contact or interaction, his own thoughts and observations adequately engaged and entertained him.

One thing was certain, Clocker was not as stupid as he looked, in fact, he had an IQ well above average.

The rest-area parking lot was illuminated by eight tall sodiumvapor lamps. After so many grim miles of unrelieved darkness, which had begun to seem like the blasted black barrens of a post-nuclear landscape, Oslett's spirits were lifted by the glow of the tall lamps, though it was a sickly urine-yellow reminiscent of the sour light in a bad dream.

No one would ever mistake the place for any part of Manhattan, but it confirmed that civilization still existed.

A large motorhome was the only vehicle in sight. It was parked near the concrete-block building that housed the comfort stations.

"We're right on top of him now." Oslett switched off the SATU screen and placed the unit on the floor between his feet. Popping the suction cup off the windshield, dropping it on the electronic map, he said, "No doubt about it-our Alfie's snug in that road hog.

Probably ripped it off some poor shmuck, now he's on the run with all the comforts of home."

They drove past a grassy area with three picnic tables and parked about twenty feet away from the Road King, on the driver's side.

No lights were on in the motorhome.

"No matter how far off the tracks Alfie's gone," Oslett said, "I still think he'll respond well to us. We're all he has, right? Without us, he's alone in the world. Hell, we're like his family."

Clocker switched off the lights and the engine.

Oslett said, "Regardless of what condition he's in, I don't think he'd hurt us. Not old Alfie. Maybe he'd waste anyone else who got in his way but not us. What do you think?"

Getting out of the Chevy, Clocker plucked both his hat and his Colt.357 Magnum off the front seat.

Oslett took a flashlight and the tranquilizer gun. The bulky pistol had two barrels, over and under, each loaded with a fat hypodermic cartridge. It was designed for use in zoos and wasn't accurate at more than fifty feet, which was good enough for Oslett's purpose, since he wasn't planning to go after any lions on the veldt.

Oslett was grateful that the rest area was not crowded with travelers.

He hoped that he and Clocker could finish their business and get away before any cars or trucks pulled in from the highway.

On the other hand, when he got out of the Chevy and eased the door shut behind him, he was disturbed by the emptiness of the night. Except for the singing of tires and the air-cutting whoosh of passing traffic on the interstate, the silence was as oppressive as it must be in the vacuum of deep space. A copse of tall pines stood as backdrop to the entire rest area, and, in the windless darkness, their heavy boughs drooped like swags of funeral bunting.

He craved the hum and bustle of urban streets, where ceaseless activity offered continuous distractions. Commotion provided escape from contemplation. In the city, the flash-clatter-spin of daily life allowed his attention to be directed forever outward if he wished, sparing him the dangers inherent in self-examination.

Joining Clocker at the driver's door of the Road King, Oslett considered making as stealthy an entrance as possible. But if Alfie was inside, as the SATU electronic map specifically indicated, he was probably already aware of their arrival.

Besides, on the deepest cognitive levels, Alfie was conditioned to respond to Drew Oslett with absolute obedience. It was almost inconceivable that he would attempt to harm him.

Almost.

They had also been certain that the chances of Alfie going A.W.O.L were so small as to be nonexistent. They had been wrong about that.

Time might prove them wrong about other things.

That was why Oslett had the tranquilizer gun.

And that was why he didn't try to dissuade Clocker from bringing the .357 Magnum.

Steeling himself for the unexpected, Oslett knocked on the metal door.

Knocking seemed a ludicrous way to announce himself under the circumstances, but he knocked anyway, waited several seconds, and knocked again, louder.

No one answered.

The door was unlocked. He opened it.

Enough yellow light from the parking-lot lamps filtered through the windshield to illuminate the cockpit of the motorhome. Oslett could see that no immediate threat loomed.

He stepped up onto the door sill, leaned in, and looked back through the Road King, which tunneled away into a swarming darkness as deep as the chambers of ancient catacombs.

Be at peace, Alfie," he said softly.

