Beyond the ma.s.sive pines and intermingled oaks that were almost equally enormous as the ancient evergreens, rose a brick wall the color of old blood, between seven and eight feet tall, capped with black slate and black iron spikes. The wall was so long that it seemed to delineate the property line of an inst.i.tution - a college, hospital, museum - rather than that of a private residence. But in time Dan came to a place where the brick ramparts curved in on both sides of a driveway, flanking it for twenty feet and terminating at a formidable iron gate.

The cross-supported bars of the gate were two inches thick. The entire structure, which was flanked and capped by intricately wrought scrolls and fleurs-de-lis of iron, was impressive and elegant and beautifully crafted - and seemed capable of withstanding any number of bomb blasts.

For a moment Dan thought he was going to have to get out in the rain and search for a call b.u.t.ton to announce himself, but then he noticed a guardhouse subtly incorporated into one of the curved brick ramparts. A guard, wearing galoshes and a gray rain slicker with the hood pulled up, stepped out from behind a brick baffle that concealed the door to his small domain; for the first time Dan noticed the round window through which the guard had seen the sedan approaching.

The man came directly to the car, inquired if he could help, checked Dan's ID, and informed him that he was expected. He said, 'I'll open the gate, Lieutenant. Just follow the main drive and park along the circle in front of the house.'

Dan cranked up his window while the guard returned to the booth, and the colossal gates swung inward with ponderous grace. He drove through them with the curious science-fictional feeling that this was not a residence in the same world that he inhabited, but a place in another, better dimension; the gates guarded a magic portal through which one might jump into stranger and more wonderful realms.

The Boothe estate appeared to encompa.s.s eight or ten acres and must have been one of the larger properties in Bel Air. The driveway led up a gentle rise and then curved to the left, through exquisitely maintained, parklike grounds. The house, standing just beyond that point at which the driveway curved back on itself to form a circle, was where G.o.d would have lived - if He'd had sufficient money. It resembled one of those baronial homes in films with British settings, like Rebecca Rebecca and and Brideshead Revisited Brideshead Revisited, a great pile of bricks with granite coins and granite window lintels, three stories high, with a black-slate mansard roof and many gables, with half-seen wings and unseen wings angling off from the front-facing portion of the structure. A dozen steps under a portico led up to a set of antique, mahogany entry doors that had probably cost the life of at least one big tree or two younger ones.

He parked beside a limestone fountain that was centred in the looped circular turnaround. It wasn't spouting at the moment, but it looked like a backdrop to a love scene featuring Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in one of those old movies about European romance and intrigue.

Dan climbed the steps, and one of the front doors opened before he could begin searching for the bell. Evidently the guard in the gatehouse had called ahead to announce him.

The entry hall was so grand and large that Dan figured he could have lived comfortably in just that s.p.a.ce, even if someday he married and produced two children.

Forgoing the formal wear of movie butlers in favor of a gray suit and white shirt and black tie, a soft-spoken servant with a British accent took Dan's streaming coat and had the courtesy not to look askance at his damp, rumpled, day-old clothes.

'Mr. Boothe is waiting for you in the library,' the butler said.

Dan checked his watch. It was 3:55. Delayed by the necessity of locating and removing the transmitter that had been attached to his car, he'd not arrived too early, after all. He was again seized by an urgent sense of time running out. The butler led him through a series of huge serene rooms, each more elaborately and graciously furnished than the one before it, across antique Persian rugs and Chinese carpets. The deeply coffered ceilings with inlaid-woods might have been imported from cla.s.sic estates in Europe. They pa.s.sed through superbly hand-carved doorways and walked past Impressionist paintings by all the masters of that school (and no reason to believe that even one piece was a print or imitation).

The wealth of antiques and the great beauty of the house were awesome and visually appealing, but surprisingly, the succession of paradisiacal rooms gave rise to an increasing uneasiness in Dan. He had a sense of powerful and ominous forces lying dormant but easily disturbed just beyond the walls and under the floors, a pseudopsychic perception of colossal dark machinery purring with malevolent purpose somewhere just out of sight. In spite of the exquisite taste and apparently infinite resources with which the house had been built and appointed, in spite of its soaring s.p.a.ces - or perhaps in part because because of its superhuman scale - it had a quality of medieval oppressiveness. of its superhuman scale - it had a quality of medieval oppressiveness.

