"Are these tests really necessary?"

"Your amnesia might have a physical cause," said Julie. "You heard Doctor Freeborn. They'll look for cerebral abscesses, neoplasms, cysts, clots, all kinds of things."

"I'm not sure about this Freeborn," Frank said.

Sanford Freeborn was Bobby and Julie's friend, as well as their physician. A few years ago years ago they had helped him get his brother out of deep trouble.

"Why? What's wrong with Sandy?"

Frank said, "I don't know him."

"You don't know anybody," Bobby said.

"That's your line. Remember? You're an amnesiac."

After accepting Frank as a client, they had taken him directly to Sandy Freeborn's office for a preliminary examination. All Sandy knew was that Frank could remember nothing but his name. They had not told him about the bags of money the blood, black sand, red gems, the weird insect, or any of the rest of it. Sandy didn't ask why Frank had come to them instead of the police or why they had accepted a case so far outside their usual purview; one of the things that made him a good friend was his reliable discretion.

Nervously adjusting the sheets, Frank said, "You think a private room is really necessary?"

Julie nodded.

"You also want us to find out what you do at night, where you go, which means monitoring you, tight security."

"A private room's expensive," Frank said.

"You can afford the finest care," Bobby said.

"The money in those bags might not be mine."

Bobby shrugged.

"Then you'll have to work off your hospital bill-change a few hundred beds, empty a few thousand bedpans, perform some brain surgery free of charge. You might be a brain surgeon. Who knows? With amnesia, it's just as likely you've forgotten that you're a surgeon as that you're a used-car salesman. Worth a try. Get a bone saw, cut off the top of some guy's head, have a peek in there, see if anything looks familiar."

Leaning against the bed rail, Julie said, "When you're not in radiology or some other department, undergoing tests, we'll have a man with you, watching over you. Tonight it's Hal."

Hal Yamataka had already taken his station. He was to one side of the bed, between Frank and the door, in a position to watch both his charge and, if Frank was in the mood, the wall-mounted television. Hal resembled a j.a.panese version of Clint Karaghiosis : about five foot seven or eight, broad in the shoulders and chest, as solid-looking as if he had been built by a mason who knew how to fit stones tight together and hide the mortar.

In case nothing worth watching was on television and his charge proved to be a lousy conversationalist, he had brought a John D. MacDonald novel.

Looking at the rain-washed window, Frank said, "I guess I'm just...

scared."

"No need to be scared," Bobby said.

"Hal's not as dangerous as he looks. He's never killed anyone he liked."

"Only once," Hal said.

Bobby said, "You once killed someone you liked? Over what?"

"He asked to borrow my comb."

"There you go, Frank," Bobby said.

"Just don't ask to his comb, and you're safe."

Frank was in no mood to be kidded. "I can't stop thinking about waking up with blood on my hands. I'm afraid I've already hurt someone. I don't want to hurt anyone.

"Oh, you can't hurt Hal," Bobby said. "He's an imputable-oriental."

"Inscrutable," Hal said.

"I'm an inscrutable oriental."

"I don't want to hear about your s.e.x problems, Hal.

"Anyway, if you didn't eat so much sushi and didn't have raw breath, you'd get screwed as often as anyone."

Reaching over the bed railing, Julie took one of Frank's hands.

He smiled weakly.

"Your husband always like this, Mrs. Dakota?"

"Call me Julie. Do you mean, does he always act like a wise a.s.s or a child? Not always, but most of the time, I'm afraid."

"You hear that, Hal?" Bobby said.

"Women and amtracs-they have no sense of humor."

To Frank, Julie said, "My husband believes everything in life should be fun, even car accidents, even funerals-"

"Even dental hygiene," Bobby said.

"-and he'd probably be making jokes about fallout in the middle of a nuclear war. That's just the way he is. He could be cured-"

"She's tried," Bobby said.

"She sent me to a happiness detox center. They promised to knock some gloom into me, but they Couldn't."

"You'll be safe here," Julie said, squeezing Frank's hand before letting go of it. "Hal will look after you."

THE ENTOMOLOGIST's house was in the Turtle Rock development in Irvine, within easy driving distance of the university. Low, black, mushroom-shaped Malibu lamps threw circles of light on the rain-puddled walkway that led to the softly gleaming oak doors.

Carrying one of Frank Pollard's leather flight bags, Clint stepped onto the small covered porch and rang the bell.

A man spoke to him through an intercom set just below the bell push.

"Who is it, please?"

"Dr. Dyson Manfred? I'm Clint Karaghiosis. From Dakota and Dakota."

Half a minute later, Manfred opened the door. He was at least ten inches taller than Clint, six feet five or six, and thin. He was wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and a green necktie; the top b.u.t.ton of the shirt was undone, and the tie hung loose.

"Good G.o.d, man, you're soaked."

"Just damp."

Manfred moved back, opening the door wide, and Clint stepped into the tile-floored foyer.