That spoken command should have resulted in an immediate ritual response, as in a litany, I am at peace, Father.

"Be at peace, Alfie," Oslett repeated less hopefully.

Silence.

Although Oslett was neither Alfie's father nor a man of the cloth, and therefore in no way could lay a legitimate claim to the honorific, his heart nevertheless would have been gladdened if he had heard the whispered and obedient reply, I am at peace, Father. Those five simple words, in an answering murmur, would have meant that all was essentially well, that Alfie's deviation from his instructions was less a rebellion than a temporary confusion of purpose, and that the killing spree on which he had embarked was something that could be forgiven and put behind them.

Though he knew it was useless, Oslett tried a third time, speaking louder than before, "Be at peace, Alfie."

When nothing in the darkness answered him, he switched on the flashlight and climbed into the Road King.

He couldn't help but think what a waste and humiliation it would be if he got himself shot to death in a strange motorhome along an interstate in the Oklahoma vastness at the tender age of thirty-two. Such a bright young man of such singular promise (the mourners would say), with two degrees-one from Princeton, one from Harvard-and an enviable pedigree.

Moving out of the cockpit as Clocker entered behind him, Oslett swept the beam of the flashlight left and right. Shadows billowed and flapped like black capes, ebony wings, lost souls.

Only a few members of his family-fewer still among that circle of Manhattan artists, writers, and critics who were his friends-would know in what line of duty he had perished. The rest would find the details of his demise baffling, bizarre, possibly sordid, and they would gossip with the feverishness of birds tearing at carrion.

The flashlight revealed Formica-sheathed cabinets. A stove top.

A stainless-steel sink.

The mystery surrounding his peculiar death would ensure that myths would grow like coral reefs, incorporating every color of scandal and vile supposition, but leaving his memory with precious little tint of respect. Respect was one of the few things that mattered to Drew Oslett. He had demanded respect since he was only a boy. It was his birthright, not merely a pleasing accoutrement of the family name but a tribute that must be paid to all of the family's history and accomplishments embodied in him.

"Be at peace, Alfie," he said nervously.

A hand, as white as marble and as solid-looking, had been waiting for the flashlight beam to find it. The alabaster fingers trailed on the carpet beside the padded booth of a dining nook. Higher up, the white-haired body of a man slumped over the bloodstained table.

Paige got up from the dining-room table, went to the nearest window, tilted the shutter slats to make wider gaps, and stared out at the gradually fading storm. She was looking into the backyard, where there were no lights. She could see nothing clearly except the tracks of rain on the other side of the glass, which seemed like gobs of spit, maybe because she wanted to spit at Lowbock, right in his face.

She had more hostility in her than did Marty, not just toward the detective but toward the world. All her adult life, she had been struggling to resolve the conflicts of childhood that were the source of her anger. She had made considerable progress. But in the face of provocation like this, she felt the resentments and bitterness of her childhood rising anew, and her directionless anger found a focus in Lowbock, making it difficult for her to keep her temper in check.

Conscious avoidance facing the window, keeping the detective out of sight-was a proven technique for maintaining self-control. Counselor, supposed to reduce anger as well.

She hoped it worked better for her clients than it worked for her, because she was still seething.

At the table with the detective, Marty seemed determined to be reasonable and cooperative. Being Marty, he would cling as long as possible to the hope that Lowbock's mysterious antagonism could be assuaged. Angry as he might be himself-and he was angrier than she had ever seen him-he still had tremendous faith in the power of good intentions and words, especially words, to restore and maintain harmony under any circumstances.

To Lowbock, Marty said, "It had to be him drank the beers."

"Him?" Lowbock asked.

"The look-alike. He must've been in the house a couple of hours while I was out."

"So the intruder drank the three Coronas?"

"I emptied the trash last night, Sunday night, so I know they aren't empties left from the weekend."

"This guy, he broke into your house because* how did he say it exactly?"

"He said he needed his life."

"Needed his life?"

"Yes. He asked me why I'd stolen his life, who was I."