Furthermore, Dan could not help but grimly wonder how Palmer Boothe could possess the refinement and taste to appreciate a house like this - and still be capable of condemning a little girl to the horrors of the gray room. That contradiction would seem to require a personality so duplicitous as to be virtually indistinguishable from schizophrenic multiplicity. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The great publisher and liberal and philanthropist who, by night, stalks the mean streets with a bludgeon disguised as an innocent walking stick.

The butler opened one of the heavy, paneled doors to the library and stepped through, announcing Dan as he went, and Dan followed with more than a little trepidation, pa.s.sing between bookcases into which the entry was recessed. The butler immediately withdrew, closing the door behind him.

A twenty-foot-high, richly paneled mahogany ceiling curved down to ten-foot-high mahogany shelves filled with books, some accessible only with the aid of a library ladder. At the far end of the room, enormous French windows occupied the only wall not given completely to books; they presented a view of lush gardens, though heavy green drapes were drawn across more than half the gla.s.s. Persian rugs decorated the highly polished wood floor, and groupings of heavily padded armchairs offered elegant comfort. On a desk almost as big as a bed, a Tiffany stained-gla.s.s lamp cast such rich colors and exquisite patterns of light that it seemed to be made not of mere gla.s.s but of precious gems. Around the side of that desk and through the red-yellow-green-blue beams of filtered lamplight, Palmer Boothe came to greet his guest.

Boothe was six feet tall, broad in the shoulders and chest, narrow in the waist, in his mid- or late-fifties, with the physique and aura of a much younger man. His face was too narrow and his features too elongated to be called handsome. However, a certain ascetic quality in his thin lips and straight thin nose, and a trace of n.o.bility in his chin and jawline, made it impossible to deny him the approbative 'distinguished'.

Holding out his hand as he approached, Boothe said, 'Lieutenant Haldane, I'm so pleased you could come.'

Before Dan realized what he was doing, he found himself shaking Boothe's hand, though the very idea of touching this evil lizard of a man should have repelled him. Furthermore, he saw himself manipulated into reacting to Boothe partly like a va.s.sal unaccountably admitted to the court of the king, partly like a valued acquaintance answering the summons of a n.o.bleman whose approval he wished to elicit by the performance of any favor asked and whose friendship he hoped to gain. How this subtle manipulation was accomplished remained a mystery to him. Which was why Palmer Boothe was worth several hundred million and Dan, by contrast, did far more shopping at K Mart than at Neiman-Marcus. Anyway, he sure as h.e.l.l hadn't initiated their encounter in the manner of a hard-nosed cop who had come to break someone's a.s.s, which was the impression he had intended to make straightaway.

Dan noticed a movement in a shadowed corner of the wood-dark room and turned to see a tall, thin, hawk-faced man rise from an armchair, a gla.s.s of ice and whiskey in one hand. Although he was twenty feet away, the hawkish man's unusually bright and intense eyes conveyed everything essential about his personality: high intelligence, strong curiosity, aggressiveness - and a touch of madness.

As Boothe began to make introductions, Dan interrupted and said, 'Albert Uhlander, the author.'

Uhlander apparently knew that he did not possess Palmer Boothe's uncanny manipulative powers. He didn't smile. He made no attempt to shake hands. That they were of opposing camps and hostile ideologies seemed as apparent to Uhlander as it was to Dan.

'Can I get you a drink?' Boothe asked with a misplaced gentility and excessive civility that was beginning to be maddening. 'Scotch. Bourbon? Perhaps a gla.s.s of dry sherry?'

'We don't have time to sit here and drink, for G.o.d's sake,' Dan said. 'You're both living on borrowed time, and you know it. The only reason I want to try to save your lives is so I can have the great pleasure of putting both of you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in prison for a long, long time.'

There. That was better.

