Marty shook his head. "Doesn't count. I wish it did. But Lowbock won't put any stock in the testimony of little kids."

"Not so little," Emily piped up from beside Paige, sounding even younger and tinier than she actually was.

Charlotte remained uncharacteristically quiet. Both girls were still shivering, but Charlotte had a worse case of the shakes than did Emily.

She was leaning against her mother for warmth, her head pulled turtlelike into the collar of her coat.

Marty had the heater turned up as high as it would go. The interior of the BMW should have been suffocatingly hot. It wasn't.

Even Paige was cold. She said, "Maybe we should go back and try to talk sense to them anyway."

Marty was adamant. "Honey, no, we can't. Think about it.

They'll sure as hell take the Beretta. I shot at the guy with it.

From their point of view, one way or another, there's been a crime, and the gun was used in the commission of it. Either somebody really attempted to kidnap the girls, and I tried to kill him. Or it's still all a hoax to sell books, get me higher on the bestseller list. Maybe I hired a friend to drive the Buick, shot a bunch of blanks at him, induced my own kids to lie, now I'm filing another false police report."

"After all this, Lowbock won't still be pushing that ridiculous theory."

"Won't he? The hell he won't."

"Marty, he can't."

He sighed. "Okay, all right, maybe he won't, probably he won't."

Paige said, "He'll realize that something a lot more serious is going on-"

"But he won't believe my story either, which I've got to admit sounds nuttier than a giant-size can of Planters finest. And if you'd read the piece in People* Anyway, he'll take the Beretta. What if he discovers the shotgun in the trunk?"

"There's no reason for him to take that."

"He might find an excuse. Listen, Paige, Lowbock's not going to change his mind about me that easily, not just because the kids tell him it's all true. He'll still be a lot more suspicious of me than of any guy in a Buick he's never seen. If he takes both guns, we're defense less.

Suppose the cops leave, then this bastard, this look-alike, he walks into the house two minutes later, when we don't have anything to protect ourselves."

"If the police still don't believe it, if they won't give us protection, then we won't stay at the house."

"No, Paige, I literally mean what if the bastard walks in two minutes after the cops leave, doesn't even give us a chance to clear out?"

"He's not likely to risk-"

"Oh, yes, he is! Yes, he is. He came back almost immediately after the cops left the first time-didn't he? just boldly walked up to the Delorios' front door and rang the damn bell.

He seems to thrive on risk. I wouldn't put it past the bastard to break in on us while the cops were still there, shoot everyone in sight. He's crazy, this whole situation is crazy, and I don't want to bet my life or yours or the kids' lives on what the creep is going to do next."

Paige knew he was right.

However, it was difficult, even painful, to accept that their situation was so dire as to place them beyond the help of the law. If they couldn't receive official assistance and protection, then the government had failed them in its most basic duty, to provide civil order through the fair but strict enforcement of a criminal code. In spite of the complex machine in which they rode, in spite of the modern highway on which they traveled and the sprawl of suburban lights that covered most of the southern California hills and vales, this failure meant they were not living in a civilized world. The shopping malls, elaborate transit systems, glittering centers for the performing arts, sports arenas, imposing government buildings, multiplex movie theaters, office towers, sophisticated French restaurants, churches, museums, parks, universities, and nuclear power plants amounted to nothing but an elaborate facade of civilization, tissue-thin for all its apparent solidity, and in truth they were living in a high-tech anarchy, sustained by hope and self-delusion.

The steady hum of the car tires gave birth in her to a mounting dread, a mood of impending calamity. It was such a common sound, hard rubber tread spinning at high speed over blacktop, merely a part of the quotidian music of daily life, but suddenly it was as ominous as the drone of approaching bombers.

When Marty turned southwest on the Crown Valley Parkway, toward Laguna Niguel, Charlotte at last broke her silence. "Daddy?"

Paige saw him glance at the rearview mirror and knew by his worried eyes that he, too, had been troubled by the girl's unusual spell of introversion.

