By the minute, he was more optimistic about their prospects.

Nothing lifted the spirits like a shopping spree.

When he returned to the room, though he had been gone half an hour, there had been no news.

Spicer was sitting in an armchair, still wearing sunglasses, watching a talk show. A heavyset black woman with big hair was interviewing four male cross-dressers who had attempted to enlist, as women, in the United States Marine Corps, and had been rejected, though they seemed to believe the President intended to intervene on their behalf.

Clocker, of course, was sitting at the table by the window, in the fall of silvery pre-storm light, reading Hucklebery Kirk and the Oozing Whores of Alpha Centauri, or whatever the damn book was called. His only concession to the Sierra weather had been to change from a harlequin-pattern sweater-vest into a fully sleeved cashmere sweater in a stomach-curdling shade of orange.

Oslett carried the black briefcase into one of the two bedrooms that flanked the living room. He emptied the contents on one of the queen-size beds, sat cross-legged on the mattress, took off his new sunglasses, and examined the clever props that would ensure Martin Stillwater's postmortem conviction of multiple murder and suicide.

He had a number of problems to work out, including how to kill all these people with the least amount of noise. He wasn't concerned about the gunfire, which could be muffled one way or another. It was the screaming that worried him. Depending on where the hit went down, there might be neighbors. If alerted, neighbors would call the police.

After a couple of minutes, he put on his sunglasses and went out to the living room. He interrupted Spicer's television viewing, "We waste them, then what police agency's going to be dealing with it?"

"If it happens here," Spicer said, "probably the Mammoth County Sheriff's Department."

"Do we have a friend there?"

"Not now, but I'm sure we could have."

"Coroner?"

"Out here in the boondocks-probably just a local mortician."

"No special forensic skills?"

Spicer said, "He'll know a bullet hole from an asshole, but that's about it."

"So if we terminated the wife and Stillwater first, nobody's going to be sophisticated enough to detect the order of homicides?"

"Big-city forensic lab would have a hard time doing that if the difference was, say, less than an hour."

Oslett said, "What I'm thinking is* if we try to deal with the kids first, we'll have a problem with Stillwater and his wife."

"How so?"

"Either Clocker or I can cover the parents while the other one takes the kids into a different room. But stripping the girls, wiring their hands and ankles-it'll take ten, fifteen minutes to do right, like in Maryland. Even with one of us covering Stillwater and his wife with a gun, they aren't going to sit still for that. They'll both rush me or Clocker, whoever's guarding them, and together they might get the upper hand."

"I doubt it," Spicer said.

"How can you be sure?"

"People are gutless these days."

"Stillwater fought off Alfie."

"True," Spicer admitted.

"When she was sixteen, the wife found her father and mother dead. The old man killed the mother, then himself-" Spicer smiled. "Nice tie-in with our scenario."

Oslett hadn't thought about that. "Good point. Might also explain why Stillwater couldn't write the novel based on the case in Maryland.

Anyway, three months later she petitioned the court to free her from her guardian and declare her a legal adult."

"Tough bitch."

"The court agreed. It granted her petition."

"So blow away the parents first," Spicer advised, shifting in the armchair as if his butt had begun to go numb.

"That's what we'll do," Oslett agreed.

Spicer said, "This is fucking crazy."

For a moment Oslett thought Spicer was commenting on their plans for the Stillwaters. But he was referring to the television program, to which his attention drifted again.

On the talk show, the host with big hair had ushered off the cross-dressers and introduced a new group of guests. There were four angry-looking women seated on the stage. All of them were wearing strange hats.

As Oslett left the room, he saw Clocker out of the corner of his eye.

The Trekker was still at the table by the window, riveted by the book, but Oslett refused to let the big man spoil his mood.

In the bedroom he sat on the bed again, amidst his toys, took off his sunglasses, and happily enacted and re-enacted the homicides in his mind, planning for every contingency.

Outside, the wind picked up. It sounded like wolves.

He stops at a service station to ask directions to the address he remembers from the Rolodex card. The young attendant is able to help him.