'Very well,' Boothe said coldly, and he returned to his desk. He settled into the bra.s.s-studded, dark-green leather club chair behind the desk and was almost entirely in shadow, except for his face, which was part blue and part green and part yellow in the spears of multicolored light from the Tiffany lamp.

Uhlander went to one window that was not concealed by green drapes, and he stood with his back to the French panes. Outside, because the storm-gray afternoon was waning toward an early-winter twilight, not much daylight found its way past the lush vegetation of the formal gardens and to the library window. Nevertheless, sufficient brightness lay behind Uhlander to reduce him to only a silhouette, leaving his face in deep shadows that concealed his expression.

Dan approached the desk, stepped into the circle of jeweled light, and looked down at Boothe, who had lifted a gla.s.s of whiskey. 'Why would a man of your position and reputation get involved with someone like w.i.l.l.y Hoffritz?'

'He was brilliant. A genius in his field. I have always sought out and a.s.sociated with the brightest people,' Boothe said. 'They're the most interesting people, for one thing. And for another, their ideas and enthusiasms are often of great practical use in one of my businesses or another.'

'And besides, Hoffritz could supply you with an utterly pa.s.sive, totally submissive young woman who would endure any humiliation you wanted to heap on her. Isn't that right, Daddy Daddy?'

At last a crack appeared in Boothe's self-possession. For a moment his eyes narrowed hatefully, and his jaw muscles bulged as he clenched his teeth in anger. But his control slipped only one notch, and the crack closed up again in seconds. His face recomposed itself, and he sipped his whiskey.

'All men have ... weaknesses, Lieutenant. In that regard, I'm a man like any other.'

Something in his eyes, in his expression, and in his tone of voice belied any admission of weakness. Rather, it seemed as if he were merely being magnanimous by claiming to share the weaknesses of ordinary men. It was all too clear that he didn't believe there was anything wrong or even slightly morally suspect in his behavior with Regine, and his admission was not an act of contrition or humility but one of smug condescension.

Shifting to another tack, Dan said, 'Hoffritz might have been a genius, but he was bent, twisted. He applied his knowledge and his talents not to legitimate behavior-modification research but to developing new techniques of brainwashing. I'm told by people who knew him that he was a totalitarian, a fascist, an elitist of the worst sort. How does that square with your own widely heralded liberalism?'

Boothe regarded Dan with pity, disdain, and amus.e.m.e.nt. As if speaking to a child, he said, 'Lieutenant, everyone who believes that the problems of society can be solved through the political process is an elitist. Which means most people. It doesn't matter if you're a right-winger, a conservative, a moderate, a liberal, or an extreme left-winger. If you define yourself by any any political label, then you're an elitist because you believe that problems could be solved if only the right group of people held power. So w.i.l.l.y Hoffritz's elitism was of no concern to me. I happen to believe the ma.s.ses political label, then you're an elitist because you believe that problems could be solved if only the right group of people held power. So w.i.l.l.y Hoffritz's elitism was of no concern to me. I happen to believe the ma.s.ses need need to be guided, controlled-' to be guided, controlled-'

'Brainwashed.'

'Yes, brainwashed, but for their own good. As the world's population grows ever larger and as technology leads to a wider dissemination of information and ideas, the old inst.i.tutions like family and Church break down. There are new, more dangerous ways for the discontented to express their misery and alienation. So we must find methods of eliminating discontent, of controlling thought and action, if we're to have a stable society, a stable world.'

'I see why you used libertarian political-action committees as a front for financing McCaffrey and Hoffritz.'

Boothe raised his eyebrows. 'You know about that, do you?'

'I know considerably more than that.'

Boothe sighed. 'Libertarians are such hopeless dreamers. They want to reduce government to a minimum, virtually eliminate politics. I thought it would be amusing to work toward exactly the opposite ends while employing the cover of a libertarian crusade.'

Albert Uhlander still stood with his back to the French window, attentive but unreadable, a silent silhouette that moved only to raise the black outline of a whiskey gla.s.s to unseen lips.