He said, "Yes, baby?"

"What was that thing?" Charlotte asked.

"What thing, honey?"

"The thing that looked like you."

"That's the million-dollar question. But whoever he is, he's just a man, not a thing. He's just a man who looks an awful lot like me."

Paige thought about all the blood in the upstairs hall, about how quickly the look-alike had recovered from two chest wounds to make a quick escape and to return, a short time later, strong enough to renew the assault. He didn't seem human. And Marty's statements to the contrary were, she knew, nothing but the obligatory reassurances of a father who knew that children sometimes needed to believe in the omniscience and unshakable equanimity of adults.

After further silence, Charlotte said, "No, it wasn't a man. It was a thing. Mean. Ugly inside. A cold thing." A shudder wracked her, causing her next words to issue tremolo, "I kissed it and said "I love you' to it, but it was just a thing."

The upscale garden-apartment complex encompasses a score or more of large buildings housing ten or twelve apartments each. It sprawls over park-like grounds shaded by a small forest of trees.

The streets within the complex are serpentine. Residents are provided with community carports, redwood structures with only a back wall and roof, eight or ten stalls in each. Bougainvillea climbs the columns that support each roof, lending a note of grace, although at night the vivid blossoms are bleached of most of their color by the detergent-blue light of mercury-vapor security lamps.

Throughout the development are uncovered parking areas where the white curbs are stenciled with black letters, VISITOR PARKING ONLY.

In a deep cul-de-sac, he finds a visitors' zone that provides him with a perfect place to spend the night. None of the six spaces is occupied, and the last is flanked on one side by a five-foot-high oleander hedge.

When he backs the car into the slot, tight against the hedge, the oleander conceals the damage along the driver's side.

An acacia tree has been allowed to encroach upon the nearest street lamp. Its leafy limbs block most of the light. The Buick stands largely in darkness.

The police are not likely to cruise the complex more than once or twice between now and dawn. And when they do, they will not be checking license plates but scanning the grounds for indications of burglary or other crimes in progress.

He switches off the headlights and the engine, gathers up what remains of his store of candy, and gets out of the car, shaking off the bits of gummy, tempered glass that cling to him.

Rain is no longer falling.

The air is cool and clean.

The night keeps its own counsel, silent but for the tick and plop of still-dripping trees.

He gets into the back seat and softly closes the door. It is not a comfortable bed. But he has known worse. He settles into the fetal position, curled around candy bars instead of an umbilicus, blanketed only by the roomy raincoat.

As he waits for sleep to overtake him, he thinks again of his daughters and their betrayal.

Inevitably, he wonders if they prefer their other father to him, the false to the real. This is a dreadful possibility to be forced to explore.

If it is true, it means that those he loves the most are not victims, as he is, but are active participants in the Byzantine plot against him.

Their false father is probably lenient with them. Allows them to eat what they want. Lets them go to bed as late as they please.

All children are anarchists by nature. They need rules and standards of behavior, or they grow up to be wild and antisocial.

When he kills the hateful false father and retakes control of his family, he will establish rules for everything and will strictly enforce them. Misbehavior will be instantly punished. Pain is one of life's greatest teachers, and he is an expert in the application of pain.

Order will be restored within the Stillwater household, and his children will commit no act without first soberly reflecting upon the rules that govern them.

Initially, of course, they will hate him for being so stern and uncompromising. They will not understand that he is acting in their best interests.

However, each tear that his punishments wring from them will be sweet to him. Each cry of pain will be a gladdening music. He will be unrelenting with them because he knows that in time they will realize he imposes guidance upon them only because he cares so profoundly about them. They will love him for his stern fatherly concern. They will adore him for providing the discipline which theY need-and secretly desire but which it is their very nature to Paige also will need to be disciplined. He knows about women's needs. He remembers a film with Kim Basinger in which sex and a craving for discipline were shown to be inextricably entwined. He anticipates Paige's instructions with particular pleasure.

