"I don't think," he said, "that the police would ordinarily have completed their tests on those blood samples so quickly, and I know it's not standard practice to release crime-lab results so casually to the media." He let the draperies fall into place and turned to Paige, whose brow was furrowed with worry. "National news? Live, on the scene?

I don't know what the hell is happening, Paige, but it's even stranger than I thought it was last night." ' While Paige showered, Marty pulled up a chair in front of the television and channel-hopped, searching for other news programs. He caught the end of a second story about himself on a local channel and then a third piece, complete, on a national show.

He was trying to guard against paranoia, but he had the distinct impression that both stories suggested, without making accusations, that the falsity of his statement to the Mission Viejo Police was a foregone conclusion and that his real motive was either to sell more books or something darker and weirder than mere career-pumping.

Both programs made use of the photograph from the current issue of People, in which he resembled a movie zombie with glowing eyes, lurching out of shadows, violent and demented. And both pointedly mentioned the three guns of which he'd been relieved by the police, as if he might be a suburban survivalist living atop a bunker packed solid with arms and ammunition. Toward the end of the third report, he thought an implication was made to the effect that he might even be dangerous, although it was so smooth and so subtly inserted that it was more a matter of the reporter's tone of voice and expressions than any words in the script.

Rattled, he switched off the television.

For a while he stared at the blank screen. The gray of the dead monitor matched his mood.

After everyone was showered and dressed, the girls got in the back seat of the BMW and dutifully put on their seatbelts while their parents stowed the luggage in the trunk.

When Marty slammed the trunk lid and locked it, Paige spoke to him quietly, so Charlotte and Emily couldn't hear. "You really think we have to go this far, do these things, it's really that bad?"

"I don't know. Like I told you, I've been brooding about this ever since I woke up, since three o'clock this morning, and I still don't know if I'm over-reacting."

"These are serious steps to take, even risky."

"It's just that* as strange as this already is, with The Other and everything he said to me, whatever underlies it all is stranger still.

More dangerous than one lunatic with a gun. Deadlier and a lot bigger than that. Something so big it'll crush us if we try to stand up to it.

That's how I felt in the middle of the night, afraid, more scared even than when he had the kids in his car. And after what I saw on TV this morning, I'm more-not less-inclined to go with my gut feelings He realized that his expression of dread was extreme, with an unmistakable flavor of paranoia. But he was no alarmist, and he was confident that his instincts could be trusted. Events had dissolved all of his doubts about his mental well-being.

He wished he could identify an enemy other than the improbable dead-ringer, for he knew intuitively that there was another enemy, and it would be comforting to have it defined. The Mafia, Ku Klux Klan, neo-Nazis, consortiums of evil bankers, the board of directors of some ferociously greedy international conglomerate, right-wing generals intent on establishing a military dictatorship, a cabal of in sane Mideastern zealots, mad scientists intent on blowing the world to smithereens for the sheer hell of it, or Satan himself in all his horned splendor-any of the standard villains of television dramas and countless novels, regardless of how unlikely and cliched, would be preferable to an adversary without face or form or name.

Chewing her lower lip, lost in thought, Paige let her gaze travel across the breeze-ruffled trees, other parked cars, and the front of the motel, before tilting her head back and looking up at three shrieking sea gulls that wheeled across the mostly blue and uncaring azure sky.

"You sense it too," he said.

"Yes."

"Oppressive. We're not being watched, but the feeling is almost the same." ' More than that," she said. "Different. The world has changed or the way I look at it."

"Me too."

"Something's been* lost."

And we'll never find it again, he thought.

The Ritz-Carlton was a remarkable hotel, exquisitely tasteful, with generous applications of marble, limestone, granite, quality art, and antiques throughout its public areas. The enormous flower arrangements, on display wherever one turned, were the most artfully fashioned that Oslett had ever seen. Attired in subdued uniforms, courteous, omnipresent, the staff seemed to outnumber the guests.

All in all, it reminded Oslett of home, the Connecticut estate on which he had been raised, although the family mansion was larger than the Ritz-Carlton, was furnished with antiques only of museum quality, had a staff-to-family ratio of six to one, and featured a landing pad large enough to accommodate the military helicopters in which the President of the United States and his retinue sometimes traveled.

The two-bedroom suite with spacious living room, in which Drew Oslett and Clocker were quartered, offered every amenity from a fully stocked bar to marble shower stalls so spacious that it would have been possible for a visiting ballet dancer to practice entrechats during his morning ablutions. The towels were not by Pratesi, as were those he had used all his life, but they were good Egyptian cotton, soft and absorbent.

By 7,50 Tuesday morning, Oslett had dressed in a white cotton shirt with whalebone buttons by Theophilus Shirtmakers of London, a navy-blue cashmere blazer crafted with sublime attention to detail by his personal tailor in Rome, gray wool slacks, black oxfords (an eccentric touch) handmade by an Italian cobbler living in Paris, and a club tie in stripes of navy, maroon, and gold. The color of his silk pocket handkerchief precisely matched the gold in his tie.