'So you supported Hoffritz and McCaffrey and Koliknikov and Tolbeck and G.o.d knows how many other twisted "geniuses,"' Dan said. 'And now, while searching so diligently for a way to control the ma.s.ses, you've lost lost control. One of these experiments has run wild, and it's rapidly destroying everyone involved in it. Soon it's going to destroy you as well.' control. One of these experiments has run wild, and it's rapidly destroying everyone involved in it. Soon it's going to destroy you as well.'

'I'm sure you find this ironic turn of events to be enormously satisfying,' Boothe said. 'But I don't believe you know as much as you think you do, and when you hear the entire story, when you know what's happening, I think you'll be as eager as we are to stop the killing, to put an end to the terror that came out of that gray room. You're sworn to protect and preserve lives, and I am familiar enough with your record to know that you take your oath seriously, even solemnly. Though the lives you'll have to protect are mine and Albert's, and though you despise us, you'll do what's necessary to help us, once you know the whole story.'

Dan shook his head. 'You have nothing but disdain for the honor and integrity of common people like me, yet you're relying on that honor to save your a.s.s.'

'That ... and certain inducements,' Uhlander said from his place at the window.

'What inducements?' Dan asked.

Boothe studied him intently. Bright miniature patterns of Tiffany stained gla.s.s reflected in his icy eyes. Finally he said, 'Yes, I suppose it won't hurt to explain the inducements first. Albert, would you bring it here, please?'

Uhlander returned to the chair where he had been sitting, put his whiskey gla.s.s on a nearby table, and picked up a suitcase which had been standing beside the chair but which Dan hadn't noticed until now. He brought the piece of luggage to Boothe's desk, put it down, and opened it. The suitcase was filled with fifty- and hundred-dollar bills in neatly banded stacks.

'Half a million dollars, cash,' Boothe said softly. 'But that's only part of what I'm offering you. There's also a position available with the Journal Journal. Head of security. It pays more than twice your current salary.'

Ignoring the cash, Dan said, 'You pretend to be so cool, but this makes it clear just how desperate you are. This is out of panic. You say you know me, so you know an offer like this would almost surely have the opposite effect intended.'

'Yes,' Boothe said, 'if we wanted you to do something that was wrong in order to earn the money. But I hope to show you that what we want you to do is the we wanted you to do something that was wrong in order to earn the money. But I hope to show you that what we want you to do is the right right thing, the best thing, the only thing that a man of conscience could possibly do under the circ.u.mstances. I believe that, once you know what's happening, you'll do the right thing. Which is all that we want. Really. You'll see that the money isn't being offered to alleviate your guilt, but ... well, as a bonus for good deeds well done.' He smiled. thing, the best thing, the only thing that a man of conscience could possibly do under the circ.u.mstances. I believe that, once you know what's happening, you'll do the right thing. Which is all that we want. Really. You'll see that the money isn't being offered to alleviate your guilt, but ... well, as a bonus for good deeds well done.' He smiled.

'You want the girl,' Dan said.

'No,' Uhlander said, his eyes glittering, his face more hawklike than ever in the queer mix of shadows and colored light. 'We want her dead.'

'And quickly,' Boothe said.

'Did you offer Ross Mondale this much money? Wexlersh and Manuello?' Dan asked.

'Good heavens, no!' Boothe said. 'But now you're the only one who knows where to find Melanie McCaffrey.'

Uhlander said, 'You're the only game in town.'

From their side of the desk, they watched Dan with carnivorous antic.i.p.ation.

He said, 'Apparently, you're even more depraved than I thought. You think killing an innocent child could in any way be construed as the right right thing, a thing, a good good deed.' deed.'

'The operative word is "innocent,"' Boothe said. 'When you understand what happened in that gray room, when you realize what's been killing all these people-'

'I think maybe I already know what's been killing them,' Dan said. 'It's Melanie, isn't it?'

They stared at him, surprised by his perception.

'I read some of your book, the one about astral projection,' he told Uhlander. 'With that and other things, I've begun to piece it together.'

He had hoped that he was wrong, had dreaded finding out that his worst suspicions were correct. But there was no escaping the truth. A cold despair, as real and almost as tangible as the drizzling rain outside, poured over him.