As he closed the door, Manfred said, "Ought to have a raincoat or umbrella on a night like this."

"It's invigorating."

"What is?"

"Bad weather," Clint said.

Manfred looked at him as if he was strange, but in Clint's view it was Manfred himself who was strange. The guy was too thin, all bones. He could not fill his clothes; his trousers hung shapelessly on his k.n.o.bby hips, and his shoulders poked at the fabric of his shirt as if only bare, sharp bones lay under there. Angular and graceless, he looked as if he had been a.s.sembled from a pile of dry sticks by an apprentice G.o.d.

His face was long and narrow, with a high brow and a lantern and his well-tanned, leathery skin seemed to be stretched tight over his cheekbones that it might split. He had peculiar amber eyes that regarded Clint with an expression of curiosity no doubt familiar to the thousands of bugs he had picked to specimen boards.

Manfred's gaze traveled down Clint to the floor,water was puddling around his running shoes.

"Sorry," Clint said.

"It'll dry. I was in my study. Come along."

Glancing into the living room, to his right, Clint noted flowerless wallpaper, a thick Chinese rug, too many overstuffed chairs and sofas, antique English furniture, wine-red velvet drapes, and tables cluttered with bibles that glimmered the lamplight. It was a very Victorian room, not in harm with the California lines and layout of the house itself.

He followed the entomologist past the living room, down a short hall to the study. Manfred had a singular, stilting Tall and sticklike as he was, with shoulders hunched and thrust forward slightly, he seemed as unevolved and prehistoric as a praying mantis.

Clint had expected a university professor's study to be crammed full of books, but only forty or fifty volumes shelved in one case to the left of the desk. There were cabinets with wide, shallow drawers that probably were filled with creepy-crawlies, and on the walls were insects in special boxes, framed under gla.s.s.

When he saw Clint staring at one collection in particular Manfred said, "c.o.c.kroaches. Beautiful creatures."

Clint did not reply.

borrow"The simplicity of their design and function, I mean."

He would find them beautiful in appearance, of course." Clint couldn't shake the feeling that the bugs were not really alive.

Manfred said, "What do you think of that big fellow in the corner of the collection?"

"He's big, sir."

"Madagascar hissing roach. The scientific name's Grod or rhinaportentosa. That one's over eight and a half centimeters long, about three and a half inches. Absolutely beautiful isn't he?"

Clint said nothing.

Settling into the chair behind his desk, Manfred somehow folded his long bony arms and legs into that compact s.p.a.ce, the way a large spider could scrunch itself into a tiny ball.

Clint did not sit down. Having put in a long day, he was eager to go home.

Manfred said, "I received a call from the university chancellor. He asked me to cooperate with your Mr. Dakota in any way I could."

UCI-the University of California at Irvine-had long been striving to become one of the country's premier universities. The current chancellor and the one before him had sought to attain that status by offering enormous salaries and generous fringe benefits to world-cla.s.s professors and researchers at other inst.i.tutions. Before committing substantial resources in the form of a well-upholstered job offer, however, the university hired Dakota & Dakota to conduct a background investigation on the prospective faculty remember. Even a brilliant physicist or biologist could have too great a thirst for whiskey, a nose for cocaine, or an unfortunate attraction to underage girls. UCI wanted to buy brainpower, respectability, and academic glory, not scandal; Dakota & Dakota served them well.

Manfred propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers, which were so long that they looked as if they must have at least one extra knuckle each.

"What's the problem?" he asked.

Clint opened the leather flight bag and removed the quartsize, wide-mouth mason jar. He put it on the entomologist's desk.

The bug in the jar was at least twice as big as the Madagascar hissing roach on the wall.

For a moment Dr. Dyson Manfred seemed to have been quick-frozen. He didn't move a finger; his eyes didn't blink. He stared intently at the creature in the jar. At last he said, "What is this-a hoax?"

"It's real."

Manfred leaned forward, hunching over the desk and lowering his head until his nose almost touched the thick gla.s.s behind which the insect crouched.

"Alive?"

"Dead."

"Where did you find this-not here in southern California?"

"Yes."

"Impossible."

"What is it?" Clint asked.

Manfred looked up at him, scowling.

"I've never seen anything like it. And if I haven't seen anything like it, neither has anyone else. It's of the phylum Arthropodan I'm sure,includes such things as spiders and scorpions, but whether can be cla.s.sed an insect, I can't say, not until I've exam it. If it is an insect, it's of a new species. Where, exactly, you find it, and why on earth would it be of interest to private detectives?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't tell you anything about it. I have to protect the client's privacy."

Manfred carefully turned the jar around in his hands, staring at the resident from every side.

"Just incredible. I must admit." He looked up, and his amber eyes were no longer cool appraising, but gleaming with excitement.

"I must have specimen."

"Well, I intended to leave it with you for examination Clint said.