By 2,10 he enters the neighborhood in which he was evidently raised.

The lots are large with numerous winter-bare birches and a wide variety of evergreens.

His mom and dad's house is in the middle of the block. It's a modest, two-story, white clapboard structure with forest-green shutters. The deep front porch has heavy white balusters, a green hand rail, and decoratively scalloped fasciae along the eaves.

The place looks warm and welcoming. It is like a house in an old movie.

Jimmy Stewart might live here. You know at a glance that a loving family resides within, decent people with much to share, much to give.

He cannot remember anything in the block, least of all the house in which he apparently spent his childhood and adolescence. It might as well be the residence of utter strangers in a town which he has never seen until this very day.

He is infuriated by the extent to which he has been brainwashed and relieved of precious memories. The lost years haunt him. The total separation from those he loves is so cruel and devastating that he finds himself on the verge of tears.

However, he suppresses his anger and grief. He cannot afford to be emotional while his situation remains precarious.

The only thing he does recognize in the neighborhood is a van parked across the street from his parents' house. He has never seen*. this particular van, but he knows the type. The sight of it alarms him.

It is a recreational vehicle. Candy-apple red. An extended wheel base provides a roomier interior. Oval camper dome on the roof.

. Large mud flaps with chrome letters, FUN TRUCK. The rear bumper is papered with overlapping rectangular, round, and triangular stickers memorializing visits to Yosemite National Park, Yellowstone, the an nul Calgary Rodeo, Las Vegas, Boulder Dam, and other tourist attractions.

Decorative, parallel green and black stripes undulate along the side, interrupted by a pair of mirrored view windows.

Perhaps the van is only what it appears to be, but at first sight he's convinced it's a surveillance post. For one thing, it seems too aggressi2Jely recreational, flamboyant. With his training in surveillance techniques, he knows that sometimes such vans seek to declare their harmlessness by calling attention to themselves, because potential subjects of surveillance expect a stakeout vehicle to be discreet and would never imagine they were being watched from, say, a circus wagon. Then there's the matter of the mirrored windows on the side, which allow the people within to see without being seen, providing privacy that any vacationer might prefer but that is also ideal for undercover operatives.

He does not slow as he approaches his parents' house, and he strives to show no interest in either the residence or the candy-apple red van. Scratching his forehead with his right hand, he also manages to cover his face as he passes those reflective view windows.

. The occupants of the van, if any, must be employed by the, unknown people who manipulated him so ruthlessly until Kansas, City. They are a link to his mysterious superiors. He is as interested in them as in re-establishing contact with his beloved mother and father.

Two blocks later, he turns right at the corner and heads back toward a shopping area near the center of town, where earlier he passed a sporting-goods store. Lacking a firearm and, in any event, unable to buy one with a silencer, he needs to obtain a couple of simple weapons.

Hewalks to the door of the house in front of which both vehicles are parked. The flowers are not meant for anyone at this address. He hopes no one is home. If someone answers the door, he will pretend to discover that he has the wrong house, so he can return to the street with the arrangement still held in front of him.

He is in luck. No one responds to the doorbell. He rings it several times and, through body language, exhibits impatience.

He turns away from the door. He follows the front walk to the street.

Looking through the spray of flowers and greenery that he holds in front of himself, he sees this side of the red van also sports two mirrored windows on the rear compartment. Considering how deserted and quiet the street is, he knows they are watching him, for want of anything better to do.

That's okay. He's just a florist's frustrated deliveryman. They will see no reason to fear him. Better that they watch him, dismiss him, and turn their attention again to the white clapboard house.

He angles past the side of the surveillance vehicle. However, instead of following the cracked and hoved sidewalk to the back of the florist's van, he steps off the curb in front of it and behind the red "fun truck."

There is a smaller mirrored porthole in the back door of the surveillance vehicle, and in case they are still watching, he fakes an accident. He stumbles, lets the arrangement slip out of his hands, and sputters in anger as it smashes to ruin on the blacktop. "Oh, shit!