Thus attired, his mood elevated by his sartorial perfection, he went looking for Clocker. He didn't desire the big man's company, of course, he just preferred, for his own peace of mind, to know what Clocker was up to at all times. And he nurtured the hope that one blessed day he would discover Karl Clocker dead, felled by a massive cardiac infarction, cerebral hemorrhage, or an alien death ray like those about which the big man was always reading.

Clocker was in a patio chair on the balcony off the living room, ignoring a breathtaking view of the Pacific, his nose stuck in the last chapter of Shape-Changing Gynecologists of the Dark Galaxy, or whatever the hell it was called. He was wearing the same hat with the duck feather, tweed sportcoat, and Hush Puppies, although he had on new purple socks, fresh slacks, and a clean white shirt. He'd changed into a different harlequin-pattern sweater-vest, as well, this one in blue, pink, yellow, and gray. Though he was not sporting a tie, so much black hair bristled from the open neck of his shirt that, at a glance, he appeared to be wearing a cravat.

After failing to respond to Oslett's first "good morning," Clocker replied to the repetition of those words with the improbable split finger greeting that characters gave each other on Star Trek, his attention still riveted to the paperback. If Oslett had possessed a chainsaw or cleaver, he would have severed Clocker's hand at the wrist and tossed it into the ocean. He wondered if room service would send up a suitably sharp instrument from the chef's collection of kitchen cutlery The day was warmish, already seventy. Blue skies and balmy breezes were a welcome change from the chill of the previous night.

Promptly at eight o'clock-barely in time to prevent Oslett from being driven mad by the lulling cries of sea gulls, the tranquilizing rumble of the incoming combers, and the faint laughter of the early surfers paddling their boards out to sea-the Network representative arrived to brief them on developments. He was a far different item from the hulking advance man who'd driven them from the airport to the Ritz-Carlton several hours earlier. Savile Row suit. Club tie.

Good Baily wingtips. One look at him was all Oslett needed to be certain that he owned no article of clothing on which was printed a photo of Madonna with her breasts bared.

He said his name was Peter Waxhill, and he was probably telling the truth. He was high enough in the organization to know Oslett's and Clocker's real names-although he had booked them into the hotel as John Galbraith and John Maynard Keynes-so there was no reason for him to conceal his own.

Waxhill appeared to be in his early forties, ten years older than Oslett, but the razor-cut hair at his temples was feathered with gray.

At six feet, he was tall but not overbearing, he was slim but fit, handsome but not dauntingly so, charming but not familiar. He handled himself not merely as if he had been a diplomat for decades but as if he had been genetically engineered for that career.

After introducing himself and commenting on the weather, Wax hill said, "I took the liberty of inquiring with room service if you'd had breakfast, and as they said you hadn't, I'm afraid I took the further liberty of ordering for the three of us, so we can breakfast and discuss business simultaneously. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Oslett said, impressed by the man's suaveness and efficiency.

No sooner had he responded than the suite doorbell rang, and Waxhill ushered in two waiters pushing a serving cart covered with a white tablecloth and stacked with dishes. In the center of the living room, the waiters raised hidden leaves on the cart, converting it into a round table, and distributed chargers-plates-napkins-cups-saucers glassware-flatware with the grace and speed of magicians manipulating playing cards. Together they caused to appear a variety of serving dishes from bottomless compartments under the table, until suddenly breakfast appeared as if from thin air, scrambled eggs with red peppers, bacon, sausages, kippers, toast, croissants, hot-house strawberries accompanied by brown sugar and small pitchers of heavy cream, fresh orange juice, and a silver-plated thermos-pot of coffee.

Waxhill complimented the waiters, thanked them, tipped them, and signed for the bill, remaining in motion the whole time, so that he was returning the room-service ticket and hotel pen to them as they were crossing the threshold into the corridor.

When Waxhill closed the door and returned to the table, Oslett said, "Harvard or Yale?"

"Yale. And you?"

"Princeton. Then Harvard."

"In my case, Yale and then Oxford."

"The President went to Oxford," Oslett noted.

"Did he indeed," Waxhill said, raising his eyebrows, pretending this was news. "Well, Oxford endures, you know."

Apparently having finished the final chapter of Planet of the Gastrointestinal Parasites, Karl Clocker entered from the balcony, a walking embarrassment as far as Oslett was concerned. Waxhill allowed himself to be introduced to the Trekker, shook hands, and gave every impression he was not choking on revulsion or hilarity.

They pulled up three straight-backed occasional chairs and sat down to breakfast. Clocker didn't take off his hat.

As they transferred food from the serving dishes to their plates, Waxhill said, "Overnight, we've picked up a few interesting bits of background on Martin Stillwater, the most important of which relates to his oldest daughter's hospitalization five years ago."

"What was wrong with her?" Oslett asked.