'She's killed all of them,' Uhlander said. 'Six men so far. And she'll kill the rest of us if she has the chance.'

'Not six,' Dan said. 'Eight.'

The Spielberg film had ended. Earl had bought tickets for the next showing of another PG film in the same multiplex. He and Laura had settled into seats in the new theater, with Melanie ensconced between them once more.

Laura had watched her daughter closely through the first movie, but the child had shown no sign of going to sleep or crawling deeper into her sheltering catatonia. Her eyes had continued to follow the action of the screen through the end of the story, and once a smile had flickered so very briefly at the corners of her mouth. She had not spoken or even made a wordless sound in response to the celluloid fantasy, and she had moved only once or twice, no more than slightly shifting in the theater seat, but even the minimal attention that she had paid to the movie const.i.tuted an improvement in her condition. Laura was more hopeful than she had been at any time in the past two days, although she was far from sanguine about the girl's prospects for total recovery.

Besides, It It was still out there. was still out there.

She checked her watch. Two minutes until showtime.

Earl scanned the crowd, which was half the size of that for the previous movie. He appeared to be merely people watching, neither suspicious nor tense. He was less concerned than he had been before the other show had begun; this time, he reached inside his coat to check for his gun only once before the house lights dimmed and the big screen lit up.

Melanie was slumped in her seat more than she had been before, and she looked wearier. But her eyes were open wide, and she seemed to be focused on the screen as previews of coming attractions began.

Laura sighed.

They had gotten through most of the afternoon without incident. Maybe everything would be all right now.

'Eight?' Uhlander was aghast. 'You say she's killed eight? eight?'

'Six,' Boothe insisted. 'Only six so far.'

'You know about Koliknikov in Vegas?' Dan said.

'Yes,' Boothe said. 'He was the sixth.'

'You know about Renseveer and Tolbeck up in Mammoth?'

'When?' Uhlander asked. 'My G.o.d, when did she get them?'

'Last night,' Dan said.

The two men looked at each other, and Dan could feel a surge in the current of fear that pa.s.sed between them.

Uhlander said, 'She's been disposing of people in a certain order, according to how much time they spent in that gray room and according to how much discomfort they caused her. Palmer and I were there far less than any of the others.'

Dan was tempted to crack sarcastic about Uhlander's choice of the word 'discomfort' instead of the more accurate 'pain.'

He saw why they had been so low-key when he had first arrived, so confident that they had time to enjoy a drink and to proceed cautiously; they had expected to be the last of the ten conspirators to be killed, and as long as they had thought Howard Renseveer and Sheldon Tolbeck were still alive, they had been frightened but not yet panicked.

Beyond the huge French windows, even the dim gray light was fading.

Within the library, shadows were growing and shifting as though they were living creatures.

The glow from the Tiffany lamp seemed to grow brighter as the daylight dimmed. The multicolored, luminescent spots, when combined with the encroaching shadows, made the large room seem smaller, and somehow brought to the decreasing s.p.a.ce the feeling of a Gypsy wagon or tent or other fantastic carnivalesque setting.

'But if Howard and Sheldon are dead,' Boothe said, 'then we're next and ... she ... she could come at any time.

'Any time,' Dan confirmed. 'So we don't have the leisure for drinks or bribery. I want to know exactly exactly what went on in that gray room - and why.' what went on in that gray room - and why.'

Boothe said, 'But there's no time to tell it all. You've got to stop her! You evidently know we were encouraging OOBE - out-of-body-experiences - in the girl, and that she-'

'I know some of it, and I suspect more, but most of it I don't yet understand,' Dan said. 'And I want to know it all, every detail, before I decide what to do.'

A tremor shook Boothe's voice: 'I need another drink.' He got up and went unsteadily to the bar, which was tucked in one corner of the room.

Uhlander collapsed into the chair that Boothe had vacated. He looked up at Dan. 'I'll tell you about it.'

Dan pulled up another chair.

At the bar, Boothe was so nervous that he dropped a couple of ice cubes. When he poured more bourbon for himself, the neck of the Wild Turkey bottle chattered against the rim of his gla.s.s before he could steady his shaky hand.