Son of a bitch. Nice, real nice. Damn it, damn it, damn it."

Even as the expletives are flying from him, he's dropping below the rear porthole and pulling the can of deicing chemical out of his jacket pocket. With his left hand, he grasps the door handle.

If the door is locked, he will have revealed his intentions by the attempt to open it. Failing, he will be in deep trouble because they will probably have guns.

They have no reason to expect an attack, however, and he assumes the door will be unlocked. He assumes correctly. The lever handle moves smoothly.

He does not check to see if anyone has come out on the street and is watching him. Looking over his shoulder would only make him appear more suspicious.

He jerks the door open. Clambering up into the comparatively dark interior of the van, before he is sure anyone's inside, he jams his index finger down on the nozzle of the aerosol can, sweeping it back and forth.

A lot of electronic equipment fills the vehicle. Dimly lit control boards. Two swivel chairs bolted to the floor. Two men on the surveillance team.

The nearest man appears to have gotten out of his chair and turned to the rear door a split second ago, intending to look through the porthole. He is startled as it flies open.

The thick stream of deicing chemical splashes across his face, blinding him. He inhales it, burning his throat, lungs. His breath is choked off before he can cry out.

Blur of motion now. Like a machine. Programmed. In high gear.

Ice axe. Freed from his waistband. Smooth, powerful arc. Swung with great force. To the right temple. A crunch. The guy drops hard.

Jerk the weapon loose.

Second man. Second chair. Wearing earphones. Sitting at a bank of equipment behind the cab, his back to the door. Headset muffles his partner's wheezing. Senses commotion. Feels the van rock when first operative goes down. Swivels around. Surprised, reaching too late for gun in shoulder holster. Makeshift Mace showers his face.

Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.

First man on the floor, spasming helplessly. Step on him, over him, keep moving, moving, a blur, straight at the second man.

Axe. Again. Axe. Axe.

Silence. Stillness.

The body on the floor is no longer spasming.

That went nicely. No screams, no shouts, no gunfire.

He knows he is a hero, and the hero always wins. Nevertheless, it's a relief when triumph is achieved rather than just anticipated.

He is more relaxed than he has been all day.

Returning to the rear door, he leans out and looks around the street.

No one is in sight. Everything is quiet.

He pulls the door shut, drops the ice axe on the floor, and regards the dead men with gratitude. He feels so close to them because of what they have shared. "Thank you," he says tenderly.

He searches both bodies. Although they have identification in their wallets, he assumes it's phony. He finds nothing of interest except seventy-six dollars in cash, which he takes.

A quick examination of the van turns up no files, notebooks, memo pads, or other papers that might identify the organization that owns the vehicle. They run a tight, clean operation.

A shoulder holster and revolver hang from the back of the chair in which the first operative had been sitting. It's a Smith & Wesson.38 Chief's Special.

He strips out of his varsity jacket, puts on the holster over his cranberry sweater, adjusts it until he is comfortable, and dons the jacket once more. He draws the revolver and breaks open the cylinder.

Case heads gleam. Fully loaded. He snaps the cylinder shut and holsters the weapon again.

The dead man on the floor has a leather pouch on his belt. It contains two speedloaders.

He takes this and affixes it to his own belt, which gives him more ammunition than he should need merely to deal with the false father.

However, his faceless superiors seem to have caught up with him, and he cannot guess what troubles he may encounter before he has regained his name, his family, and the life stolen from him.

The second dead man, slumped in his chair, chin on his chest, never managed to draw the gun he was reaching for. It remains in the holster.

He removes it. Another Chief's Special. Because of the short barrel, it fits in the relatively roomy pocket of the varsity jacket.

Acutely aware that he is running out of time, he leaves the van and closes the door behind him.

The first snowflakes of the storm spiral out of the northwest sky on a chill breeze. They are few in number, at first, but large and lacy.

As he crosses the street toward the white clapboard house with green shutters, he sticks out his tongue to catch some of the flakes.