Since the day that his career, family, and memories were stolen from him-which might be a year or ten years ago, for all he knows-he has lived primarily through the movies. The adventures he has experienced and the poignant lessons he has learned in count less darkened theaters seem as real to him as the car seat on which he now lies and the chocolate dissolving on his tongue. He remembers making love to Sharon Stone, to Glenn Close, from both of whom he learned the potential for sexual mania and treachery prevelant in all women. He remembers the exuberant fun of sex with Goldie Hawn, the rapture of Michelle Pfeiffer, the exciting sweaty urgency of Ellen Barkin when he incorrectly suspected her of being a murderess but pinned her to the wall of his apartment and penetrated her anyway. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Gregory Peck, and so many other men have taken him under their wings and have taught him courage and determination. He knows that death is a mystery of infinite complication because he has learned so many conflicting lessons about it, Tim Robbins has shown him that the afterlife is only an illusion, while Patrick Swayze has shown him that the afterlife is a joyous place as real as anywhere and that those you love (like Demi Moore) will see you there when they eventually pass from this world, yet Freddy Krueger has shown him that the afterlife is a gruesome nightmare from which you can return for gleeful vengeance.

When Debra Winger died of cancer, leaving Shirley MacLaine bereft, he had been inconsolable, but only a few days later he had seen her, alive again, younger and more beautiful than ever, reincarnated in a new life where she enjoyed a new destiny with Richard Gere. Paul New man has often shared with him bits of wisdom about death, life, pool, poker, love, and honor, therefore, he considers this man one of his most important mentors. Likewise, Wilford Brimley, Gene Hackman, burly old Edward Asner, Robert Redford, Jessica Tandy. Often he absorbs quite contradictory lessons from such friends, but he has heard some of these people say that all beliefs are of equal value and that there is no one truth, so he is comfortable with the contradictions by which he lives.

He learned the most secret of all truths not in a public theater or on a pay-per-view movie service in a hotel room. Instead, that moment of stunning insight had come in the private media chamber of one of the men it was his duty to kill.

His target had been a United States Senator. A requirement of the termination was that it be made to look like a suicide.

He had to enter the Senator's residence on a night when the man was known to be alone. He was provided with a key so there would be no signs of forced entry.

After gaining access to the house, he found the Senator in the eight-seat home media room, which featured THe Sound and a the better-quality projection system capable of displaying television, video tape, or laserdisc images on a five-by-six-foot screen. It was a plush, windowless space. There was even an antique Coke machine which, he learned later, dispensed the soft drink in classic ten-ounce glass bottles, plus a candy-vending machine stocked with Milk Duds, Jujubes, Raisinettes, and other favorite movie-house snacks.

Because of the music in the film, he found it easy to creep up behind the Senator and overpower him with a chloroform-soaked rag, which he pulled out of a plastic bag a second before putting it to use. He carried the politician upstairs to the ornate master bath, undressed him, and gently conveyed him into a Roman tub filled with hot water, periodically employing the chloroform to assure continued unconsciousness. With a razor blade, he made a deep, clean incision across the Senator's right wrist (since the politician was a southpaw and most likely to use his left hand to make his first cut), and let that arm drop into the water, which was quickly discolored by the arterial gush. Before dropping the razor blade in the water, he made a few feeble attempts to slash the left wrist, never scoring deeply, because the Senator wouldn't have been able to grip the blade firmly in his right hand after cutting the tendons and ligaments along with the artery in that wrist.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, administering chloroform every time the politician groaned and seemed about to wake, he gratefully shared the sacred ceremony of death. When he was the only living man in the room, he thanked the departed for the precious opportunity to share that most intimate of experiences.

Ordinarily, he would have left the house then, but what he had witnessed on the movie screen drew him back to the media room on the first floor.