"They didn't have a clue at first. Based on the symptoms, they suspected cancer. Charlotte that's the daughter, she was four years old at the time-was in rather desperate shape for a while, but it eventually proved to be an unusual blood-chemistry imbalance, quite treatable."

"Good for her," Oslett said, though he didn't care whether the Stillwater girl had lived or died.

"Yes, it was," Waxhill said, "but at her lowest point, when the doctors were edging toward a more terminal diagnosis, her father and mother underwent bone-marrow aspiration. Extraction of bone marrow with a special aspirating needle."

"Sounds painful."

"No doubt. Doctors required samples to determine which parent would be the best donor in case a marrow transplant was required.

Charlotte's marrow was producing little new blood, and indications were that malignancy was inhibiting blood-cell formation."

Oslett took a bite of the eggs. There was basil in them, and they were marvelous. "I fail to see where Charlotte's illness could have any relationship to our current problem."

After pausing for effect, Waxhill said, "She was hospitalized at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles."

Oslett froze with a second forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth.

"Five years ago," Waxhill repeated for emphasis.

"What month?"

"December."

"What day did Stillwater give the marrow sample?"

"The sixteenth. December sixteenth."

"Damn. But we had a blood sample as well, a backup-"

"Stillwater also gave blood samples. One of them would have been packaged with each marrow sample for lab work."

Oslett conveyed the forkful of eggs to his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and said, "How could our people screw up like this?"

"We'll probably never know. Anyway, the 'how' doesn't matter as much as the fact they did screw up, and we have to live with it."

"So we never started where we thought we did."

"Or with whom we thought we started," Waxhill rephrased.

Clocker was eating like a horse without a feed bag. Oslett wanted to throw a towel over the big man's head to spare Waxhill the unpleasant sight of such vigorous mastication. At least the Trekker had not yet punctuated the conversation with inscrutable commentary.

"Exceptional kippers," Waxhill said.

Oslett said, "I'll have to try one."

After sipping orange juice and patting his mouth with his napkin, Waxhill said, "As to how your Alfie knew Stillwater existed and was able to find him* there are two theories at the moment."

Oslett noticed the "your Alfie" instead of "our Alfie," which might mean nothing-or might indicate an effort was already under way to shift the blame to him in spite of the incontrovertible fact that the disaster was directly the result of sloppy scientific procedures and had nothing whatsoever to do with how the boy had been handled during his fourteen months of service.

"First," Waxhill said, "there's a faction that thinks Alfie must have come across a book with Stillwater's picture on the jacket."

"It can't be anything that simple."

"I agree. Though, of course, the about-the-author paragraph on the flap of his last two books says he lives in Mission Viejo, which would have given Alfie a good lead."

Oslett said, "Anybody, seeing a picture of an identical twin he never knew he had, would be curious enough to look into it-except Alfie.

Whereas an ordinary person has the freedom to pursue a thing like that, Alfie doesn't. He's tightly focused."

"Aimed like a bullet."

"Exactly. He broke training here, which required a monumental trauma.

Hell, it's more than training. That's a euphemism. It's indoctrination , brainwashing-"

"He's programmed."

"Yes. Programmed. He's the next thing to a machine, and just seeing a photograph of Stillwater wouldn't send him spinning out of control any more than the personal computer in your office would start producing sperm and grow hair on its back just because you scanned a photograph of Marilyn Monroe onto its hard disk."

Waxhill laughed softly. "I like the analogy. I think I'll use it to change some minds, though of course I'll credit it to you."

Oslett was pleased by Waxhill's approval.

"Excellent bacon," said Waxhill.

"Yes, isn't it."

Clocker just kept eating.

"The second and smaller faction," Waxhill continued, "proposes a more exotic-but, at least to me, more credible hypothesis to the effect that Alfie has a secret ability of which we're not aware and which he may not fully understand or control himself."

"Secret ability?"

"Rudimentary psychic perception perhaps. Very primitive* but strong enough to make a connection between him and Stillwater, draw them together because of* well, because of all they share."

"Isn't that a bit far out?"

Waxhill smiled and nodded. "I'll admit it sounds like something out of a Star Trek movie-" Oslett cringed and glanced at Clocker, but the big man's eyes didn't shift from the food heaped on his plate.

"-though the whole project smacks of science fiction, doesn't it?"

Waxhill concluded.

"I guess so," Oslett conceded.

"The fact is, the genetic engineers have given Alfie some truly exceptional abilities. Intentionally. So doesn't it seem possible they've unintentionally, inadvertently given him other superhuman qualities?"

"Even inhuman qualities," Clocker said.

"Well, now, you've just shown me a more unpleasant way to look at it,"

Waxhill said, regarding Karl Clocker soberly, "and all too possibly a more accurate view." Turning to Oslett, "Some psychic link, some strange mental connection, might have shattered Alfie's conditioning, erased his program or caused him to override it."

"Our boy was in Kansas City, and Stillwater was in southern California, for God's sake."