He had seen pornography before, in adult theaters in many cities, and from those experiences he had learned all of the possible sexual positions and techniques. But the pornography on that home screen was different from everything he'd seen previously, for it involved chains, handcuffs, leather straps, metal-studded belts, as well as a wide variety of other instruments of punishment and restraint. Incredibly, the beautiful women on the screen seemed to be excited by brutality. The more cruelly they were treated, the more willingly they gave themselves to orgasmic pleasure, in fact, they frequently begged to be dealt with even more harshly, ravished more sadistically.

He settled into the seat from which he had removed the Senator.

He stared with fascination at the screen, absorbing, learning.

When that videotape reached a conclusion, a quick search turned up an open walk-in vault-usually cleverly concealed behind the wall paneling-that contained a collection of similar material.

There was an even more stunning trove of tapes depicting children involved in carnal acts with adults. Daughters with fathers.

Mothers with sons. Sisters with brothers, sisters with sisters. He sat for hours, until almost dawn, transfixed.

Absorbing.

Learning, learning.

To have become a United States Senator, an exalted leader, the dead man in the bathtub must have been extremely wise. Therefore, his personal film library would, of course, contain diverse material of a transcendent nature, reflecting his singular intellectual and moral insights, embodying philosophies far too complex to be within the grasp of the average film-goer at a public theater. How very fortunate to have discovered the politician lounging in the media room rather than preparing a snack in the kitchen or reading a book in bed.

Otherwise, this opportunity to share the wisdom in the great man's hidden vault would never have arisen.

Now, curled fetally on the back seat of the Buick, he may be temporarily blinded in one eye, bullet-creased and bullet-pierced, weak and weary, defeated for the moment, but he is not despairing.

He has another advantage in addition to his magically resilient body,.'..,. unparalleled stamina, and exhaustive knowledge of the killing arts.

Equally important, he possesses what he perceives to be great wisdom, acquired from movie screens both public and private, and that wisdom will ensure his ultimate triumph. He knows what he believes to be the great secrets that the wisest people hide in concealed vaults, those things which women really need but which they may not know they subconsciously desire, those things which children want but of which they dare not speak. He understands that his wife and children will welcome and thrive upon utter domination, harsh discipline, physical abuse, sexual subjugation, even humiliation. At first opportunity, he intends to fulfill their deepest and most primitive longings, as the lenient false father apparently will never be able to do, and together they will be a family, living in harmony and love, sharing a destiny, held together forever by his singular wisdom, strength, and demanding heart.

He drifts toward healing sleep, confident of waking with full health and vigor in several hours.

A few feet from him, in the trunk of the car, lies the dead man who once owned the Buick-cold, stiff, and without any appealing prospects of his own.

How good it is to be special, to be needed, to have a destiny.

Still we're at the point where hope and reason part, lies the spot where madness gets a start.

Hope to make the world kinder and free but flowers of hope root in reality.

No peaceful bed exists for lamb and lion, unless on some world out beyond Orion.

Do not instruct the owls to spare the mice.

Owls acting as owls must is not a vice.

Storms do not respond to heartfelt pleas.

All the words of men can't calm the seas.

Nature-always beneficent o.nd cruel wont change for a wise man or a fool.

Mankind shares all Nature's imperfections, clearly visible to casual inspections.

Resisting betterment is the human trait.

The ideal of utopia is our tragic fate.

- The Book of Counted Sorrows

We sense that life is a dark comedy and maybe we can live with that.

However, because the whole thing is written for the entertainment of the gods, too many of the jokes go right over our heads.

Two Vanished Victims, Martn Stillwater Immediately after leaving the roadside rest area where the dead retirees relaxed forever in the cozy dining nook of their motorhome, heading back along I-40 toward Oklahoma City with the inscrutable Karl Clocker behind the wheel, Drew Oslett used his state-of-the-art cellular phone to call the home office in New York City. He reported developments and requested instructions.

The telephone he used wasn't yet for sale to the general public.